Page 16 of Love Set Free

“No.” This time they hear me, and two heads swiftly turn in my direction. With their attention on me, I try to sound commanding as I lay out what I think is going to happen with Jackson. “You’re not going to harm a single hair on Jackson’s head. If we... IfIam getting moved to a new location, Jackson is coming too. And whatever amount his ransom is, the amount he doesn’t have anyone able to pay for him...I’ll pay it. Add it to what you’re asking my father for me. And in addition to getting a richer payday than you’d be getting otherwise, no more resistance on my part. I’ll fully cooperate with whatever you want me to do.”

One of Blond Guy’s brows raises and looks at me with what appears to be curiosity. His voice is quiet and thoughtful as he comments, “Well. It appears that Mr. Delacroix is not as useless as I’d thought.”

I’m a bit confused over why Blond Guy’s statement causes Tattooed American Guy to laugh. Although, he quickly tries to hide his laughter by pressing a fist against his mouth and turning it into an incredibly fake sounding cough.

I’m also a touch disappointed that the person I learned Jackson’s last name from is one of our kidnappers and not Jackson himself. It hadn’t really seemed like much of an oversight, Jackson not mentioning it, until just now. Is that detail just something he’d forgotten to tell me, or something he deliberately hadn’t offered? Part of me is urging me to give him the benefit of the doubt. Another part of me—the cynical, used topeople using me because of who I am part of me—is arguing that I really don’t know the man who has been my constant, unseen companion these past days while I was stuck in a cage.

But no matter. I have more important things to do right now. Like maintaining eye contact with Blond Guy, the clear ringleader of this whole escapade, and engaging in a silent battle of wills with him. And projecting an unbroken facade of confidence and determination until Blond Guy realizes I’m completely serious about my counteroffer. And then following through if–when–Blond Guy goes with my option rather than his own.

Without breaking eye contact with me, Blond Guy snaps his fingers and then dismisses Tattooed American Guy with a wave of his hand.

“How determined are you that Mr. Delacroix also remains as our guest, Mr. Wilding?” Blond Guy asks. A small crease forms between his brows as he stares at me and awaits my answer. “Because I will be charging you, or rather your father, for the inconvenience. And it won’t be cheap.”

I’ve been staring down arrogant businessmen–some of them often twice my age or more–since I started working for my father’s company. And I know better than to let even a moment’s doubt reflect on my face or in my voice. Those are like blood in the water for a fucking shark.

So, I don’t hesitate for a moment to emphatically reply, “Very.” I go ahead and let some of my own arrogance bleed through as I add, “And I’m not at all concerned with how much it’ll cost. Ask for whatever amount you think you can get. You’ll get it.”

Chapter Eleven

Phoenix

I’m not surprised that my kidnappers left my metal prison at the initial location I was held at. Transporting a cage sizable enough to hold a human through a large and populous city would probably be highly suspect and the whole reason they’d decided to relocate was to avoid gaining the notice of the authorities. And I really think that cage was constructed in that spot, so it probably wouldn’t have been very easy to move anyway.

I am, however, surprised that my kidnappers don’t have any sort of structure built to constrain me in their secondary base location.

When it came time to move me, the woman–Rodriguez–tied my hands together behind my back, placed a new blindfold over my eyes, and then I felt a stinging, jabbing sensation on my upper arm. The next thing I know, I’m blinking my eyes to the sight of the metal framework on the underside of a bed.

I’m not thrilled that I’ve now been rendered unconscious for the fourth time in a week. That can’t possibly be good for my brain.

Groggy, I weakly roll onto my side and see that I’m lying on worn and broken tile, the cement underneath showing in several places. The walls of the bedroom–I’ll just assume it’s a bedroom since I am lying next to a bed–are a dingy, mottled beige, at least, the parts of it that are showing through the heavy and overlapping layers of spray paint. There looks to be only one window in the room, but that is covered by a thick sheet of plywood secured to the window frame with large nails every few inches.

Spotting a door, I feebly crawl across the floor several feet. I rest my head against the rough surface of the cracked and peeling wood veneer for a few seconds and sit back on my heels. I reach up to try the doorknob, even though I already know it’ll be locked. Sure enough, the knob jiggles, but it doesn’t turn at all.

More resigned than actually disappointed, I turn so that my back is pressed against the door and wearily plop down onto my butt. My new home-away-from-home doesn’t look like much at first glance, but it would be stupid of me not to give it a more thorough visual once over. The more time passes, the more I feel the effect of whatever drug they gave me wearing off and my brain coming back into sharper focus.

What my new environs doesn’t have is…Jackson.

Where the fuck is he? Pretty sure I’d successfully negotiated a deal with Blond Guy that should’ve ensured that Jackson was relocated at the same time I was. So where the hell is he?

Unless he’s just being kept in a separate room of wherever the fuck I am. As long as he’s safe and here, that’s all that should matter. But it’ll still suck if we’re kept apart. He’s been a constant presence—a welcome one, unlike the loathsome Brazilian Guy—day in and day out for the entirety of my captivity. In these shitty circumstances, we’ve become friends. He’s my solace, mycompanion, my… I don’t think it’s too much to say that he’s probably the only thing that’s helping me keep my sanity.

Stuck in a cage, fed slop that looks like the shit I get to fill the bucket sitting in the corner of my cage with, unable to lie down or properly move around for days and days and days…mentally, without Jackson, I have no doubt I would’ve broken. Or been susceptible to trying to form some sort of bond with my captors.

Jackson kept me from Stockholm Syndroming my way through this shit.

Circumstances might have brought us together and trauma reaction may be driving my feelings toward him, but screw it. Life, and my kidnappers, gave me Jackson. And I am goddamn keeping him. He’s mine now.

And it’s my understanding that I’ve even bought him. So, where the hell is my Jackson?

The door I’m leaning against pushes against the back of my head, my shoulders, and my ass as someone tries to forcefully shove it open. My own low grunt of surprise and discomfort mingles with the surprised grunt of the person on the other side of the wooden barrier.

“You’d better move whatever the fuck you put in front of the door,” the voice of Tattooed American Guy flatly states. “I’m not above sending a few bullets through this cheap-ass glorified cardboard. And whatever it hits, it hits.”

Not willing to find out how serious he is about that threat, I awkwardly scramble away from the door on my knees and one good hand.

“Door’s clear. You can come in now.”

Just as well I didn’t chance it. When Tattooed American Guy swings open the door, a gun in his hand is the first thing I see. He keeps the gun trained in my direction as he steps into the room and kicks the door shut behind him.

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