Page 14 of Dance with the Devil

I’m alive—and when I try to make sense of my state and my garbled memories, I’m shocked that I am.

I was riding with Cross when we were sideswiped. He lost control of his motorcycle, we hit the asphalt. And then…

And then…

“Genevieve?”

Cross?

I… I know that voice. It’s a struggle to open my eyes when my eyelids seem to weigh a hundred pounds each, but the amount of concern he slips into the three syllables of my name he whispered… I swallow, whimpering when I realize how dry my mouth is, and force my eyes open a crack.

The second I do, I wince and I recoil.

“Genevieve!”

It’s more of a strangled shout, like he’s trying to be quiet for some reason.

I shake my head, not ready to speak just yet.

The light… it’s so damn bright. It sends a shooting sensation, stabbing straight through to my brain, and I have to flutter my eyelids in a vain attempt to get used to it. As my senses start to come online again, I realize I’m sprawled out on my back, something bumpy and uncomfortable beneath me. I don’t like it. I feel super vulnerable all of a sudden, and I struggle to pull myself into a sitting position before something hard and craggy is behind me.

I quirk open one eye when I can, then the next. It’s still super bright, but I can manage, and when I get my first glimpse of where I am, I almost wish I couldn’t.

It’s not familiar, as in I have no fucking idea where I am, but the slate grey cinderblock walls are the staples of too many basements I’ve seen. We’re surrounded by three of them, with the fourth wall a glass wall that reveals a hallway made up of, you guessed it, more cinderblock walls and scorchingly bright fluorescent lights.

In one corner, there’s an opentoilet, right next to a sink mounted to the cinderblock, a metal pipe beneath it disappearing in the only break in the wall I can find.

In the other?

There’s Cross.

One he sees I’m up, he surges toward me. I notice his leather jacket he was wearing earlier is gone, and except for a blossoming bruise along his jaw where the helmet must’ve smashed into his face on impact, he seems no worse for the wear after having been through a motorcycle crash.

He reaches the cot—because, holy shit, I’m sitting on a thin cot with a scratchy dark brown blanket on it—before dropping one knee on top of it, holding his arms out to me.

“Genevieve.”

Cross.

I clutch his closest arm, pulling him onto the cot and nearly flopping into his lap in my panic to get close to him. I hate that I’m the epitome of a damsel in distress, but while he looks deceptively calm, my heart feels like it’s about to beat its way out of my chest.

Digging my nails into his tatted arm, I rasp out, “What’s going on? Where are we? Are you okay?”

He purses his lips, murmuring a hush under his breath. “There are cameras,” he adds, lips thinned now. “Someone’s watching. They could be listening.”

Oh, God.

I didn’t notice. How did I not notice them? Though that makes sense why Cross was standing in the far corner. Directly beneath one of the two cameras pointing down on the cot, it’s probably one of the two spots that might possibly be out of the camera’s range.

On the plus side, that means the toilet might not be caught on camera. But that means I’m admitting that someone tossed me into a room smaller than my walk-in closet at home, and they expect me tousethat toilet at some point.

No. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t care.

I have to get out of here.

“Where’s my phone?” Stupid question, but it’s the first thing that pops in my mind. I want out of here and my instinct is to call my brother or Christopher… only my purse is gone. Cross’s jacket is gone. So is my sweater. I’m in the dress and shoes I was wearing earlier, Cross is in his t-shirt and jeans and boots, and that’s about all.

He shakes his head. “They rolled us, butterfly. My phone and wallet are gone, too.”

---