Page 3 of Wild Card

Catriona

Sliding out of my Uber, I text my girls to see if they’re in Intrigue yet. The hottest club in town still isn’t that hot without us in it.

My father hates it when I go to Intrigue. It’s owned by the Doyles, his least favorite nemeses, run by the delectable Connor Doyle, and a huge source of revenue my father was unable to get his hooks into. James Carney hates losing, and he hates losing to the Doyles more than anyone else.

Unfortunately for my father, as it is a place to be seen, it’s a place I have to go. I have a reputation to maintain. Besides, it’s fun there, and my father hates everything about me. Why miss out on a good time when he’ll just find something else to criticize? And the Doyles never did anything to me. Not like my father.

My phone flashes. Not there yet. Jenny’s having a wardrobe malfunction.

I tap my manicured nails over the crystal back of my phone case. Ugh. I don’t want to go in by myself. Better do a little live stream for my followers. I’m at half a million followers on nearly every social media platform I’m on. Too bad Jenny’s wardrobe malfunction wasn’t happening here. Maybe it’d push me closer to that million mark. Doing social media influencing means turning moments into opportunities of connection with other people.

Maybe it’s weird that I feel closer to a half million strangers online than I do to my own parents. I haven’t met most of the people who engage with me on social media in person, but the connection feels real.

I turn on the live stream app.

“Hi kittens, it’s Catriona outside of Intrigue. I hope you’re having a wild Friday night. I had to show you this amazing mini dress. It’s by Kalmanovich, twill, with scalloped cutouts at my waist, and…”

I’m about to show off the cut out right above my breasts when someone grabs me from behind. I scream, a sick part of my brain wondering if the livestream is catching this. My phone clatters out of my hand, as I bring my elbow down hard into the mid-section of my attacker.

I section off my fear and go into fight mode.

I have three older brothers. My twin Callan is only older by 2 minutes, but he still counts. Each one of them is at least half a foot or more taller than I am and outweigh me by well over a hundred pounds. We play rugby together sometimes. I know how to hold my own. My attacker grunts in pain, and I stomp on his foot where the shoelaces are. Snapping my wrist back, I aim for where I think his nose might be. I keep screaming, hoping to draw attention.

“You little bitch,” he rasps, dragging me towards an alleyway.

“You’re the bitch,” I snarl, elbowing him hard in the midsection again.

It’s dark and deserted. If he gets me to the alley, I’m screwed. I aim the stiletto heel of my shoe at his shin and make contact. He screams then, a guttural, angry noise, and the sound of his pain sends hope and satisfaction surging through me, pushing me to keep fighting.

I kick at him again, but he grabs a handful of my hair and spins me around, driving his fist into my cheekbone. Pain explodes across my face and my knees threaten to give out.

“Ralphie! Pop the fucking trunk.”

“What?”

“Pop the Goddamn trunk,” he orders again, voice panicked.

I hear the snap of it opening, and fear courses through me. No. I can’t let this happen. My eyes are watering and my scalp is on fire as he drags me to the car by my hair, pulls me up, and shoves me into the trunk. I’m kicking, screaming, limbs flailing, but he’s so much bigger and stronger than I am. So much for holding my own.

He slams the trunk closed, and it bounces off my shin. It’s agony, the pain manifesting in bright starbursts behind my closed eyes. He shoves my leg inside, and I don’t know if the darkness of the trunk finally closing or unconsciousness finds me first.

I don’t know how long I’m out, but when I open my eyes, I’m greeted with more terrifying darkness. I try to take a deep breath, but the air is thin and damp. My body contorts unnaturally. My joints scream in protest, my muscles clenched in knotted agony. I can barely move. Every bump drives me into the hard metal of the trunk. My fingers search desperately for some kind of release, but there’s nothing.

Everything hurts. The pain wants to pull me into comforting blackness again, but I need to keep fighting. I shove the raw terror clawing at my brain away. It’s not useful, and I need to get out of here. I can just barely move my foot into where I think the brake lights might be, and I aim a solid kick. Something gives, and I kick several more times, pain firing up my leg each time.

Soon I feel a little bit of air trickle in, and though it’s not enough to give me any sort of relief from the muggy heat of the trunk, it gives me some hope, and I keep kicking at that spot. My foot goes through something sharp. My lungs burn as they desperately pull in the oxygen that finally pours in from outside, and it feels so good to breathe that I almost forget the excruciating pain shredding my shin.

I have no idea where we are, or where these men are taking me. But if someone just sees me and calls the police, maybe I’ll have a chance.

The desperate, wild hope I feel turns into choking panic when we come to a stop.

There are voices outside the car, but I can’t pick up what they’re saying over the frantic pounding of my heart. The trunk opens, and the man who’d grabbed me slaps a piece of duct tape over my nose and mouth while someone else tapes my ankles together. My agonized cry when he bumps my shin uses air I can’t afford to waste.

“Nice try with the brake lights, sunshine,” the man says. “Clever, but I’m adding the repairs to your tab.”

My vision blurs as my arms are wrenched behind my back and secured with more tape. It hurts so fucking much. The limits of pain the human body can experience is not something I ever wanted to explore. The inviting darkness caresses me, promising me relief.

No.

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