Page 1 of His Innocent Muse

1

LUCY

Kicking the taillight out of a twenty-year-old rusty DeVille is easier than I thought it would be.

Trying to fit my entire foot around the net and out to get the attention of passing cars is not.

I imagine it may not be so difficult if I wasn’t stuck with the spare tire pressing into my back, and my hands duct taped in front of me. The trunk liner is falling apart, and it smells like a hangover. Beer cans and broken bottles and a suspiciously sticky crowbar. Makes squirming around kinda difficult, if I do say so myself.

Alright, being terrified is probably my one true problem. I’m surrounded by makeshift weaponry and, for the life of me, can’t focus long enough to make use of any of it. My captor drives like he’s running from the cops, and as much as I wish that were true, there’s no one. No red and blue lights, no sirens.

No one is gonna come looking for me.

My mom died three years ago, an accidental overdose of my stepdad’s risperidone, acetaminophen, and NyQuil, they say. It was ruled a suicide before her body was cold. She’s never messed up his medications before, and no matter how much I screamed and cried to the judges, no one believed me. No one saw the coincidence of her death and my biological dad’s reappearance.

He was always a bad guy, and it was never a huge secret. Mom was always open and honest about her past, how she’d made mistakes in company, but never regretted having me. Her husband is not of blood relation to me, but damn it, he was my dad. Myrealdad. The dad who cared for me and protected me and taught me about food and music and loved me unconditionally.

I guess my sperm donor never knew Mom was pregnant with me, so he didn’t technically abolish his parental rights, and Dad never legally adopted me. Which left me, at fifteen, with no choice in the matter, and Dad with no option but to lose me.

He fought in court for over a year before we changed apartments and went off the grid. My bio-father is a bit of a freak—nothing but burner phones and tin foil hats. We don’t have internet or cable, either. He says they’re always watching, but we’re untraceable.

I was lost forever to the people who loved me, trapped with a monster who demands I call him Father.

Now, I’m in his trunk.

Wonder what that judge would say about this.

The car drops off a curb, and I strain to peer out the opening. Father—or Chuck, as I’d rather call him—has driven off the side of the road, the angle sending me deep into the trunk. Through the opening I made, I barely make out the decrepit railing of the Borden Avenue Bridge before it disappears.

Oh my God, what is he thinking? I know the water is shallow this time of year, but it’s still incredibly unsafe! It’s a literal drop off. No one on the bridge can see us down here, and the traffic is way too loud for anyone to hear us if we need help…

Oh… Oh, that’s probably his exact point.

What is he doing?

The car rattles as he throws it in park, and seconds later, the trunk pops open and he’s sneering down at me.

“You kicked out my fucking taillight?”

I clench my jaw shut, not answering, hoping that’s the right response. He grabs my bound wrists and pulls me up to his face, shaking my small, rigid frame roughly.

“Yes!” I squeak. “I d-did. I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

He smells like he smoked an entire pack of cigarettes on the way here, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He’s shaking, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was afraid.

“You are so lucky I’m relying on your face being whole.” He shoves me on my back, wagging his shaking finger in my face. “If you fuck this up for me, I swear, I will strangle you.”

My shoulders hitch up on instinct. I hate when he touches my neck. I hate when anyone touches my neck, really, ever since…

No. Not going there, not right now. I don’t have the time or grace to have a panic attack right now.

“I’ll be good,” I whisper. I don’t know what he wants, or what I’m supposed to do, but I’ll figure it out. I always do.

His eyes narrow, and he shakes his head. “Should’ve gagged you…” He looks to be considering exactly that, but the sound of more tires crunching down the hillside makes his face go white as a sheet. He slams the trunk closed, locking me in again. The car rocks forward as he leans into it for support.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and curl my legs up, shifting and shimmying until my head is on the side of the trunk with the make-shift peephole. The cars that pull up are far nicer than Chuck’s: three dark sports cars, all of which have to cost more than a mansion, each polished and shined to absolute perfection. Two park in front, while the smaller, easily most expensive one, lingers in back.

The men who step out are monsters in their own right. One is the size of a building, massive shoulders and long, thick legs. He’s got fluffy brown hair and a short beard, giving him a surprisingly soft face for looking like he could hold up a mountain without breaking a sweat.

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