Page 17 of Love Set Free

“My, my, my. What a perfectly polite welcome,” he says sarcastically. “Hopefully, those manners of yours will last for just a bit longer. See, here’s what’s going to happen.”

Tattooed American Guy must have decided that I’m not much of a threat, because he tucks his gun into the waistband at the small of his back before he lays out what my next several minutes will entail.

Gee, I wonder where he came up with that impression. So far, in his presence, I’ve only been dumb enough to say something that resulted in the amputation of the tip of my left middle finger, passed out a few times, vomited all over myself, been tied up and blindfolded, and caved to Blond Guy’s demands. Now, to top it off, I’m cowering like a sniveling coward, my arms wrapped around my knees as I sit on a dirty and broken floor, while I docilely await my next set of instructions.

“In just a moment,” Tattooed American Guys says, “I’m going to let you out of this luxurious five-star suite we put you in and take you into the other room. There you are going to record the short video we wanted you to record before, you know...” He raises his hand and mimics a stabbing motion, followed by pantomiming sprays of blood shooting off his left hand. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to have to stretch whatever sort of acting abilities you’ve got; we’ve got a script you can follow. That youwillfollow,“ he adds.

The complete lack of human empathy in Tattooed American Guy’s brown eyes is creepy. And honestly, it scares me almost more than the gun did.

“Then you’re going to log into your personal email account, or whichever email account or messaging app will get us a direct line to your daddy the fastest, and you’re going to send him that video. The amount he’ll need to get us, along with how that should be done, is laid out in the script. We’ve even altered theamount to account for the extra you’re willing for him to hand over for our boy, Jackson.”

“Jackson.” I gasp out his name, the syllables tumbling from my mouth. “Where is Jackson? We have a deal. I made a deal.” I’d sooner place my trust in a hungry crocodile while wearing an outfit made of raw chicken than these fucking criminals that were holding me and Jackson captive. But I did have a bit of faith in their greed. “Where is he? I want to see him. Now.”

Jesus. His smile is horrible with how sweet and harmless it looks.

“Aww. Poor Phoenix. So, so worried about a man who…he’s never even seen.” Thankfully, that fucking smile vanishes as Tattooed American Guy continues, “But there’s no need to fret your spoiled, rich-boy head about Jackson. He’s just where he’s supposed to be. In his box. Of course…”

I wait, not terribly patiently, for him to finish his statement. Interesting how he confirmed for me that Jackson is being kept confined the way I was, albeit in a box rather than a metal cage. But a box? What…what sort of box? What kind of box is big enough to fit a full-grown man in it?

Of course, the fucktard leaves me hanging, not having the decency to finish whatever it is he was about to reveal about Jackson. Instead, he reaches out and clamps a hand around my arm and yanks on it to propel me forward out of the bedroom. “C’mon. I’ve got my filming equipment all set up in the other room,” he states, pulling me down a dark, dank, and seedy-looking hallway.

The flooring is just as decrepit in the hallway as it is in the bedroom, more rubble and broken shards than tile, and the peeling paper on the walls is liberally decorated in spray paint with words in a variety of languages and crudely rendered graphic drawings. The smell of mold and piss and rotting food, and who knows what else, is nearly overwhelming in the smallspace and makes my eyes water. But at least I can tamp down my instinctive urge to retch due to the vile stench with the necessary task of focusing on not tripping over the crumbling floor. I have the feeling that Tattooed American Guy would gladly let me fall and would then just drag my ass over the broken tiles and the other dirt and filth down on the ground.

The disgusting décor continues in the room he drags me to. The only hint that this might be a living room is the stained and sagging, ancient, burnt-orange couch sitting smack in the middle of it. I’m far from being clean and pristine, but that doesn’t mean my skin doesn’t crawl when he shoves me down onto that couch.

Dust poofs out of the fabric when my body collapses onto it, along with yet more horrid odors. And the faint skitter of small claws or nails that I hear… Fuck, I can only hope that it signals that whatever vermin usually occupies this couch has now vacated it.

Still, my mind refuses to budge off the topic of Jackson. And the knowledge that Tattooed American Guy didn’t really completely answer my question of where the fuck he is.

“Jackson? Where is he?” I ask again. Sure, pushing the issue might piss him off. But until my kidnappers get the fucking video they want from me, and the access they need to get it to him through the best channel, I figure I have enough capital to get away with being pushy. “You said he’s still in his box. But whereexactlyis he? Somewhere tucked away in another room of this…this…“ I’m not exactly sure what to call this place. Is it an abandoned apartment? A suite in an old, long shut-down hotel? Somebody’s neglected and condemned hovel of a house? So, I just wave my hand around, indicating my less-than-lovely surroundings, as I ask my questions.

I hadn’t noticed the small, rectangular table shoved up against one of the walls in this barren room. But I do notice whenTattooed American Guy grabs a tablet and a piece of paper off of that table. The tablet, he holds on to, but the paper, he lets flutter down onto the couch, only a few inches away from my leg.

“Read that,” he orders. “You don’t have to memorize it, but I doubt you want to sound like a complete moron in this video we’re going to send off to your dear old dad, so give it a good read through. You never know. If things continue to go tits up with this gig, that video just may end up containing the last words Daddy ever hears out of your rich, elitist mouth.” He must sense that I’m not about to do what he said, not without getting my answer, because he adds, “And if I were you…since you seem all concerned about Jackson’s welfare and all…you might not want to take too long. Sure, Jackson’s all safe and sound in his box. But that box… Well. It’s currently sitting sweet and pretty, locked inside the cargo area of a truck. A truck that’s probably—no,definitely—sitting smack in some sun. And getting hot. The longer it takes to get this video done and sent off… On the plus side, Silva could finally add some meat to the shit he feeds you. You don’t mind going a bit cannibal during your stay with us, do you?”

I want…I want… I want to fucking get off this fucking couch and smack the smug smirk of Tattooed American Guy’s fucking face. And then snatch his gun out from the waistband of his jean shorts and beat his goddamn head in with it.

But the knowledge that he has that gun, and would probably shoot me with it before I even got within a few feet of him, keeps my ass on this repulsive couch. And I can’t afford to allot any time to work out any of the other glorious ways I could make him regret his vile words. I don’t even have the time to fling insults and pointless threats at him. Or rather Jackson doesn’t. Not with the invisible clock he just set ticking away in my brain. Who knows how long he’s already been stuck, trapped, in some crude,improvised pseudo-oven? All I can do is make sure he’s not in it for any longer than he needs to be.

I snatch up the piece of paper and scan the words on it, which I’m relieved to see are typed and in a large, easy to read font. Then I look up at Tattooed American Guy, who is holding the tablet up, ready to record me. “Alright. Let’s get this done.”

Chapter Twelve

Phoenix

My heart is pounding and the inside of my mouth feels tacky and dry.

I can’t believe fucking Tattooed American Guy made me do four takes before he was satisfied with how I sounded in the goddamn video. He then took his sweet-ass time loading the video from the tablet to his boxy, strange-looking laptop. Once he waved me over and let me get my hands on it, at least it didn’t take me very long to log into my ultra-personal email account—the one that I use to send shit to only a few important people. My parents. A handful of friends from high school and college. One guy that almost made boyfriend status but, instead, landed best friend status even if he did end up abandoning me for a glamour job off in London—and then attach the video to an email to Dad and send it off.

But it’s done. Done, done, done. And now… Hopefully, once Tattooed American Guy is done prodding me back down the hallway to the bedroom I was in previously, he’ll be off to finally get Jackson out of the back of a sweltering cargo truck.

A woman’s voice—presumably that of the lone female kidnapper of this bunch—calls out, “Jones! Need to talk, Jones. Now!” and Tattooed American Guy roughly shoves open the flimsy wooden door and pushes me into the bedroom. As I stumble, off-balance, I hear him slam the door back shut and then there’s a metallic squeal and heavy thunking click as he presumably locks me in.

Whatever. It’s nothing I’m not expecting. And frankly, my worries are more with Jackson’s circumstances than my own right now. I’d done it, tacked on a ransom amount for Jackson to my own. And I’m confident the money will come through. But before he can make it to safety and freedom with me, he needs to be secure and healthy here. With me.

Damn it. How long will I have to wait before—

“Phoenix? That you? Or…”

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