Page 2 of Betting Blind

“This didn’t happen,” he says. His voice is cool and deadly. “We don’t talk about it. We don’t bring it up. No one else is to know about this. Got it?”

“Right,” I agree and pull my helmet off. I run my fingers through my hair and inhale slowly. “It won’t happen again.”

Hayden’s shoulders stiffen for a moment before he starts heading for the elevator. “It won’t happen again,” he repeats slowly over his shoulder. I watch him stalk away and catch the small movement of his hand coming down to adjust his own pants.

The coals in my stomach ignite again, and my mouth goes dry. I lean back and drop my head to my shoulders with a low groan. “Fuck me,” I whisper, butI can’t tell if it’s a frustrated slander or a request.

Fuck my life.

Chapter 1

Emelia

The zip ties cut into the soft skin of my wrists as I twist my hands back and forth behind my back. I roll onto my side to prop myself up into a sitting position and huff out a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. My muscles ache and I have to blink away tears as I struggle to focus on what is around me. The room is dimly lit, but I can just make out the double metal doors and the chain that is holding the doorknobs together.

“Shit,” I hiss through clenched teeth and twist my left arm harshly against the plastic binding. There is a sliver of sunlight filtering through the boarded windows letting me know that I am not underground. My stomach flips in relief. It’s the little things at this point. The air is stagnant, and the smell of sulfur burns my nose with each deep inhale.

I’m not in a box. I’m not buried alive. I can breathe.I chant this internal mantra over and over to try and calm the panic rising in my chest and crippling my lungs. Guns, bullets, blood, gore- no problem. Put me in an enclosed space for any period of time and my body thinks it’s dying. “Fucking pussy,” Igrumble to myself and tuck my legs underneath me, preparing to get to my feet.

A million thoughts are circulating through my brain as I process my current situation. I’m alive, albeit bruised and battered, but I have no idea where I am or how long I have been unconscious. My left eye is tight and nearly swollen shut and the coppery tang of blood coats my tongue each time I lick my parched lips. My whole face feels like I went eight rounds with the current heavyweight champion. The concrete flooring beneath me is cold against the bare skin on my thighs. Despite the ringing in my ears, I can hear metal pipes hissing and clanking in the distance, but there are no other sounds.

“Okay, Em, deep breath. You know how to do this. It’s going to hurt like hell,” I mumble, trying to give myself a pep talk as I flex the sore muscles of my arms. I push myself to my feet and promptly stumble back against the crumbling brick wall.

I have a concussion. Fucking fantastic. I’m going to kill each and every one of them.

My head is swimming, and the floor seems to be shifting under my boots like I’m standing on a swinging bridge. I take a deep breath, inhaling the putrid air, press my palms together, and bring them down hard against my back.

The zip ties don’t move an inch, but it feels like my skin is about to split apart.

I try again, this time jumping a little as I bring my wrists down against my back. The binding snaps in two and shoots across the floor with a faint click. I pull my hands around and rub my left wrist with my right hand, working my fingers along the stinging flesh. I am going to murder someone for this. Painfully. Intimately.

My face is bleeding, my head is pounding, and my entire body feels like it has been shoved into a suitcase and shipped across the globe in economy. I deserve first class at least. Someone is going to die today, and I am going to make sure that it is a slow, drawn-out process. And I am going to enjoy every bloody second of it.

Echoing footsteps pull me out of my murderous plotting. I look around, taking stock of potential weapons, and remember my secret pocket. A small smirk plays across my lips as I unzip my knee-high combat boot and dip my fingertips into a hidden pouch on the back of the tongue that hides a small switchblade. The custom pouch sits right along the top of my foot. It’s not at all comfortable, but no one ever searches there.

My fingers close around the hilt of a knife, my favorite travel accessory, the hot metal is a heavy comfort in my hand. All my other weapons are gone, and I feel completely naked and exposed without them. The footsteps are getting louder, bringing my captors closer and closer to their demise. My eyes skirt around the room again for any leverage. There are thin pipes stretching along the lower half of the wall and some wider pipes snaking up and winding around metal rafters exposed overhead. Ignoring my protesting body, I make quick work of scaling the pipes and wrapping my thighs tightly around one of the exposed metal rafters, my upper body dangling freely in the shadows.

I feel more like a spider waiting for my prey to walk right into my web than a captive at this point. Clearly they have no idea who or what they are dealing with by leaving me alone and only restrained by zip ties. My heart is racing and I feel giddy; like I’m about to talk to my first crush for the very first time. Butterflies assault my stomach, and my fingers growclammy against the metal hilt of my switchblade. My fatigued body begins to protest the sudden physical excursion.

I live for this. The thrill of the chase. The adrenaline of the fight. The feeling of the blade crunching against bone. The sight of a soul leaving the body. The warm stickiness of blood on my hands.

Yes. I need to speak with my therapist. I have an appointment on Monday morning. Yes. I know there are better ways to cope, but they just aren’t as fun. My monsters prefer to take action instead of talking about their feelings on a sofa.

The two metal doors let out a god-awful screech as they are thrown open and slam against the wall, sending dust motes flying through the dim slivers of light. Two large figures stalk into the room. From my vantage point, I can tell that their faces are covered with black balaclavas and the black wife beaters they are wearing showcase the rippling muscles of their arms and upper bodies.

“What the –” The man on the right slides his fingers through his hair. His biceps flex, and I notice the tattoos spanning both arms. “Where the fuck did she go?” His southern accent is thick like he came from the bowels of the deep south.

“She was right here, man, I swear. I dropped her off myself.” The man on the left is slightly smaller than the other. He pulls the doors closed and looks under a dilapidated desk near the doors that I hadn’t noticed before.

Tattoos comes further into the room and turns in a slow circle, peering into the shadows like he can see into the darkness if he squints hard enough. His hands come up behind his head and he groans. “Did you actually chain her to the pipe?”

“She took a gnarly blow to the head and was unconscious, Hector! I didn’t expect her to wake up for days!” he retorts and stalks back to the light in the center of the room. Just a few more feet to the left and they will both be directly underneath where I am currently dangling.

“You have no idea what she is capable of,” Hector hisses, as he removes a black pistol from the back of his waistband and twists a silencer into place. My vision is starting to go dark around the edges as the blood continues to rush to my head and their voices take on a muffled tone. My body is quickly approaching its limits, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold this position without losing consciousness.

“She’s so tiny,” the other scoffs and folds his arms across his broad chest. “I’d like to see her do anything with those dainty little hands of hers. They’ve probably never even been around a gun before. She’s probably not even capable of pulling a trigger.” He starts pacing but stops a few inches in front of Hector. Anger flares to life in my chest and adrenaline kicks up my heart rate. I’ll show him what my dainty little hands can fit around. I’ll start with his throat. Murder. That’s what I’m capable of.

They’re both standing in the spotlight provided by the single uncovered light bulb swinging from the ceiling to my right. Perfect placement. My dizziness forgotten, I place the blade handle between my teeth and readjust my position. I grab the sharp edges of the metal rafter with both hands and swing my legs down. In one fluid motion, I have my thighs wrapped around Hector’s neck. I can feel his hot breath on my stomach through the tears in my shirt. The momentum of my body takes him straight to the ground, the gun clatteringto the floor a few feet away. I push myself off him and whirl around to face my doubting opponent.

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