Page 108 of Property of Necro
He hot-man grins. “You wanna get outta here?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Slipping off the stool, Baldy holds me close as he drops a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the bar for Till. He sets his glass on top, so nobody tries to steal it. When he turns to me, he grasps my chin and forces me to look up and meet his eyes. “You’re in so much trouble.”
“I sure hope so,” I purr, at least I think I do.
Shaking his head, smiling like the fucking devil, the man whose name I don’t know, escorts me from the bar, with his hand pressed to my lower back.
Into the night, he ushers me down the street to a sleek black SUV. He opens the passenger side door like a gentleman and holds my hand as I climb inside. The considerate man grabs my seatbelt and leans over to click it in place. He tugs on the strap to ensure I’m locked in before pulling back to meet my gaze.
“I’m really sorry about this,” he says, and before I realize what’s happening, he stabs a needle into the top of my thigh and depresses the plunger.
And it burns.
Fuck does it burn.
Tears prickle my eyes as he stands there, watching me, his expression blank.
I try to reach for him, to claw his eyes out, but the drugs mixed with the alcohol don’t take long to wreck my system. Just as the word “Bastard” slurs from my lips, all the lights go out.
Chapter
Thirty-One
Groaning,I awaken from the most horrible death. My mouth tastes like roadkill, and my head,ugh, pounds like I tried to outdrink a sailor and forgot I’m a lightweight. I need water, meds, and a toothbrush with the mintiest toothpaste, in that order. I blink once, twice, three times, to orient myself, but no light penetrates. It’s black—blackblack. I can’t see a damn thing. Wiggling around, I try to move my arms, and my knuckles hit what sounds hollow, like wood. I try to sit up, and my forehead hits the same thing, inches from my face. The scent of sawdust and damp earth fills the air. I try to bend my knees. Nope. More wood. Moving my arms or legs to the side, I have maybe five inches of wiggle room.
This isn’t good.
My heart ratchets into my throat.
I swallow it down and try like hell not to freak out.
It’s okay.
I’m okay.
It’s going to be okay.
I’m alive.
I’m breathing.
I inhale deeply to prove that yes, even though I can’t see, I am alive. There is oxygen.
A bald man plied me with drinks and kidnapped me. That’s what happened, right? I didn’t dream that. Now I’m stuffed in a box, container, thingy, and it smells like fresh-cut wood.
Holding my breath, I listen.
Beyond the blood rushing through my ears are muffled voices.
“Hello!” I croak, clear my throat, and try again, louder this time. “Hello!” I knock on the container and push up. It doesn’t budge. Not even a little.
“Hello! Hello! I don’t know who locked me in this box, but I promise not to hurt you too much when you let me the fuck out!” I yell, pushing what I can, with little leverage to do fuckall. I grunt and yell, and before long, a cold sweat breaks across my skin as I start to panic. If only I could see. I need to see. Then maybe I’ll know where I am.
More voices carry, but nobody acknowledges my plea.
I scream and it echoes in the box, making my ears ring. The pounding in my skull intensifies, and I wince, but I need out! This is worse than the casket. This is worse than the closet.
