Counterfeit Love

"Fuck. Wrap that up, you idiot," Ewan growled. "Wrap this up," he demanded of the remaining guard, someone with a nice fat lip, but little other damage.

The blood seeping out of my hand made it too slippery, impossible to pick up another piece of glass to use as a weapon.

Not that I was given a chance anyway. The bastard managed two good shots, sending me flying, crashing toward the ground, taking the kitchen chair with me, jabbing me so hard in the ribs that it knocked out all my air.

When I tried to to get back up, to fight back, the pain in my side doubled me over, making me completely useless.

A body pressed down on mine, something covering my face.

Two distinct scents at once.

Rubbing alcohol and bleach.

I might not have been the best of students, but I knew the chemical elements of chloroform when I smelled them.

Of course, within seconds, everything went dark.

I woke up an untold time later, body jostling around the trunk of a car.

Of course.

Of course I was in a trunk. Because you couldn't exactly smuggle a drugged, gagged, and bound person through the airport to get it back down to Louisiana.

I'd done this drive.

Twenty fucking hours.

Twenty hours in a trunk with handcuffs biting into my wrists at the small of my back, my shoulder screaming from rolling around on it for who-knew how long.

The chloroform wouldn't have lasted too long unless they'd hit me again when I'd woken up in the process of getting me in the trunk. Even then, though, we couldn't have been on the road that long.

I couldn't imagine they would risk dragging me in and out of the trunk to stop for any reason.

Getting overtaken and kidnapped was bad enough. Rolling around in a trunk for a whole day wasn't great for the pride either. But being forced to piss yourself and then sit in it because you didn't get to get a bathroom break? Yeah, that was a whole new kind of shitty.

I'd been to prison, yeah. Public bathrooms and showers were commonplace. It was its own kind of humiliation. This, though? This was going to be worse.

I hoped that the last pit stop on the drive back from New York state was good enough to hold me over, and cursed myself for those last couple sips of coffee.

Rolling myself into the bottom edge of the trunk, I rolled onto my stomach to ease the ache in my shoulders and avoid crushing my hands behind me. Planting my feet, I attempted to keep my body as still as possible with my face crushed to the scratchy material covering the trunk.

The minutes stretched to hours as my shoulders and wrists objected to the restraints, as my jaw ached from the gag that no matter how I tried, I couldn't dislodge.

At some point, I drifted off, only to be woken up by my head bouncing off the plastic shielding the back bumper.

It was impossible to gauge the passing of time, but I prayed for my--and my bladder's--sake that a few hours had passed, that we were closer to a destination. That maybe the night had passed.

Because I knew Chris.

She would allow a couple hours. She would tell herself to be rational, that people had lives, that things got in the way of phone calls, that reaching out to me first might be clingy. And she wouldn't let herself call before bed. But if she got to the morning without me contacting her when I expressly told her that I would?

Oh, she would be seething.

And if she was seething, she would call. If she called and got no answer, she would squeeze in a popover.

Thankfully, Ewan had to go and be all theatrical, enjoying the sight of me fighting for my life--and freedom--over just having someone clock me on the back of the head when I walked in, and dragging me off without any evidence left over.

He probably figured it was no big deal. To leave shit broken, to leave blood all over.

Because he had no idea who Chris was, the kind of woman she was, the kind of people she was connected to. He likely thought that my very normal girl would come over eventually, see the chaos, call the cops, and everyone would assume I'd been taken and killed. Just another file that would go in Navesink Bank's cold case storage.

I couldn't help but let my mind wander back to my place, wishing I could be a fly on the wall as she walked in, and took in the chaos. Then did one of the sexiest things I'd ever seen. Sprung into action. Started making calls, making plans, coming to conclusions, looking for leads.

Her drive, her focus, her stubbornness, those were some of her most appealing traits. Maybe because I lacked them for the most part. It was fascinating the way her eyes came alive, how her intelligence shone through them, and even to see her throwing her authority all around, barking orders at people, demanding shit get figured out.