Page 8 of Hidden Falls

We hadn’t done more than make out the whole six months we’d been together. I’d been waiting for—I didn’t know what. More privacy, I guess? We both wanted our first time to be special, but it was tough to find places to meet where my little sister or his hovering mom didn’t bust in and ruin the mood. I’d been hoping when school let out, we’d take a camping trip or something. Being with Blake was the best . . .

I must have passed out because I woke up to someone slapping my cheeks—not hard, but enough to sting.

My eyes popped open, and I stared into a face covered by a white plastic mask.

I screamed; my voice sounded like a kitten with its tail caught in the door.

“And she’s back,” the man in the mask said. “Thought we lost you there for a minute.”

“Where are you taking me?” I squeaked. “What’s this about?”

“Here’s a drink of water.” The guy who’d woken me up reached under my shoulders to lift me off my bound arms with one hand. He held a plastic cup of water to my lips with the other.

My arms had been asleep from lack of circulation, and now pins and needles stabbed me painfully, bringing tears to my eyes as I slurped the water.

I could be noble, refuse the water, try to kick and fight—but the coldness in the kidnapper’s blackish-brown eyes promised bad things if I did.

Maybe I could find out more, get some advantage, by taking everything they gave me and hiding my strength until I could make a move. I’d seen what had happened to Camille after her hunger strike—when she finally had a chance to escape, she was almost too weak to get away.

That wouldn’t be me. I’d be meek and mild, sweet as pie—and when my chance came, I’d take it.

I drained every drop of water. “Thank you.” I kept my eyes down. “My arms hurt. Can you untie them? Please.” I could tell the men were looking at each other over my head; one wanted to help me, the other, the one holding me up right now, was irritated with the trouble I’d caused. Maybe he was the one I’d punched back in the car. “I promise I’ll be good. Just don’t hurt me anymore.” I let tears ooze out of my eyes; that wasn’t hard either. They were right there, waiting to fall.

“He won’t be happy if we’ve damaged the goods,” Nice Guy said. “Cut her loose.”

“She’s trouble,” Mean Guy said. “I know her type.”

“She’s just a kid. C’mon, what can she do?”

Who was “he”? I had a million questions, but I bit my tongue to keep from asking them and gave a pathetic little sniff instead. “Hurts so bad,” I snuffled.

I didn’t have to fake that; truly, lying on my bound arms while wrapped in a heavy rug had done a number on my circulation. Besides the pins and needles, my heartbeat throbbed against the tightness of the zip ties. My arms felt inflated with fluid like balloons.

With an impatient grunt, Mean Guy lowered me to the ground, whipped a combat knife out of his belt, and cut the ties on my arms and legs.

“Thank you.” I lay there on the rug, waiting for the pins and needles to subside, glancing around. I was in a small room with a bed beside me; it took up most of the space. An oval porthole of a window showed brilliant blue sky.

“We’ll leave you in here,” Nice Guy said. “There’s a head—bathroom—through that door there. Might as well make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” I forced myself to say, again. “I’ll be good. No more trouble, I promise.”

The two men left. I heard the click of a lock on the outside of the door.

I was stuck in here, but at least I wasn’t tied up and smothering any more.

I sat up slowly, rubbing my tingling arms. They were marked with harsh red lines where the ties had cut in, and those tingles were taking a while to go away.

I used the slippery silken edge of the bed to pull myself up; my legs were wobbly, and suddenly I had to pee—really bad.

I stumbled on my way to the “head” which turned out to be a lot nicer than I expected. It had a shower, a big chrome sink, lots of water pressure in the faucet, and soft, thick towels hanging on a heated rod. I did my business and then—what the hell—decided to take a shower. Poor Camille had been captive over a week in the same clothes; I had a chance to get clean so I might as well take it . . . after I searched everywhere for anything I could use to defend myself.

I tore through every cupboard and drawer in the bathroom and bedroom—but they’d been there before me, and the most lethal thing I could find was a first aid kit with a pair of tweezers in it.

Maybe I could stab someone with the tweezers.

I slipped them into the pocket of my jeans and then shimmied out of my clothes, hopping into the shower.

The hot water felt heavenly on my bruises, creases, and strains. I took time to lather up and even washed my hair. Why not? I might not have another chance to for days.

---