Bang Theory

by Valente, Lili

  Now, I know that she loves me, too, and all those complicated choices don’t feel so complicated anymore.

  I love my job and the band, but I love Bridget more. I don’t want to spend the next ten years of my life on the road. I want to settle down and build a home and a family and share the rest of my life with her.

  I want to make Bridget the happiest woman in the world, which makes my next step a no-brainer.

  I’ll get through the upcoming tour—it’s too late to find a replacement at this point—and then, I’m out. I’ll help them vet the new drummer, make sure he’s got what it takes to keep Lips on Fire topping the charts, and then I’ll come home to Bridget.

  Just thinking about it is enough to send a goofy smile spreading across my face.

  I’m so distracted, imagining a time when I won’t have to say goodbye to Bridge for more than a few hours at a stretch, that by the time my eyes separate a bulky shape from the shadows, I’m on top of the wheelbarrow parked in the middle of the path.

  I cut to the right, but I’m too late and clock my leg on the thick metal side, cursing beneath my breath as pain explodes behind my kneecap.

  Wincing, I grit my teeth to hold back further obscenities and reach down to rub the tender skin just below the bruised bone.

  I’m still bent over, silently wondering how a minor injury can hurt so damned much, when I sense movement in the darkness behind me.

  I don’t hear a thing, don’t see it, but suddenly the hairs on my arms are standing on end, and my stomach is doing a landed-fish flop, and every cell in my body is shouting for me to turn and fight.

  But before I can so much as stand up straight, heat and pain prick at the side of my neck.

  My first thought is that I’ve been stung by a bee, but it’s the middle of the night, and the heat doesn’t stay on the surface of my skin.

  It pushes deeper, burning through my veins, hitting my heart with a punch that makes it skip a beat before the poison floods onward and upward. It rushes into my head, tossing a bucketful of water over the thoughts still flickering in my brain, putting me out with a swift, silent snuff.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  From the group texts of Bridget Lawrence,

  Theo Devi, and Kirby Lawrence

  Bridget: Guys, I need help. Shep’s missing, and I’m afraid something horrible has happened.

  Theo: *hedgehog emoji* *fish emoji*

  Kirby: What? What do you mean missing? What time is it? Why are you up at one in the morning?

  Theo: *volcano emoji* *crying face emoji*

  Bridget: Shep was at my place. About an hour ago we heard a noise in the back corner of the garden, and he went out to see what was up. Some local kids have been sneaking in to use the hot tub, and I thought he’d scare them off, pop the cover back on the tub, and be back in ten minutes. But he didn’t come back and didn’t come back, so I went down to check on him, and he was gone. Vanished.

  Theo: Sorry. I’m awake now. I didn’t realize I had the emoji screen pulled up. So what did you do? I assume you texted him, right?

  Kirby: And called him? The cell and the landline at his parents’ house?

  Bridget: I did. I texted and called, but his parent’s machine picked up, and his cell went straight to voicemail. So I jumped on my bike and rode by his parents’ place and his apartment to see if he’d run home to get something, but he wasn’t either of those places, and he wasn’t here when I got back.

  Kirby: What about his truck?

  Bridget: It’s still parked at his mom and dad’s house. Cutter’s motorcycle was there, too, and he answered when I knocked on the door. But he said he hadn’t seen Shep since he left to come warn me that his stalker knew my name.

  Kirby: WHAT? What stalker? Are you okay? Oh my God, why is the world so fucking nuts all the time? Can’t we have a moment’s peace?

  Bridget: I’m fine. But this is why I’m so freaked out. Some obsessed fan has been sending Shep creepy notes for weeks, but he refused to go to the police. He didn’t think it was a big deal. But what if it is a big deal? And what if this person did something to him? Hurt him or drugged him and then just…stole him away?

  Theo: You have every right to be concerned, but remember, Shep is a really big guy.

  Kirby: And he knows how to take care of himself. I’ve only seen him in a fight once, but he took care of business. He put down two violent, shit-talking assholes without breaking a sweat. He can handle himself with a lovesick fan, no matter how hard she’s been training.

  Bridget: But we don’t know that it’s a woman. She never signed her name, only the letter M. It could be a big burly guy or several people working together or a horde of evil, mind-controlling aliens in a trench coat for all we know. And if the person had a weapon they could use to threaten Shep, they wouldn’t need to be bigger or stronger. I swear if I don’t hear from him soon, I’m going to lose my mind. Or start crying hysterically, even though I know that’s not going to help.

  Theo: Okay, okay. Calm down, honey. We’ll figure something out. I’ll be over in ten.

  Kirby: I’m already on my way. Should be at your place in five. Have you called the police?

  Bridget: Yes. At first, they said they couldn’t do anything until Shep had been missing for over 24 hours, but then I told them about the notes, and they said they’d send someone over to talk to me in the morning.

  In the morning! Shep could be dead by then!

  Oh my God, he could be dead, and it’s all my fault for letting him go down to check the hot tub alone. I should have gone with him. I should have had his back the way he’s always had mine. If something’s happened to him, I’ll never forgive myself.

  Kirby: Sweetheart, this isn’t your fault. This is a bad person’s fault.

  Theo: Or a big misunderstanding. He could be stuck in line at the all-night pizza joint, waiting for a pie, and not realize that his ringer’s turned off.

  Bridget: No. He’s in trouble. I can feel it. And he wouldn’t have left without telling me where he was going. It was a really special night. Everything was so perfect and beautiful and right in a way it’s never been before. And he felt the same way. He wouldn’t have run off like this. He just wouldn’t. There’s no doubt in my mind.

  Theo: Oh, honey. I’m so happy and sad for you at the same time.

  Bridget: I just love him so much. I can’t stand the thought of him hurting or scared or…worse.

  Kirby: My head has clearly been up my own ass because this is all MAJOR news to me, but I’m happy for you, too, Bridge. I love Shep, and I love you, and we’re going to figure this out. I promise. Come unlock your door. I’m climbing the stairs to your front porch right now.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Shep

  “Wake up, sleepyhead. Time for breakfast.”

  The syrupy voice sends ice rushing into my veins. The events of the past however many hours stutter through my foggy head like a poorly threaded piece of film, but I catch enough of it to know that I’m in trouble.

  Big trouble.

  “Come on, big guy,” the woman coos. “I know you’re awake. And I made your favorite, bacon and runny eggs with grilled tomatoes and a dollop of roasted red pepper cream cheese on the side. Had to go to three stores to find the right flavor, but I won out in the end. I always do.”

  My eyes creak open to reveal a petite, familiar-looking older woman with gray eyes and silver-streaked brown hair to her shoulders, but I can’t remember how I know her. I have even less of a clue how she knows what my mom made me for my birthday breakfast every year when I was growing up.

  “There you are.” She smiles a too-wide, too-excited grin that lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. “How are you feeling, honey? I gave you a pretty big dose, but I had to make sure you stayed asleep. No way I could have gotten you in the van if you were putting up a fight. I still can’t believe it worked out so well, but then I knew you’d come out to check on the noise by the hot tub, not Bridget. You’re a gentleman. Not
like most of the men your age. Savages, am I right?”

  She chuckles as if this is a shared joke between us. While she’s amusing herself, I do a quick scan of my surroundings. I’m in some sort of…tent?

  Yes, a big tent, with semi-permanent-looking support beams arching across the top, animal heads on the wall, and a few heavy, wooden pieces of furniture arranged economically throughout the circular space. It’s the kind of thing some people live in year-round—complete with a foundation elevating it off the ground, hardwood floors, an indoor bathroom, and a decent-sized kitchen with a stove, fridge, and island with a farmhouse-style sink in the center—but I can’t remember what it’s called.

  My head is full of steel wool and lava, and processing what this woman is saying is taking most of my energy.

  She’s on the move now, hustling over to the kitchenette on the left side of the room and plucking a plate filled with food from beside the stove. She sets it on a tray along with a small glass of orange juice and a steaming mug of coffee and starts back toward the bed.

  I’m propped up in a bed.

  With sheets and a faded yellow quilt pulled up to my hips.

  Pillows behind my back.

  And a rope as big around as my forearm strapped tight to my waist, securing me to the mattress. It feels like there’s something tied around my ankles, too, but before I can lift the covers to investigate, the woman places the tray across my lap.

  “There you go. Better eat up before the eggs get cold.” She laughs as she settles into a cracked leather chair beside the bed. “Nothing worse than cold eggs!”

  “Except waking up and having no idea what happened to you the night before,” I say, the words emerging hoarse and fractured, but clear enough I know she had to have heard me.

  But she simply smiles and nods toward the plate. “The tomatoes are from Florida, but they’re good. I had one with my egg sandwich earlier. I was hoping I’d be able to serve you some fresh heirlooms from my greenhouse, but I’m between crops right now. Hard to keep up with my gardening the way I used to before I started working part-time.”

  “The wine tasting. At the bed and breakfast.” My foggy brain makes the connection, and my pulse picks up. “You were there. With the tray.”

  “I was,” she says, clapping her hands together. “I knew you felt it. The connection between us.” She sighs. “I was going to do it then, but my daughter insisted on taking me out to dinner when I got off work. Abby’s a sweetheart, and so good-hearted, even if she does have trouble seeing the big picture sometimes.”

  She shakes her head before leaning forward to confide, “To be honest, she thinks I’m crazy. She found my scrapbook with all my research on you in it and had a meltdown. Said I was delusional, needed help, yada, yada, yada.” She sits back, a smug grin curving her lips. “But I knew it would all work out. We’re two peas in a pod, you and me. Meant to be. I knew it from the first time I heard you play. You drum like a dream. Every beat spoke straight to my heart and I just… I knew.”

  I take a deep breath, trying to get oxygen to my synapses.

  I have to respond, to figure out exactly what I need to say to convince this woman to set me free, but I’m not a mental health professional and have zero experience with hostage situations. I’m clueless and hungover from whatever drug she used to knock me out, and all I can think about is that Stephen King movie where the crazy woman kidnapped her favorite author, held him captive, and brutalized him until he wrote the book she wanted him to write.

  There are similarities in that horror story and my current real-life situation.

  Very disturbing similarities.

  But at least if this woman is holding me captive to make music on demand, a song takes a lot less time to write than a novel.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, doing my best to keep the anxiety and anger from my voice. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Mary,” she says, primly folding her hands in her lap. “My name is Mary. First things come first. Like breakfast. If you don’t start soon the eggs will be cold, and I’ll have to make you new ones, and that would be a waste. Those are farm fresh from my own chickens. My girls worked hard to make those for you, and so did I.”

  I pick up the fork, but my fingers are so swollen I drop it onto the plate with a clatter that makes me flinch. Before I can fish it out from between the eggs and bacon, Mary reaches over, retrieves it, and presses it gently into my hand.

  “There you go.” She folds my fingers around the handle, gently but firmly, her skin cool and dry against my clammy hands.

  I tighten my grip on the utensil and subtly gauge the distance between the bed and Mary’s chair. I could reach it, wound her with the fork if I had to, but I doubt I could get free of the ropes tying me to the bed before she found some way to bring me back to heel again—more of that drug, or maybe a gun.

  The animals mounted on the wall didn’t stuff themselves and climb up there on their own.

  If I’m going to use physical force, I have to make sure I get free the first time, because I might not get another chance.

  And call me crazy, but I’m not ready to stab a woman who’s half my size and at least twenty years my senior. I don’t want to use violence in this situation unless it’s my last resort. My mama raised me better than that.

  Which reminds me…

  “How did you know what my mom made me for breakfast on my birthday?”

  “Oh, that…” Mary goes a little red around the collar of her simple white polo. “I thought it would be nice for me to get close to your mom, keep her company while you were on tour. We got along real well for a while, but in the end, we had different ideas about things.”

  I stab at the eggs, figuring it’s highly unlikely they’re drugged. But I’ve already decided not to touch the coffee or juice. I’ll ask for water after I’ve eaten enough of the food to satisfy her, and hopefully I can watch her fill the glass straight from the tap. “Ideas about what?” I ask, popping the egg into my mouth and chewing.

  “Done the way you like?” Mary leans forward, breath held.

  I make some obligatory “delicious” noises, though I honestly can’t taste anything.

  All I really want is water, ibuprofen, and a car pulling up outside to get me the hell out of here.

  “Oh good.” Mary sits back, beaming, only for her smile to fade as she adds, “And your mother and I just had a little misunderstanding, that’s all. She thought we should try to set you up with Abby when you got home for your break. Abby!” She laughs. “As if the two of you would have anything in common. Well, aside from both being in your twenties.”

  She stands, reaching over to pat my shoulder. “But you’re so much more mature than my little girl. I can see it in your eyes. I’ve watched that interview you gave after your friend was shot at in Las Vegas a hundred times. The compassion in your eyes.” She sighs, and her hand moves to rest on my cheek, making me fight not to shudder. “You’re an old soul. And I’m a young soul. So we’ll meet in the middle just right.”

  “I should call my mother, though,” I say, as casually as I can manage. “Just to make sure she doesn’t start to wonder where I am.”

  “Of course not, honey.” Mary leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. You’re not going to be calling anyone. Ever.”

  I’m about to reach for her wrist—some vague plan to hold her captive by the bed until she unties me—but she’s already gone, zipping away with my breakfast tray. “We’ll try feeding you again when you’re done playing games.”

  A choked sound rips from my throat. “You’re the one playing games, Mary. I didn’t agree to come here. You took me against my will, and you need to take me back. Now.”

  “You’re confused, honey,” she calls out cheerily as she dumps everything on the breakfast tray into the sink. The loud clatter says she isn’t worried about what her neighbors might hear. She plunks the tray down on the counter and spins back to me, ha
nds fisted on her hips. “But we’ll get you sorted out. Don’t you worry. You’re going to see how perfect we are together, no doubt in my mind.”

  She grabs a set of keys from a hook on the wall and heads for the door—a slim but sturdy piece of wood that snaps back into place on a tight hinge seconds after she pushes out of the tent, granting me the briefest glimpse of fall woods and blue sky.

  And then I’m alone in a silence broken only by the occasional call of a bird and the gentle breeze moving the world outside. There are no traffic sounds, no human sounds, nothing to indicate that calling for help will be anything but a waste of my time.

  Still, as soon as I hear the wheels of Mary’s van roll away through the fallen leaves, I pull in a breath and shout, “Help! My name is Shepherd Strong. I’m being held hostage. If you can hear me, please call 911.”

  I yell out until my voice grows hoarse and begins to crack, but when I fall silent again, the only response is some aggressive chattering from a gang of blue jays in the tree outside the hazy window near my bed.

  They’re clearly pissed at having their morning routine disrupted.

  “Join the club,” I mutter, my head falling back against the pillows.

  I close my eyes, hoping it will help me think, but my mind is like a bruised peach, soft and brown and oozing sticky shit all over the inside of my skull. All I know for sure is that I have to get out of here before that woman gets back. I have to get back to Hidden Kill Bay, back to Bridget so I can make sure she’s okay.