Page 10 of Still Beating

I close my eyes as more tears leak out, and I suck in a shaky sigh. “Do you think anybody’s looking for us yet?” I wonder out loud, not really expecting an answer—there’s no way to know.

Dean eventually stalls his escape attempts, a sheen of sweat reflecting off his face from the morning light. He looks at me, and our eyes stay locked for a few beats, the raw truth of our predicament spearing us right in the gut.

Looking for us.

We’re going to be the product of search parties and canine trackers and news reports and gruesome documentaries on Investigation Discovery.

Me and Dean Asher.

Dean inhales with a shudder, leaning his shoulder against the pole. “You know, I used to joke that we’d probably end up killing each other one day,” he murmurs, kicking at a small rock near his sneaker. “I guess I always had a feeling we’d go together.”

I know he’s trying to make light of our ordeal, but his words sucker-punch me. They knock the wind from my lungs until I can’t breathe.I can’t breathe.

I sit there on the cold, hard floor, quietly crying until my tear ducts dry up and I’m too exhausted, too weak, to even move.

Dean starts to sing.

I’ve always known he could sing pretty well from family karaoke nights at my parent’s house over the last decade. I’d sit on the couch with crossed arms and stony eyes, annoyed by the sound of his rich, gravelly voice. Mandy would swoon. My parents would stare at him with their proud, beaming faces. Even the goddamn dog would watch in adoration, her tail wagging with each perfectly-pitched note. Then everyone would clap, except for me, and Dean would take a bow, occasionally shooting a smarmy wink in my direction.

I’d stick my tongue out or flip him off, brimming with contempt. Mandy would jab me in the ribs with her elbow, and sometimes my mother would scold me for being rude.

Ha! Rude.

Wrapping my entire car in plastic before a life-changing job interview is fucking rude.

I try to ignore the sound of his voice and close my eyes, but I find the raspy melodies to be oddly calming. He’s singing one of my favorite songs—Hey Judeby The Beatles.

And somehow, despite the fear and uncertainty, despite the gravel digging into my thighs and the terror digging into my heart, I manage to fall asleep.

Chapter Three

“Wakey, wakey.”

I jolt awake, thinking that for one exquisite moment, it was all a dream.

A sick, horrible dream.

But the man is looming over me with breath that now reeks of tobacco and dirty socks, and his lips are curled up into a grotesque smirk.

I’m definitely in a nightmare, but it’s not one I’ll be waking up from any time soon—and it’s only just begun.

I slither back on the cool cement, the soles of my heels scuffing against the floor. I try to twist my way around the pole, as if he won’t be able to reach me somehow, but he yanks me by the hair and pulls me up to my feet. I shriek in protest, my scalp burning.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Dean shouts from the opposite corner.

I use the temporary distraction to knee the motherfucker in the balls. If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging. The man howls in pain and releases my hair, then slaps me hard across the jaw with the back of his hand. The pain radiates through my entire head, and it feels like my brain might start oozing out of my ears.

“Silly little cunt,” the man barks, then spits at my face.

His saliva dribbles down my cheek and I almost puke.

“You’re a feisty little kitten, aren’t you?” he continues, plucking my chin between his fingers and forcing me to look at him.

I return the gesture and spit right back at him, watching it hit him in the eye. Then I brace myself for the inevitable punishment to follow.

The man freezes for a solid five seconds, completely blindsided by my actions. He wipes the spit from his eye, gawking at me, his expression unreadable.

And then he laughs.

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