by Soto, S. M.
A man dressed in all black storms through the bakery, heading straight for me. And he isn’t the man from a few nights ago. I can tell almost immediately. Though he’s still big, this man is a lot smaller than the mystery man from the other night. He has a bland, pale face and greasy copper hair. I realize now how foolish I’ve been. Purposely leaving the bakery unlocked at this time of night, hoping to run into him. How desperate and idiotic can I be?
The only barrier between us is the counter where I display my treats, and even though I’m afraid and dread is coiling deep in my gut, I can’t seem to move. Any hope that this man was coming in here for anything other than treats vanishes the second he pulls out a black object.
My breath catches.
My heart stops.
The world shifts on its axis, and I die a thousand deaths as I realize the man is holding a gun in his hand, aiming the offending weapon straight at me.
Internally, I know I should scream, run, try to fight him off, do anything other than just stand here, gaping in shock. But it’s like I’m glued to the floor, stuck in the moment, unable to move. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never looked violence and death so closely in the face.
My stomach flips and I clutch a hand on the counter for support so I don’t pass out from the fear.
“Drop your fucking bag,” he orders, his gun still trained directly on me.
My pulse is thumping so violently, I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t even get my grip to loosen on my purse. Inside, I’m screaming, “Let it go! Let it go!” but it doesn’t happen.
“I said drop the fucking bag!”
He jerks his gun forward to scare me, and on reflex, my palms open, dropping my purse and keys to the floor. The contents spill out along the floor in slow motion, clattering and rolling. My bottom lip quivers and I catch it between my teeth, trying to hold it together while I think of a plan. A way out of this alive.
“You alone?” He knows the answer before I even give one. It’s obvious I’m alone. If I wasn’t, surely someone would’ve come to my aid by now.
An unintelligible sound escapes my throat, pissing him off or urging him on, I can’t even tell which. Because next thing I know, the man charges me, and I choke.
With ease, he hops over the counter like it’s a hurdle in a race, and before I can react, his hands are on me, shoving me back into the wall. My head slams into the plaster, and all the air is knocked out of me upon impact. My ears ring from the shock of pain. Like a switch going off, the adrenaline finally kicks in and I scream, using my arms, legs, and nails to kick, fight, and scratch him. Anything to keep him away from me. My scream is shrill, scraping my throat raw.
“Calm down, you stupid fucking bitch!” he growls, wrestling my arms above my head and pressing his body against mine. His greasy locks of copper hair fall into his face, and I whimper when he rubs the unmistakable bulge in his pants against my stomach.
“Now I see why he comes here,” he breathes across my face. “I just planned on looking, but I think I’ll fuck your cunt while I’m at it too.” My chest tightens, and a helpless tear leaks out of the corner of my eye.
“Help! Someone—”
The man wraps his hand around my throat and squeezes, cutting off my air supply midscream. He sneers down at me, his brown eyes wild with excitement. Dread takes root in my belly at the look on his face. It’s a look I know well. One I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid. But it’s useless. Just like it was when Ryan Eastlake took advantage of me after prom. And I know, no matter how hard I fight this man, he’ll win. They always do.
Fear claws at my throat when my chest starts to burn from the need to breathe. My trachea is on fire, and my vision is getting hazy from the lack of air. I try scratching at his hands, grasping at his face and eyes, anything to pry his fingers or his weight off me, but he’s so strong, he doesn’t even budge with any of my attempts.
Somehow, I manage to jab my knee up into his thigh, hitting him hard enough to make him grunt in pain.
“Fucking cunt!” he grits, loosening his hold on my neck. I try to use this to my advantage and run, but he beats me to it. He winds his hand back, and before I can react, his meaty palm is sailing toward my face, making contact in the most painful of ways.
I cry out at the harsh force of his strike that sends me reeling onto the floor. It feels like I’ve been struck with a blunt object rather than his hand. I cradle my face in my palm, and my stomach bottoms out when I pull it away, seeing a streak of crimson.
Suddenly, I’m yanked up by my hair, the roots screaming in pain with the unforgiving hold he has. A sob sputters past my lips, cracking through the still air. He tosses my body haphazardly over the counter, the side of my face slamming against the glass, dazing me. He presses his body up against my backside, and I let out a choked scream when I feel his arousal pressing between my cheeks. I buck against him, trying to fight him off, but he’s expecting it. With his free hand, he holds down my arms, halting any attempts at fighting him off, and I feel rustling behind me, then the sound of his excited breaths.
“Please!” I choke out, fear clogging my throat with emotion. “Please don’t do this!” The tears leak down my face and pool between my cheek and the glass of the display. I clench my eyes shut, trying to go somewhere else. I can’t let this happen. Not again. Not after everything I’ve done, everything I’ve worked so hard to overcome. All of it, ruined at the hands of this hateful, vile human being.
I peel my eyes open, and almost as if it was meant to be, the shop door swings open. It all happens in slow motion. The second mystery man’s cold gaze meet mine, and my chest squeezes and my eyes widen.
Oh my god.
For a second, I think I’m seeing things. Maybe my mind conjured up his image to help me deal with what’s happening. But that can’t be right, because I can feel his gaze. I feel it searing into my skin, the same dark and dangerous vibe that was here two days ago filling the shop. A tear slips down my face, in thank you or surprise, I’m not sure.
One second, I’m feeling thankful, and the next, dread settles in my body and my eyes bulge when I see him pull a gun out of his waistband. The weight behind my back is suddenly gone and there’s shouting. I don’t know who’s yelling or what they’re saying because all I can hear is the sound of the blood rushing through my veins. It’s deafening. When the man with the leather jacket aims the gun at me, I stop breathing. I’m pretty sure I black out for a few seconds because when I can finally see again, he’s pointing the gun behind me and a shot goes off. The sound is ear-splitting. So much so, my ears ring.
I turn behind me, and a scream so piercing, even to my own ears, echoes around us as I stare down at the man who was just holding me down, about to rape me. His head is a bloodied mess from the bullet hole. I clutch a trembling hand to my stomach, and a whimper tumbles past my lips as my mind processes the gore of what a real gunshot wound looks like.
“Oh god,” I choke. When I glance up at the formidable man dressed in leather, I’m surprised to find him watching me. There’s no sympathy in his eyes; there’s…nothing really. A chill travels down my spine at the vast sea of darkness that swims within those depths.
I look back down at the now-dead man on the shop of my bakery floor, and I scream.
“Oh my god!”
This man…this man who I dreamed of touching, who I had fantasies about touching me back, just murdered someone! In cold blood! On the floor of my freaking bakery!
I stumble to the side and clutch at the counter for support when my legs feel like they’re going to give out at any second. Acidic bile threatens to burst past my lips the longer I stare at the blood and gore. Another glance at this murderer, then down at my almost rapist does me in.
“You…you…oh, no.” I vomit to the side of his body, my legs giving out on me, sending my body to the floor. My knee smacks the tile brutally, but I’m unable to process it. Broken sobs rip from my chest, echoing around us.
He’s d
ead.
He’s dead.
He just shot him. In the head. On the floor right next to me.
There’s a dead body on the floor. In my fucking bakery!
I don’t know how long I sit on the floor, sobbing, but it’s not nearly long enough. A heavy black boot nudges me in my leg.
“Get up. Let’s go.”
My head snaps up and I eye the man incredulously. I hate that even after everything, I’m still struck by how handsome he is. How devilishly handsome he is. His eyes are a dark shade of blue, almost black—just like his soul, I assume.
“Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere with you! Not after you…not after that,” I cry, trying to find any reason to get him away from me. The fact that I still feel drawn to him after he just murdered a man can only mean very bad things for me.
Whatever patience he had seems to vanish when he takes a threatening step toward me and raises his gun, aiming the barrel straight at my head.
“I said Get. The. Fuck. Up,” he grinds out.
The anger plastered across his features has the blood draining from my face and tears spilling over, blurring my vision. My body trembles with fear as I push to my feet, trying to remain calm.
What are you doing, Blossom? You should be running for your life, not following this man. Especially after he just killed someone. My eyes dart back to the man on the floor, then to the man in question, the man who saved me.
Saved me.
There has to be a reason he saved me, right? Maybe he isn’t this horrible person I’ve painted him to be? I mean, he wasn’t the one who came in with a gun threatening to rape me to begin with. Maybe he came back here to see me again and he happened to stumble on the scene unfolding? Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt?
Don’t forget about the gun, Blossom, that stupid voice of reason tells me. No decent man carries around a gun like it’s his freaking wallet.
He saved me. That has to count for something. I tell myself all of this to make me feel better.
I glance around my bakery, taking in the bloody scene and the chaos. I’ve built this place from the bottom up, put my entire life’s savings into this—my dream. How can I just walk away from all of this? What if I never see any of it ever again after I walk out of here with this man?
“But…the shop.” My voice sounds sad and pitiful, even to my own ears. Tears sting the backs of my eyes.
“Don’t fucking speak!” he suddenly snaps, urging me forward. His grip on my arm is unrelenting, and I wince each time he digs the pads of his fingers into my skin.
I follow him out into the street, watching him closely now. The first time he came into the shop, I think I was so awestruck by his looks, I didn’t pay close attention to anything else, but now, after everything, it’s all I can seem to do. Try to figure him out.
From what I can tell, he looks young, maybe a few years older than me, but his face looks a little more haggard, lined with stress. Probably from killing people, I’m sure. When we get to his car, I try not to look so shocked. I knew he had an expensive car, but when I see the emblem, I didn’t realize just how expensive and what kind of car he really did have.
The shock wears off pretty quickly. By the time he shoves me inside—none too kindly, I might add—before climbing back into the car and starts driving, I’m already thinking of ways to escape. I could try to roll out of the car while the car’s moving, but honestly, I’m not sure how well that will work out for me. He’s driving fast, and just imagining my body smacking the pavement makes me cringe. I can literally feel the phantom abrasions on my body.
I try for it anyway.
Ever so slowly, I inch my hand toward the door. I try for casual, resting it on the leather ledge, near the window mechanism. Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat that’s blocking my airway, I reach for the handle slowly.
My heart sinks when the handle clicks and nothing happens. The door doesn’t even budge. The bastard locked me in, likely knowing I’d try to hop out of a moving car rather than sit next to him. My chest tightens, and another round of tears starts to build up behind my eyes. I sneak a glance at him, weighing my options. I can try to fight him, just enough to get out of the car, but he has a gun. He can shoot me before I can cause any real damage.
Emotion tightens my throat, and I deflate against the plush leather seat.
“P-please don’t kill m-me.”
I hate the words as soon as they tumble from my lips. I hate how weak I sound. I hate that I’ve just shown this man my whole hand while he still hasn’t given anything away.
I dart my gaze toward him, and I can see the anger written all over his face. His lips are pressed into a firm grim line, and his eyes are narrowed, intently focused on the road before him. The car rises up a ramp, heading north on I-95.
“Don’t do anything stupid and I won’t have to.”
His words should bring me a sense of comfort—I mean, naturally, all I have to do is follow whatever he says and hold it together for a bit longer and he won’t hurt me. But for some reason, the look on his face says otherwise. He doesn’t even look like he believes his own words, and that’s what’s really frightening.
* * *
When I come to, it’s to bright rays of sunlight gleaming in through the window. I shift on the leather seat, and a groan slips past my lips when I straighten my neck. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but going by the tight, uncomfortable pain radiating along my neck, I’d say a while. I risk a glance at the driver out of the corner of my eye, taking stock of him in daylight.
His skin has a bit of a golden hint to it—I’m thinking either Italian or Mediterranean. There’s a light, probably just a few days’ worth of stubble covering the prominent, angled lines of his jaw. In the sunlight, I can see his tattoos a little more clearly. Most of them are black, but there are a few I can see peeking out beneath his shirt that have color. It makes me wonder what they look like. And I hate myself for it.
“Where are we?” I croak out, voice surprisingly scratchy from the events of last night.
He surprises me when he glances over at me, his eyes clashing with mine. My heart rate spikes and my mouth goes dry as he searches my gaze for a few seconds before letting his eyes trail down my body, then back up to me.
“In Virginia.”
My lips part and my brows draw in together. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
His right eye twitches. “Virginia.”
“As in Virginia, Virginia? Out-of-state Virginia?” I scream out incredulously. And damnit, the bastard has the audacity to smirk.
“Yes, as in out of state, sweetheart.”
“Oh my god.”
I’m hyperventilating again.
We’re no longer in New York. We’re not even close! I wouldn’t know how to get home without a freaking plane ticket, and I’m sure he knows it.
“I haven’t left the state of New York in years. I don’t even like Virginia!” I blurt, still on the verge of having a panic attack. He laughs at me. The asshole actually laughs. Like my freaking out is amusing to him.
Glad my hysterics are a well of entertainment for someone.
“Neither do I. And we’re not staying. Just stopping for food, gas, and a suitable place to sleep.”
“And I’m guessing I have no say in this?” I smartly remark, surprising myself.
His face sours, all traces of humor now gone. Slowly, he twists to look at me, fire brewing in his eyes.
“Not if you want to stay alive. Just do what I say, and this will all be over before you know it.”
I blow out a shaky sigh and swallow.
Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.
The Hostage Bargain
Blossom
The rest of the ride is ridden in silence. We drive for about another thirty minutes before he finally finds someplace suitable to gas up and eat. The gas station and diner are situated right next to each other, most likely making this place a favorite of truckers or pe
ople constantly on the road.
I’m already planning my escape route in my head when his voice cuts through the silence, completely nipping it in the bud.
“Open your mouth to anyone and I’ll kill you. If you try to run, I’ll kill you. If you so much as disobey one word I say, I will kill you, do you understand?”
Chills snake out across my flesh.
My body shakes and I hug myself in an attempt to regain control. I’m not proud to admit that I’m terrified. Terrified enough I’m willing to let this man lead me to my grave. The coldness in this man’s voice scares me on a level I’ve never known before. His tone is deadly serious, and his face is void of any emotion. It’s like looking at a stoic brick wall.
“I understand,” I whisper, hating that he’s won.
I have to wait on him to walk around the car and open the door for me since he’s activated some sort of child lock mechanism to keep me from opening my door whenever I please. I’m sure to everyone outside of this establishment, he probably looks like a gentleman, but what they don’t know is he’s the exact opposite.
I shoot him a glare when he opens my door and offers his hand to me. I take it for appearance’s sake only and try, with every fiber of my being, to ignore the way my body reacts to his. I shouldn’t like the way his skin feels on mine. But damn if I do. The second my palm touched his warm, calloused one, a thrill shot down my spine. It felt like I had tapped into a live wire, the frisson of electricity traveling through my body leaving me feeling unsettled.
Unable to help myself, I look up, startled when I realize he’s looking down at me with a similar expression as the one on my face. There’s no way a man like him can possibly feel it too, right? The connection is severed the moment he shifts his eyes away from mine, a look of disgust passing over his features. He scopes out our surroundings, face still pinched in dismay, as if being this close to me is physically making him ill. Even with eyes looking anywhere but at me, I still feel him everywhere else. His hand is like a fifty-pound weight around mine. I’m hyperaware of him. Of his strength, his body heat. The way he’s walking so close beside me has my heart tripping in my chest. The man is like a furnace. A furnace that smells like smoke, cedar, and a hint of nicotine. It’s such an odd combination. What’s weirder? The fact that the smell doesn’t bother me.