Breathe In Read online

  I keep running until I’m at least a few blocks away. Winded, fatigued, and little sick to my stomach, I stop. I lean against the wall of a building, taking in sharp gasps of air, and look around. Thankfully, Gerald didn’t follow. Where am I? Terin. I left Terin back at the club. I can’t go back there. I’ll have to call her and let her know I’ve gone home. She’ll be fine.

  My phone? Where is my phone? It was in my handbag. I had my handbag when I left the club with Tom. Shit. It must be in his car. Fear, pain, shame, anger, guilt, all well up tight within my chest and rise until I feel as if I will go mad. I run my fingers through my hair and cry so hard I start to gag again. I want to puke. Get that man out of me. Get him out!

  “Can I help you? Are you okay?”

  Startled, I spin around. The man from the library is standing at the corner, maybe fifteen feet away. My crying wanes as muddled thoughts spin around in my mind, trying to make sense of it all. Why is he here? Did he follow me from the club? His brow is pinched with a look of concern. He takes a step forward. “Are you okay?”

  My knees and hands are trembling violently. “I’m…I’m fine.” I drag both hands across my face, swiping away the tears.

  He takes another step forward. “Are you sure? You seem upset. Are you ill?”

  I take a step back. I don’t want any further interaction tonight. I’ve had more than enough. All I want to do is go home. And this guy…he seems friendly, but he freaks me out. “No, really. I’m fine. I’m just on my way home.”

  Another step forward. “Do you need a ride?”

  Another step back. Why won’t anyone listen to me? “No. I’m fi…”

  Something is pulled over my head from behind. The world is dark and muffled. I scream. Hands go around my waist. My arms arc outward, side to side, hoping to hit anything in my path. What is happening? Fear, stark and white, drains the blood from my head to my toes. I’m dizzy.

  Voices bark out sharp orders but I’m flailing about and screaming so I can’t make out what they’re saying. Another set of hands grab my legs and pull them out from under me so now I’m being carried by two men…one by my waist and the other by my legs. I writhe and twist. I have to get out of this. I need to get away. What is happening? My breath plumes in and out in short, hot gasps inside the small bag over my head. Claustrophobia flares up. A stronger wave of panic follows. I’m…going…to pass…out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eyes open. Darkness. Eyes close. Darkness. Where am I? I can’t breathe. I’m so hot. Memory floods back. Eyes open wide. The bag is still over my head. My heart thuds in my chest and my respirations increase. The humidity of my warm breath presses against my face. I really can’t breathe. Instead of flailing around, I hold still and hone in on my other senses. I’m sitting upright, and by the way my body bounces in the seat, I know I’m in a vehicle of some sort and the road is not paved. It’s rough. Over the sound of my desperate panting, I make out the hum of the engine and crunch of tires against rugged terrain.

  Oh god! Oh god! Oh god! Where are they taking me?

  “Slow down, Jake. We’re bumping around like crazy back here.”

  I snap my head toward the left, following the sound of the man’s voice. Is it the man from the library or the other one who grabbed me from behind? Racking my brain, I think back to what his voice sounded like. I think the man next to me is the one from the library. He was in the club tonight too. So the driver must be Jake. How many are there?

  “Hold tight! I just want to get there already,” a man barks from the front. His tone is much sharper, deeper. Dangerous. I’m not okay, I’m not okay. Fuck. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Too fast. I’m breathing too fast. It’s too damn hot in this bag. My back and hips ache as I’m jostled about. The taste and smell of stale tequila wafts into my warm nostrils. A thick wave of nausea suddenly rises. Oh, no, I’m going to throw up. Not in the bag. I’ll choke. I can’t hold it down.

  Sour, vile fluid bubbles up and bursts from my mouth and nose. I gag and retch inside the sack. Feels like I’m inside a microwave that has cooked too long and burst the contents. Vomit spews over my lips and down my face and neck, pooling up at the neck where the bag is cinched tight.

  “Oh, shit, Jake. She’s fucking puking. Pull over.”

  “I’m not pulling over,” Jake yells. “We aren’t far enough out of town.”

  I’m trying to breathe but my nose and mouth are full of rancid phlegm. There’s no oxygen. Instinct has me groping at the bottom of the bag, scratching and pulling to get it off. Thank god my hands are free. My feet kick out and make contact with the seat in front of me. Pain sears up the front of my shins, but I keep writhing and pulling.

  “No, seriously, man. Pull over. She’s freaking out.”

  “I don’t care. We don’t have our masks on. She’ll see our faces.”

  “She’s already seen my face, dumbass,” the other man yells. “Who freaking cares? It’s not like she’ll be able to identify us when we’re done with her anyway. I’ve got to do something or she’s going to choke on her own fluids and then this whole thing will be a damn waste. Can’t you hear her choking?”

  “Well, then, take the damn bag off her head, Vance. Shit, I can’t do everything. I’m driving. Figure it out!”

  Hands join mine and clamber to undo the ties. “Just sit still a second. Hold on,” he demands.

  Desperate to get out of the bag and take a breath, I stop yanking on the ties. But I can’t stop gagging. I’m covered in vomit and fear. The bonds around my neck loosen and the material is pulled up over my face, then off of my head in a rush. A wave of cool, fresh air hits my face. Big, deep breath. Another. And another.

  Blink. Wipe puke from my nose and mouth. Turn to my right. The man from the library stares at me, wide-eyed. Then the smell hits him and his nose puckers. He draws his hands to his nose and covers it, flinching away from me. I spot the bruised fingernails that have yet to heal and shiver.

  I take a quick glance at the driver, Jake. Facing front, his shoulders hunched forward, all I know is that he is large, formidable. I’m not sure about his height, but his build is thick and gnarly, like a body builder. His hands are strong, and maneuver the car with ease over the rough dirt road. It’s dark outside, and I cannot see anything more than what the headlights shine upon within twenty feet of the front of the…SUV, yes, looks like an SUV of some sort. Maybe a Jeep or an Explorer. I need to get out of this damn car.

  Turning toward the right passenger door, I scramble for the handle. My hands are slick with my own bodily fluids. I can’t get a good grip. When I finally wrap my fingers around the handle, I fervently jiggle it back and forth, but it’s locked. The tight sensation in my ribcage cinches tighter.

  “Jesus, Vance,” Jake bellows out. “Why aren’t her hands tied?” He reaches back with one arm still on the steering wheel, the other swinging out to grab hold of me before I escape. His strong fingers bite into my upper arm. My hands shake violently, and they seem to have a mind of their own as I search for the unlock button. My fingers flitter about inside the dark car, searching desperately for the automatic locks.

  Another set of hands grip my waist as Vance jerks me back toward the middle of the seat. High pitched, breathy sounds squeak from my wet lips as I bend at the waist and strain forward, still trying to make contact with the locking mechanism. Where in the hell is it?

  The hand around my arm loosens, then quickly finds my hair and jerks back hard. My chin juts straight up in the air so that I’m staring at the dark ceiling. Searing pain shoots down the back side of my neck, as well as at the roots of my hair. Tears blur my vision. Still, my hands continue to clamber blindly at the door. I need to get out. I need out!

  “Dammit, hold still.” Vance wraps an arm tighter around my waist while the other snakes around to rein in my arms. Without thinking about it, I jerk my left elbow back and connect with his jaw.

  “Shit,” he whispers through clenched teeth. “Stop flailing around, dammit
. Just stop.” Both arms reach up and wrestle for mine.

  “That’s it,” Jake yells, releasing my hair. Suddenly the car slams to a stop. Tires slide against gravel. My head tips forward, and my vision tunnels. Vance’s grasp loosens. With my head free, I twist toward him and aim my flailing arms in his direction. Hitting him over and over again, connecting with cheek, arms, chin, chest, anything I can that might possibly cause him enough pain to release me. I need to hurry. Jake is now out of the driver’s-side door and rounding the front of the vehicle. I’m screaming. The sound escapes from deep within my diaphragm and rattles my bones, echoing within the confines of the vehicle. Desperation seizes my senses. Time slows, as if I’m stuck in a bad dream. Maybe I am. But the pain shooting up my arms as I hit and punch tell me this is all too real.

  Vance blocks my blows, trying to protect his face while simultaneously attempting to seize my arms again. The door behind me swings open. Hands, stronger and larger than Vance’s, grip my waist and haul me out of the vehicle. Fingers bite into my flesh. Frantic, I kick and thrash every limb I have. I arch my back, hoping to somehow wriggle out of his grip. No chance. He’s too strong.

  He sets my feet on the ground, then wraps one muscled bicep around my throat. Instantly, I lose the ability to pull oxygen into my airway. I kick my feet back, connecting with his shins. I claw and scratch at the bulk of muscle around my neck. His skin curls under my fingernails. Stars dance before my eyes. First, tiny white bursts, they quickly morph into frightening red blotches.

  Breathe in.

  No air will pass.

  I’m…going…again. Please…help…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Before consciousness fully embraces me, I’m already remembering the evening’s events. A nightmare that is not really a nightmare at all. My eyelids feel heavy, reluctant to open as white, hot pain shoots through my head. My throat hurts. I’m lying uncomfortably on my right side, my head tipped awkwardly without a pillow under me. A kink in my neck spasms, starting behind my right ear, traveling to my shoulder. Both shoulders burn from the strain of the position I’m in, my wrists bound firmly behind my back. Lower lip trembles. I don’t want to open my eyes.

  Please, God, just let it all be a bad dream. A nightmare.

  The smell of stale urine combines with something cooking, assaulting my nostrils. Bacon? Seems an odd scent, given my scenario. My stomach roils from the rich aroma. Food is the last thing I can think of. I still feel queasy and weak. More from the blow to my head than the alcohol.

  Slowly, slowly, blink, blink. My eyes are gritty and dry. The room I’m in comes into focus, then blurs, then focuses again. The door straight ahead is worn wood. It’s closed. The walls are wood also, adding a rustic feel to the place…like an old, abandoned cabin. Though I cannot see the rest of it, I sense its compact size pressing in on me.

  The smell of urine wafts up from the twin-sized bed I’m lying on. Without sheets, I can see it’s one of those old striped mattresses. It sinks deeply in the middle. I arch my head back to take in the rest of my surroundings and my neck instantly spasms again. The room is empty. Like, really empty. Stark. Nothing but the bed I’m on and me. I’m alone. This gives me a brief moment of comfort.

  Think. I need to think. I’m in the second location. This is bad. Really fucking bad. I remember watching an Oprah episode where they gave tips on how to survive a kidnapping. The number one tip was to never let your kidnapper take you to “the second location.” You’re too vulnerable there. That’s where they will likely kill you. My heart skips and gallops faster.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down.

  I’m not going to die. Not today.

  Fuck, why am I so stupid? How could I have let this happen? I’m sickened by the fact that I’m crying again, hot tears sliding sideways down my face, rather than coming up with a plan.

  Okay, okay, okay. I can do this.

  I try to sit up, but without the use of my hands, I end up flopping around on the bed like a fish. Every inch of my body aches. Finally, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, kick out my left leg, and use the momentum for leverage while using my stomach muscles to sit up with a heave. The bed springs squeak and complain below me. The room spins for a few moments, then settles. I take a deep, calming breath and look around the room again. There’s an overhead light but it’s off, and I wonder if this rundown cabin of sorts even has electricity.

  Thin, grayish light filters in through a dirty window to the left of the room. It’s morning. Early, and gloomy with a thick layer of clouds. I’m guessing maybe between six and seven a.m. Somehow, probably due to being knocked over the head and choked, I slept for at least four or five hours. I’m not sure exactly how late it was when I left the club. After midnight, I know that.

  I shiver and goosebumps spread over the surface of my skin. It’s cold and damp. It doesn’t help that I’m only wearing a sleeveless satin shirt and my miniskirt. The hem is hiked up all the way to my hipbones, revealing thin, lacy panties. I want to pull it down but there is absolutely no give in the ropes binding my wrists. I don’t bother straining against them. My feet are cold and bare. Where are my shoes?

  Something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I twist my torso to look in the corner behind me. There is something else in the room. A camera mounted on a tripod. Its red light blinks conspiratorially at me. I swallow down the lump of fear that rises in my throat. I’m being videotaped? Watched? I stand, then take a quick step back to catch myself as my wobbly knees give out. I regain my footing, then walk to the camera, my gait unsteady at first. I’m careful to be quiet so as not to draw attention to myself. A foot before I reach the camera, my body lurches to a stop as the bonds on my wrists strain to their limit. I spin around and glare at my leash. Like a dog, I’m tied to the bare, stripped-down bed.

  Still curious about the camera, I resume my inspection. My distorted reflection stares back at me in the dark lens. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. A shiver runs down my spine. My body trembles. I’m in so much trouble.

  The door swings open behind me and I spin around. A whoosh of air enters the room with the smell of bacon riding it. The bulky one, Jake, looms in the doorway with one hand on the doorknob.

  “You’re awake. Good. Step away from the camera, though. That’s rule number one. Don’t. Touch. The camera. Understood?”

  He’s speaking to me with calm precision, as if we’re having a simple conversation about something as trite as the weather. But we aren’t. He’s my kidnapper and he’s giving me the rules. That’s good, though, right? I mean, if there are rules, it means I’ll be around for a while. He doesn’t plan to kill me, at least not right away. I take solace in that thought.

  As he shuts the door behind him, I glance over his shoulder. The room behind him is small, all wood walls too. There’s a lantern on a picnic-type table. On the other side of the table is a small sink and a kerosene cook stove, like something you’d take camping, propped on the counter. Very rough living situation. Dank, abandoned. A musty smell lingers under the scent of bacon.

  The only thought that runs over and over in my head is that no one will ever find me out here. This is terror. I wonder where Vance is. He seems to be the gentler of the two, if there is such a thing.

  I try to take a step back but again my restraints keep me rooted in place.

  Jake puts both hands up as if showing me he’s harmless. “Hey, hey. Don’t freak out again. I just came in here to see if you’re hungry? That’s all. You want something to eat?” His voice is low and calm, as if speaking to a frightened animal he wants to coax out of hiding. But there is a malignant threat beneath the façade.

  He wants to offer me food? I shake my head. Food is the last thing I want right now. The reek of vomit permeates my hair. I can’t bear to talk to this man, much less take food from him.

  He takes a few steps forward, bends down, and grabs hold of the ropes that bind my wrists. With a mischievous grin on his face, he looks
at the camera, then back at me. “Come here.”

  Unsure of how to navigate this precarious situation, I don’t move at all.

  His lips twitch and his left brow raises. Then with one sharp motion, he jerks the rope. Skin under the ropes burn and peel away as my body spins and lurches forward. In an attempt to catch my balance before falling on my face, I do a clumsy sideways stagger-step and recover just inches in front of him.

  Standing closer than I want to be, I can’t stop my muscles from trembling. He sneers down at me. His teeth are crooked. His jaw is wide. His skin is covered in acne, and I’m sure he takes steroids on a regular basis to gain his bulk. His scent is heavy with sweat. It mixes inextricably with the smell of frying pork.

  He holds a finger in front of his face in warning. “Do not play with me, little girl.” He gives the rope another jerk. “Do you understand me?”

  “Y-y-yes,” I whimper.

  “Good. Now let me explain a few things. You see that camera over there?”

  When I don’t take my gaze from his to look toward the camera, he moves faster than I can react and clutches my chin in his large hand, his thumb and forefinger digging into the flesh of my jaw. My lips pucker out. He jerks my head to the right so that I’m facing the camera. He points to it with his other hand. “There. Do you see it now?”

  Face still in his grasp, I nod adamantly to show I’m listening now. This man is frightening beyond measure.

  His thumb and fingers squeeze harder. “Good. That camera will watch you day and night. You hear me?”

  I nod, unable to suppress the incessant whimpering that bubbles from my core.