Page 21 of Beautifully Wounded

Maybe it’s because I’m so tired. Or perhaps something in my head snapped tonight, and now I’m a little unhinged.

I smile inwardly. I’m barely unhinged.

What I think I’m feeling is a sense of freedom. Which is weird, right? Because I’m not free. I’ve been kidnapped by people who I’m pretty sure belong to one of those lawless motorcycle clubs given the motorbikes, and just their general demeanour.

Of course I could be stereotyping.

I have noidea who wanted me to be taken, so I could be trading one prison for another, but what if this prison isn’t as bad?

And how crazy is that thought? Thinking like that is all sorts of messed up.

“Hood, Charity,” Ringo barks, so I reluctantly do as he demands and pull the hood up over my head, covering my blonde hair that still has a tint of pink on the ends from my blood.

The truck starts slowing some more, and the motorcycles in front of us indicate right, and Stocky follows suit.

It’s then that my eyes snag on what looks like an old motel, with a half shattered Best Western sign hanging haphazardly off a tall pole.

This must be the Western they were referring to.

“Get down.” Ringo points to the floor between his legs, and I’m quite certain my brows shoot up into my hair.

“What?”

“I need you to get down here.” Ringo points again to the floor between his legs. “Just until we get parked.”

I’m about to ask why again when he reaches across me and unclips my seatbelt.

“Hurry up,” he snaps, manoeuvring me even though I want to protest, and before I know it, I’m pushed to the truck floor between his legs.

Staring up at him in disbelief, I part my lips to ask him what the hell is going on, but he shakes his head, his eyes remaining on mine as he speaks.

“Keep quiet and don’t fucking move. I’ll tell you when it’s safe.”

Safe?

What?

Suddenly, any excitement I had flies away like a bat out of hell.

I’m still not safe.

Just that thought has me curling in on myself, trying to make myself as small as possible.

The tall doors and dash of the truck hide me huddled on the floor, and I draw the string of the hood tighter, trying to hide more of my face.

As the truck turns, I’m jostled a little as we drive over what must be a driveway entrance, and Ringo’s legs close tighter around me to hold me in place.

This position is weird, which seems to be the theme of the night. But here I am, sitting on the floor between a stranger’s legs, and as the streetlights illuminate the inside of the cabin, I force myself to keep my eyes on Ringo’s, instead of venturing south, because oh my goodness, his junk is right there.

My cheeks flame at the thought, and I can’t make sense of why. This man is a… man. Like an older guy. Who kidnapped me. And in my experience, a man’s junk has been used as nothing but a weapon against me.

Holy shit. This isn’t that Stockholm syndrome thing, is it?

The thought tugs at the corners of my lips, a smile threatening because I immediately think of One Direction and their song.

I love 1D.

As the truck slows to a stop, Ringo’s legs press tighter around me before he speaks. “Head down. Don’t let your face be seen.”

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