Page 5 of Stitched Up in You
All relief flees at the sight of my wrists as I freeze against the plush leather seat.
Don’t panic Bernadette, don’t panic. This is all just some big mistake.
I wriggle in place to rest my back against the leather of the car and glare at the Dolph Lundgren lookalike, twisting my face away when he crowds me to buckle me into the car.
I guess I should feel grateful they don’t want me to die if I’m suddenly ejected from the vehicle in a crash, but I’m not entirely sure which life choice I want to make right now either.
My wrists clink loudly, reminding me of the tightness at my wrists, and all gratitude leaves the building as I realize somewhere between the first limo and the plane ride; someone cuffed me.
My shoulders go inward as I slump and relax in my seat. The twins move to get into the front of the car, and I’m left alone in the backseat.
I reach up with my cuff-bound wrists and rub lightly at the back of my head, gingerly feeling the knot there.
What the fuck did they hit me with?
My stomach sinks and my lip trembles as I drop my hands back to my lap. Edgar is going to be wondering where his mommy is. My poor cat.
I don’t know when I’ll be able to get him, or where they’re taking me.
My mind becomes warped with worst case scenarios as I pray the vet has some sort of complimentary bed and breakfast for cats when their horrible owners fail to pick them up after one of the most traumatic days of their lives.
Although, the soft clinking of the metal cuffs at my wrists reminds me I’m not having such an awesome day myself.
Panic floods me again. I don’t know how long I was out in between car and plane rides. What day is it? Surely, I wasn’t outthat long. Fresh tears well in my tear ducts, and I fight them back with a shuddering sob.
I have no idea why anyone would want me in the first place.
I very seriously doubt Robbie would have the funds to pull off something like this. And even if he did, I’m pretty sure he would have shown up by now.
My mind whirs over the few misdeeds in my life, but I can’t think of any reason why someone would want to kidnap me.
I’m not left with much time to ponder it, because this car ride is a very short one. The car pulls to a stop and the door swings open, sending my pulse skittering.
“We’ve arrived,” one of the men utters in a rough voice, and moves out of the way as if I’m not some sort of hostage.
“We promise we won’t hurt you, our boss just wants to have a little chat,” says his twin, bending to shove his face into the car and quirk a brow at me as if to say,you play nice and so will we.
Except they already did hurt me, the slight headache that has been present this whole time reminds me.
When I manage to step out of the car, the picture of compliance, I realize why they’re being so nice.
There’s nowhere for me to run anyway. I slowly turn in place, taking in the low ceilings and huge concrete pillars, but no exit signs to be seen. I despise parking garages ever since the last time I was in one I somehow lost my car. It took two hours to find the thing, and by that time I was a sobbing mess.
I swallow the knot in my throat. I’ve got to keep it together for as long as I can, and if I start crying now, I’ll never stop.
I hate crying.
The goons watch silently as I shake, but it’s made apparent by the sharp glares of reproach on their faces the minute I raise my voice, I won’t like what happens.
“Okay boys, where are we?” I ask flippantly, my tone heavy with false bravado, and curse how my voice cracks at the end. Iknow I must look like a mess with my hair falling down around my face.
One of them wordlessly hands me my blue eyeglasses, and my nostrils flare at how I fight to break down then and there.
I adjust them on my face, the metal clink of the cuffs setting my teeth on edge, and suck in a shaky breath.
“Fine, take me to your leader, but I’m taking you at your word. And newsflash, I’m pretty sure dying hurts,” I snark back. I’m also almost positive I watched a podcast once that said killers have a hard time murdering people they’ve conversed with, yay me.
Meathead number one smirks and lifts a brow at his buddy, who just scowls in answer. I take one more look around the empty parking garage and have to fight myself from gulping like a nervous ninny at the sleek gray elevator doors—the only escape. Where the fuck am I?
