Page 28 of Hold Me Before You Go

“I’m putting a bullet in her fucking head.”

Chapter Seven

Carrie

“She needs to wake up,” a male voice hissed.

“No, she doesn’t,” a female voice argued. “I didn’t even want you to bring her in here, Brandon.”

A door slammed to my right, and I heard a soft curse before a second door slammed.

My body was stiff, and then, I remembered.

Oh, right.

I was kidnapped.

Slowly, I opened my eyes, expecting to find myself in the back of the smelly van, but I wasn’t. All at once, my body seemed to go on alert, recognizing this was a foreign place.

I must’ve fallen asleep in the back of the van.

Stay awake, Carrie. Your life depends on it.

My mouth was dry, my throat burning as I tried to swallow what little spit I had, and a familiar pain echoed in my stomach, rumbling as my eyes scanned over the cheap, dated motel room. The walls were painted white, but they were covered in smoke stains, tainting the color. There were two queen beds with red and navy-blue bedding that looked like they belonged in a horror movie, and if I were to see the mattress underneath, I wouldn’t be surprised to find an old blood stain or two.

A single nightstand sat between the beds, and my stomach twisted as I stared at the black gun resting beside the hotel phone.

Was it loaded?

Was that the murder weapon they chose for me?

Would they at least be merciful? Or would they drag it out, shooting me in multiple places so I’d bleed out on the floor while they laughed?

The sound of a cough snapped me out of it, and I twisted my head to the right, my eyes on the closed door and the golden light coming from underneath it. My heart drummed in my ears as goosebumps prickled my skin, the chance of death lingering in the thick, smelly air around me.

A second later, the shower turned on, and I waited until there was steam floating up from underneath the thin, brown door before turning my attention back to the gun and phone.

My freedom was right in front of me. Ten fucking feet in front of me.

You can fight, Sunshine. Fight for me.

My eyes darted around the space once more, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention now.

Where was the woman—Monica?

I looked all around and even behind me, having no doubt she was capable of hiding from me, waiting to strike. A small wave of relief washed over me as I discovered the chair I was tied to was up against the wall. She wasn’t in the room. She was either in the shower or outside smoking.

This much I knew: both of them smoked, and they weren’t exactly working as a team to pull this off.

They argued—often.

Worry about that later, Carrie. You know, when you’re free.

Keeping that thought in mind, I looked down at myself for injuries. I was dirty, and they’d taken my shoes and coat. I shook my head, hating both of them as I tried to pull against the bindings on my wrists. I shifted my arms, feeling the material, and I looked down to find my ankles were bound to the legs of this shitty, cheap, uncomfortable chair—with fucking zip-ties.

Did Brandon steal those from Leo too?

I closed my eyes before focusing back on the gun, my tongue darting out across my cracked bottom lip, shoving the dead fisherman to the back of my mind. I looked to the bathroom door and back to the gun, my eyes shifting back and forth between them a few times. I began to twist my wrists as I arched my back, ignoring the dull pain so I could position the plastic ban against the wood of the chair. Biting down to stifle my wince, I began working my hands. It would take a while, but if I could get the plastic worn down enough, I’d be able to snap it free.

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