Page 11 of Wild Card

Catriona

There’s no way out of this fucking room. The windows are covered in plywood and nailed shut, and the door is locked and bolted from the outside. It’s hot as fuck and I can’t even pace around like I want. Burn off the nervous energy instead of stewing in it.

Getting water from the bathroom is going to be hell. My legs are wobbly from being bound so tightly for so long, and my foot is cut up from my failed escape attempt. The giant contusion from where the trunk smashed into my shin looks disgusting—I think it’s already infected.

I can’t remember the last time I ate, and I’m dehydrated. There’s a boggy taste in my mouth, and it’s getting harder to think straight.

I can’t believe how I’d nearly embarrassed myself on that video begging my father to rescue me. I’m glad I was able to swallow the crying jag that threatened to take over. He would’ve been repulsed.

Slowly I ease my way to the bathroom. What’s Gio’s deal? The angry dickless wonder Lorenzo I get. He hates women, especially women who don’t do what he says when he wants them to. He wants money, plain and simple, and will do whatever it takes to get it.

But what does Gio want? Figuring that out might help me escape. He isn’t in on whatever bullshit Lorenzo had planned, and he seems annoyed by it all. I’m guessing the two men are related in some way, but I don’t know exactly how yet. My father did something shitty to their family, though. I could see the anger radiating from Gio when Lorenzo alluded to it. I’m in trouble.

Gio’s an extremely handsome man, tall, broad shouldered with thick dark hair and deep brown eyes. He’s all muscle, tightly wound, but restrained. He has the control that creep Lorenzo lacks, and that makes him more dangerous in some ways. But when Gio told me he had ways of making women do what he wanted, I didn’t doubt it for a second. Even frightened and in pain, his commanding, masculine presence sent a thrill through me.

Maybe I can appeal to that masculinity to get me the hell out of here.

The bathroom in this tiny attic is unimpressive, but it does have a shower and a tub. I turn on the sink tap and cup my hand under the water, drinking as much as I can. My face is hot and swollen, and I must stink from fear sweat. I pull off some toilet paper and try to clean my face, but it doesn’t work, the tissue almost instantly dissolving in the water.

Cheap fucking toilet paper.

I guess it’s a good thing there isn’t a mirror in here. I’m sure I look like shit. My dress is a mess too, torn and flecked with blood. It’s funny—it was one of my favorites—I always felt so glamorous wearing it. But now even if I was able to have it cleaned and repaired, I could never wear it again.

I inch my way back to the grubby mattress to rest. They couldn’t even put sheets on the disgusting thing. I want to sleep, but I need to work on getting motion back in my limbs, so I gently flex my feet, rolling my ankles in circles. It’s painful, but like getting the tape off last night, it makes me feel less trapped.

There’s nothing I hate quite like being caged, literally or figuratively. I’m going to lose it if I’m not careful.

Doing some yoga breathing to expand this room in my mind, my brain unhelpfully lands on the question of what happened to my shoes. I don’t remember losing them. Five hundred-dollar shoes. Luckily I’d gotten them for free in return for doing an unboxing video on my YouTube channel.

But still.

A girl has to make money and save money where she can. I haven’t relied on anyone but myself for a long time now, moving out of my family home as soon as I was able. I pay for my own shit, one way or another, including the earrings that asshole wanted. I bought them after a particularly atrocious break-up—I thought I’d finally found the one but turns out he was a cheating piece of shit who was only interested in my father’s connections. I should’ve seen it, but I wanted to believe he loved me.

Come on, Catriona. You’re fun and pretty. But it’s been a year and a half and I haven’t met any of your father’s business associates. It’s been long enough. You’re just not worth the investment.

I didn’t cry then—I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. If he saw the video from this morning, I’m sure he’s congratulating himself on cashing out when he did.

My stomach clenches and a half-formed sob rips it way out of my throat. I need to change my train of thought or I won’t survive this. And I have to survive this. I’ll be damned if I let other people finish my story for me.

The oppressive heat lulls me into a dizzy sleep. I wake up, groggy, when I hear the locks being thrown on the door.

What time is it? Is it still Saturday? I lick my lips. They’re dry, making it impossible for the split in my lower lip to heal.

The door pushes open.

Great. It’s anger management drop out Lorenzo. He doesn’t close the door behind him.

I will my body to move, but I can barely walk, let alone run from this man.

“Fixed up the car,” he says, running a hand through his gray hair. His eyebrows are dark black, and very bushy. Could use a trim. “Don’t pull shit like that again.”

“Do you honestly expect me to not want to get help?” I snap. “What would you do in my position?”

His lip curls into a sneer as he inches closer. “Your position, huh?”

Oh fuck.

That look in his eyes.

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