Page 16 of Bad For A Weekend

“Who is he?” I whisper.

“Don’t know. Probably paparazzi.”

It isn’t unheard of for me to be spotted and followed. The reminder eases some of my worries. He’s right. With the abduction still making headlines, it’s likely someone wants to catch me out of the house.

I used to enjoy the extra attention from the photographers. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I liked being in the spotlight. It made my friends jealous, which boosted my ego. But ever since I was taken, I’ve intentionally stayed home to avoid the paparazzi, and I don’t see that changing. Matter of fact, I wish I could revoke my “child of famous actor Corey Giles” status.

Owen’s evasive maneuvers are erratic, but his body language exudes confidence and control. One arm is straight, his hand gripping the steering wheel while the other is bent, his elbow propped up against the window ledge, a finger casually resting on his full lips.

He really is beautiful. Even while in a pseudo-car chase. Which is what I should be focusing on, not drooling over my driver and bodyguard.

I peel my gaze away from him and glance out the back window again, no longer seeing the black car.

“Is he gone?”

“I think so.” With a couple presses to the screen mounted on the dash, a trilling sounds over the speaker.

“What’s up?”

“Foxtrot-Hotel-Yankee-seven-eight-seven,” Owen says.

“On it,” the voice replies. I have no idea what any of that means but whoever he called seems to. “What’s going on?”

“Had a tail. Lost him.”

“Stolen car,” the man says over the clacking of keys. He must be at a computer. “Incident report filed two days ago.”

“Is it possible that it’s the paparazzi?”

“Anything is possible, but stealing a vehicle is going to some crazy lengths to get a shot.”

If not the paparazzi, then who?

“Then who?” I say aloud this time, feeling a panic attack coming.

There’s a pause before the person on the other end of the call says, “Let’s talk about this later, Owen.”

“Yeah, okay. See ya.” Owen presses the end call button and, without using his signal, makes another turn.

My imagination runs wild with possibilities. Dad had me convinced that what happened was an isolated incident, but after this, it couldn’t be. Whoever was after me is coming again, and this time, I might not be found before it’s too late. And what does “too late” even mean? After I’m sold by traffickers? After I’m beaten and raped? After I’m... killed?

I can’t swallow, and my airway feels tight. Clutching my throat, I gasp and sputter. My vision narrows, and all I want to do is to curl up and hide, to be as small as I can make myself. I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide to the floor, drawing my knees up and not caring about the shooting pain in my swollen ankle. Sprained tendons and ligaments mean nothing when you feel your life is in danger.

It’s a little easier to breathe down here, but my chest still heaves, and I can’t open my eyes. It feels as though the muscles holding them together are so tight no amount of effort can pry them open.

I don’t realize Owen has stopped the car until I feel a cool breeze hit my face.

“Baylor!” he grinds out in a tone that’s so harsh, my nose stings and tears threaten to spill. “What’s wrong? Get up.” He reaches for me, his hands big and rough on my skin.

“Stop! No. No. No.” I bat his hands away.

I don’t want to be found. I want to stay here until this passes. Facing him when I’m like this makes everything feel worse. It’s not the first panic attack I’ve had since I was taken, and I’m sure it’s not the last, but I don’t want a witness.

“For fuck’s sake, Baylor. Get up here and tell me what’s going on,” he retorts. At least he stopped grabbing for me.

“Please, just go away,” I sob.

“I won’t. Not until you talk to me. I can’t take you home like this.”

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