Page 22 of Love Set Free

I can’t let her gain control of the situation. I just can’t. It would definitely prove to be fatal for Jackson and, with as pissed off as she is now, quite probably for me as well.

Wrenching my left leg free from the weight of her body, I pull it up and then kick out as hard as I can. Lying face down on the floor, I can’t see what part of her anatomy I make contact with, but whatever I hit, it hurts her enough to cause her to shriek with pain and her hands to fall away from grabbing at me. I kick at her one, two more times, and then…

Now what?

I could go to reach for the gun again, but that gives Could’ve Been a Model the chance to recover from her surprise and pain and launch another attack at me. And while it sounded like Blond Guy and Tattooed American Guy were on their way out, I have no way of knowing whether or not one or both of them are somewhere just outside this bedroom. The sounds of our struggle and Jackson’s yelling haven’t brought them running in, but if they are somewhere else inside this apartment, or even just nearby, could I really chance firing off a gunshot?

A split-second decision has me clambering onto my hands and knees, turning around, and flinging myself back on top of Could’ve Been a Model, who is laying on the floor, her arms cradled across her stomach.

There’s a trickle of blood smeared across her forehead, presumably from her head colliding with the side of Jackson’s box. Some hitherto unknown portion of my brain latches onto that sign of injury and prompts me to ball my right hand into a fist and send it driving hard into the wound.

“Bastardo! Stop! Stop!”

I ignore her screamed insult that, even with little to no knowledge of Spanish, I have little difficulty translating into English. I’m also not about to comply with her demands to stop hitting her. It’s not really my normal habit to go around hittingpeople and I’ve been thoroughly culturally indoctrinated with the idea that a man should never hit a woman, but goddamn it, this is fucking life and death right now. If not my own, then definitely Jackson’s.

So, I hit her again. And again.

Until my hand is liberally streaked with her blood and her yelling is nothing more than muttered nonsensical babbling. I pause my strikes, keeping my fist raised and at the ready just in case I need to send it flying at her head again, and take in the way her eyes are unfocussed and her body seems lax beneath me while her head lolls listlessly.

I could stop. It doesn’t appear as though Could’ve Been a Model is going to be a threat to me or Jackson again any time in the near future. But…

Can I really take that chance?

What if she’s just faking?

What if she recovers quicker than I anticipate?

What if… Jesus, I’m not even sure what my next moves should be, now that I’ve physically incapacitated one of our kidnappers, right after she stated her intention to kill Jackson and dump his body. Can I really just leave things how they are now? With her in a state where she could still pose a threat before I have the opportunity to figure out what to do and how to keep Jackson and myself safe?

I’m not a monster.

I’m not like my kidnappers. The three men and one woman who’ve played around with my life—with Jackson’s life—with seemingly no human consideration.

I’m not like Could’ve Been a Model, who seemed completely unperturbed about the idea of taking somebody’s life.

I’m not.

I’m not a monster.

But when it’s us or her… It’s surprisingly easy for me to bring my hands up to her neck and wrap them around it.

I’ve completely forgotten all about my injured finger with all the adrenaline flowing through my veins. But squeezing, squeezing, squeezing my hands around her neck sends a shooting flare of pain lancing down from my finger, through my left hand, and on up into my arm.

“Jesus motherfucking Christ.” The profanity spews out of me as I snatch my left hand away from her neck.

Shit. I can’t…I can’t let a little pain—or, fuck it, a lot of pain—hold me back from doing this. I can’t.

My breath huffs out of me in shallow pants as I quickly run through my options.

“Phoenix? What’s going on? Please. I need to know. Phoenix?”

I try to sound as convincing as possible as I lie, “Everything’s fine, sweetheart. I promise.” Before Jackson can ask me any more questions we don’t have time for, I adopt a cheerful tone as I tell him, “Guess what? I think… Give me a little more time, and I think we’re going to get out of here. Okay?”

“Out? What are you… Phoenix? What’s going on? I know Rodriguez was in the room with us and I heard everything she said. What’s… Where’s Rodriguez? What did you do, Phoenix?”

My hands aren’t going to be enough. I don’t trust myself to be able to ignore the pain in my left long enough, or for the strength in the injured hand to hold out long enough, to finish with what I need to. Laying my left forearm across the vulnerable area of the base of Could’ve Been a Model’s throat, I then grip onto my left wrist with my right hand and put all the force of that arm behind pressing down on her neck.

“Just…a little. More. Time. Babe. Patience, m’kay?” The strain of choking the life out of someone makes my words a bit labored, but I still do my best to reassure Jackson. If he could spare mejust a few more minutes of trust that I’m doing my best to save us…

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