Page 24 of Deadly Sacrifice

Without looking at me, she bends to grab her backpack. “Go to hell,” she spits before storming off.

***

My dad texts me before I even make it back to the frat house. I know without looking that news somehow spread to him, and he’ll be on my ass about Prudence. Again.

I stare at the screen for a long time, debating on whether I want to open the text. Actually, I really don’t want to, but I know if I don’t find out what he wants, he’ll end up chewing my ass out next time he does get a hold of me.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, finally swiping my thumb across the screen to unlock my phone.

Dad: Getting her on her knees to kiss your shoes hardly inspires me, son. Try harder. Maybe next time, let the whole school have a turn with her instead of embarrassing me.

14

Prudence

Annie spent the night with Mark, so I have the room to myself. I was so excited to lounge in bed and watch Netflix on my laptop, not worrying about getting kicked out and sleeping out on the couch again.

I must have fallen asleep watching TV at some point, because when an unfamiliar sound wakes me, my laptop and the room are dark. I blink, trying to force my eyes to adjust, but I instantly regret it when a shadow moves closer to my bed. I jerk upright, whispering, “Is someone there?”

I tell myself it’s just Annie. Hell, I’d even be glad if it’s her creepy dick of a boyfriend right now. But dread coils in my stomach when no response comes.

The shadow moves closer without a word, and I’m pretty sure if I had the time to react at all, I would have pissed myself in bed. But instead, the second I open my mouth to let loose a bloodcurdling scream, the figure lunges for me, clapping their hand over my mouth before my scream can alert any of the girls down the hall. I thrash wildly, trying to fight them off of me. One hand grips my throat and pushes me down into the pillow, and another shoves some kind of fabric into my mouth. Then the next moment a pillowcase is pulled over my head.

I don’t know if it’s one person or several. I’m so disoriented while I flail and kick out, I wouldn’t be able to count the hands grabbing me if I tried. All I know is that my heart is galloping dangerously, and if I don’t get free soon, I’ll probably have a heart attack. I try to wrench myself free. I try with all my strength. But I’m not strong enough compared to who I’m assuming is a grown ass man.

My attacker yanks me out of bed, one hand circling both of my wrists and the other gripping my hair through the pillowcase so he can steer me in the direction he wants. I dig my heels in to slow us down, my screams muffled by whatever the fuck is in my mouth. When that doesn’t work, I go limp and try to drop to the ground out of his hold, but all that does is cause me more pain when he lifts me right back up by my hair.

I try to call him a nasty, shrimp-dick son of a bitch, but I think the insult is too muffled to hit the target. Bummer. That would have been a fine last line before I die.

He ends up lifting me off the floor and tossing me over his shoulder when I won’t move as easily as he wants, and the force of the movement shoves all the air out of me. Somehow, the pillowcase doesn’t fall right off once I’m upside down, but at least this dick can’t hold my wrists together now that I’m thrown over his shoulder. Instead, he’s got one arm banded over the backs of my thighs, fingers digging in painfully.

I use my free hands to pound my fists against his back and claw my nails everywhere I can reach. The adrenaline is wearing off, and now thick, cloying fear is washing over me. My blood is chilled and my chest is too tight, but I fight like my goddamn life depends on it. Oh yeah, because it likely does.

My fear is made a million times worse when the soft creak of a door opening reaches my ears and in the next second, the howling wind outside is all around me, lifting the back of my sleep shirt and sending shivers up my spine.

You know that saying; If you get kidnapped, your chances of survival decrease drastically if you’re taken to another location. Well, I’ll be damned if I’m taken anywhere without at least drawing some blood. I kick and punch and scratch until my muscles burn. My throat is raw and my tears are soaking my face. Despite all of my fighting, I’m hefted off the guy’s shoulder and thrown down on a hard surface.

The second I can catch my breath, I reach out, aiming to cause damage rather than pull my blindfold off. But before I can reach my attacker, some kind of door closes, locking me in and muffling his footsteps.

It doesn’t take long at all for me to figure out where I am. Especially not when I hear another door open and close and then the soft purr of an engine starting.

I’m locked in a fucking trunk.

Instantly, my mind is thrown back to the last time I was in a car three years ago. I almost died that day, and I haven’t put myself in that situation since. The perks of living in a big city, public transportation is everywhere. I’ve made it just fine over the years by taking the bus, walking, and riding a bike. But I haven’t been able to get into a car. Not once. Not even if I’m the one attempting to drive. Not that I ever got my license.

Every part of my body freezes, tension rolling through my muscles and weighing down my chest. Panic claws up from my throat as the car rumbles beneath me, shocking me into the present again. I can’t tell how fast we’re driving or if we’ve made any turns, all I know is that I’m locked in the trunk while some psycho takes me who knows where, probably to murder me and bathe in my blood.

Might be a bit overdramatic, but it gets my ass moving.

It takes longer than it should for me to realize that my hands are free and I’m still wearing a pillowcase over my head. And it takes even longer to get my body to comply without trembling violently. It’s hard to catch my breath, and I’m pretty sure I’m hyperventilating and on the verge of a full-blown panic attack for the first time in over a year. But despite wanting to lie here and cry about the fucked up hand life has dealt, I blow out a hard breath, force my hands up to my neck, and pull the pillowcase off.

I blink through the pitch–black of the small trunk, frantically searching the space for that yellow pull tab that I see in movies. The one made specifically for this situation so I can get out of the freaking trunk. “Come on, you son of a bitch. Where are you?” I whisper desperately, feeling my lungs constrict more and more with every passing second. But no matter how hard I look, how many times I beg to see that yellow tab that will set me free, nothing is there.

My mind is a mess of a twisted memory on replay. The day Mom crashed and I almost died. I know it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but I swear, it feels like we’re swerving madly, seconds away from rolling across the gravel. I even hear the faint shatter and spray of thousands of glass shards as they rain down on the road.

I pummel my fists and feet against every surface I can, screaming and crying as my stomach riots and my brain convinces itself that I’m suspended in air again, feeling time slow while the car flips and flips and fucking flips.

I almost vomit as I choke on the thickening air in the trunk.

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