Page 10 of Golden Burn

“We provided food. Did you not eat it?” Why does he sound cranky with me?

“You could have poisoned it.”

He makes a disappointed sound and grasps my shoulders gently. “When was the last time you ate something substantial?”

I blink. My head won’t stop spinning. “Saturday?”

“What’s going on?” That’s Dominic.

“We might need to make a stop on the way through.”

“No stopping,” Odin declares.

“She hasn’t eaten anything since fucking Saturday.”

The voices fade in and out, like a microphone being pulled away and brought back to the speaker. I keep gulping in mouthfuls of air, trying to calm down.

“Just put your head between your knees,” Dominic tells me.

And kiss your butt goodbye!Isn’t that from a movie about chickens? Why am I thinking about chickens?

It’s too much. Everything needs to stop. I need a minute to think.

In the end, my brain overrides itself.

I faint into blissful numbness.

I had a dream that I was home. And that my kidnapping was, in fact, a movie I had watched. A very real, very detailed movie.

So, to wake up in a bed covered in robin’s egg blue sheets, with a thread count that must have cost thousands, is like a slap to the face.

The window to the left is blanketed by floor to ceiling curtains, closed to block out the light that is trying to break through and warm the space. The walls are perfectly white and perfectly clean, blending in seamlessly with the gray flecked marble floors and plush rugs. Opposite the bed is a gorgeous set of draws, accented with copper handles and an extremely large vase stuffed full of fake, bushy flowers. I make out undertones of vanilla bean and lemon, as if a candle is burning somewhere in the space I can’t see.

There’s a bathroom next to the set of draws. The door hangs ajar, allowing me glimpses of architecturally arranged silver tiles and a generous porcelain tub.

I fling the covers off myself, mentally preparing to find my body naked and brutalized. I whimper in relief when I see I’m still wearing my scrubs, no matter how awful they appear and smell. A bathrobe is draped over the end of the bed. It’s thick, like a ginormous towel, and long enough that I’m sure it will cover everything I want to keep hidden until I can get some new clothes.

Before I think about showering, I inspect the door that I hope leads to an exit. Without even touching it, I know it’s locked. There’s something formidable about it. The grooves make it seem like it’s frowning, peering at me with sympathy. I try it, anyway, groaning when the handle remains stiff.

The next thing: shower. I’d love to sit around in my own filth, annoying the shit out of those men. But if I stay one second longer in these scrubs, I think I might scream. I need to wash my skin with stinging hot water and mountains of soap until I’m human again.

It’s sickening that I find myself oohing and ahhing at the ensuite. It’s just so… pretty. Clean and spacious, with a mirror lined with movie-star bulbs for people to do their makeup in high definition. And that’s allkind of fucked up. I smack my cheeks and get to business, discarding my clothes and stepping under the huge shower head that mimics a tropical waterfall.

As much as I want to crumble to the floor, lie on my back and let the world stop for a little while. I have to get moving. I have to find a way to contact someone—tell them where I am.

But who?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I start to cry as I try to compile a list of people to call.

Shaggy? No. He’s busy with his new ‘wife’. Shaggy rekindled his relationship with his high school sweetheart and moved in with her almost immediately after Mom’s death. I haven’t spoken to him in months. I swore I never would. He’s too much of an asshole.

My ex? No, definitely not.

I could call work, but I need them to run the clinic and look after the animals. With me being absent, I’m sure everything has gone to shit. Besides, I would never ask them to buy airline tickets to London. No one has the kind of money to spare for that.

Fuck. I hope Betty and SpongeBob are okay.

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