Page 7 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

I snap my teeth at his arm, then grimace at the sting in my scalp as he tugs my head back.

“Stop playin’,” he says.

I let loose a frustrated growl. Huh. Maybe peopledogrowl in real life.

He shakes his head and aims one of those horrible, beautiful smiles at me again. I avert my eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask the ceiling.

“Like I said, you’ve been gettin’ in my way. I can’t get any work done with you on the loose,” he answers. If you consider that an answer. Which I don’t.

I don’t see how I could be getting in his way when I barely do anything. I go to work and I hang out in my car. Occasionally I visit the library. He doesn’t seem the librarytype, and I don’t think I’ve seen him at work. I flick my eyes back to his face for a quick second. Nope, definitely never seen him before. I’d remember his shoulders alone if I had.

Maybe logic will work on the big scary lunatic?

“Sir,” I start. Politeness never hurt anyone. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. But, in the future, if I do see you, I promise to stay out of your way. Pinky promise even.” Unable to remove my hand from his hold, I settle for lifting only my pinky.

He doesn’t accept my offer.

“Wish it was that simple,” he says, “but you’re like a fly. Always there buzzin’ around where you don’t belong. Much better to keep you contained.”

All right, so logic doesn’t work on the big scary lunatic. Can’t say I’m surprised.

“How long exactly do you plan to ’keep me contained’?” I ask.

“Long as it takes,” he tells me. I’m not sure how to respond to that. It’s another unhelpful non-answer.

He takes my silence as some kind of acceptance and hauls us off the bed. Then he drags me to the bathroom, shoves me inside, and shuts the door. The chain trails under it, barely fitting in the gap between it and the floor.

Well, then.

“Do your business and brush your teeth,” he calls through the door. “You should have plenty of slack, but if you don’t, we’ll figure somethin’ out for tonight and I’ll fix it tomorrow. There’s a toothbrush on the counter and a change of clothes on the toilet, and there are scissors in the cabinet if you need them.”

I look around the space. He did indeed leave me a change of clothes on top of the toilet lid. There’s also, as he said, a plastic-wrapped green toothbrush on the counternext to an unopened box of toothpaste.

The room is small. I can reach the toilet, sink, and shower stall easily even with the handcuffs limiting my movement. I stare at the chain links slithering under the door.

It’s all I can do not to cry.

Digging my nails into my palms, I breathe in, then out. Everything is okay. Just a minor setback. Crazy grouchy man plans to keep me here “long as it takes.” No biggie. No biggie at all. I can just make sure that it doesn’t take very long.

Easy as pie.

Another breath and I take the one step necessary to get me to the sink, locking the door as I go. I brush my teeth, counting to sixty Mississippi in my head twice, then wash my face with a cleanser I find in the medicine cabinet. There are some hair ties, too, and I use one to give myself a half up ponytail. It’s not the cutest look, but who have I got to be cute for anyway? Not the whackjob on the other side of the door.

After getting my hair and face taken care of, I assess the clothing he’s left for me. There are two sets of clothes – one men’s and one women’s. I take a wild guess that the women’s clothes are mine.

It’s a lounge set and a pair of big fluffy socks, all in dark brown. The top is one shouldered and has a built in bra, which I can appreciate. The material feels high quality. I check the tags and find the sizing is correct. Creepy.

I look down at what I’m currently wearing. Jeans, easy enough to get off, and a t-shirt, not so easy. I glare at the handcuff. Sure, this shirt has a hole or two – or five – but it’s still perfectly functional. The last thing I want to do is cut it off.

I bring the cuff right up to my face. Maybe I can slipmy hand out of it? I give it a try andow, that hurts. This sucker is solid. Unless I want to break my thumb, the cuff is staying. I eye the digit.

Yeah, it’s staying.

That option nixed, I look at my outfit again. I consider keeping it on, but ultimately decide that I’m not willing to risk catching whatever disease the fabrics picked up on the ride here. I locate the scissors, say a quick sorry to my shirt, and cut up the side to and through the sleeve. It’s difficult with only the mirror above the sink to see by, but I manage to get the shirt loose, only nicking myself with the scissors once.

I slide the shirt over my head and off, hurrying to step into the lounge top. Next, I take off my shoes, socks, and jeans, and slide on the matching lounge pants as fast as I did the top. I use a washcloth from under the sink to scrub whatever exposed skin I can, then put the socks on my newly cleansed feet. They’re the most comfortable socks I’ve ever worn, and I immediately make plans to take them when I break out of this joint.

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