Page 4 of Love Galaxy

“That won’t work,” I tell his secretary, looking around the office for the hidden cameras. I should’ve guessed filming would start right away. “If you were hoping to whisk me away to a secret destination and film my surprise, you probably should’ve read the fine print of my medical report. I’m resistant to anesthetic.” Which I found out the hard way a few years ago when my dentist tried removing my wisdom teeth. To this day, I’ve got all my teeth and a healthy fear of dentists.

“I’d be happy to pretend though,” I reassure them. “I think I’m a pretty good actor.” I learned from the best how to manipulate the truth to suit myself. And isn’t that what reality TV is all about—truths that have been manipulated for the benefit of telling a more entertaining story? It’ll be like my old job, working as a politician’s staffer. Only this time I’mdetermined to use the system for my own advantage and not end up as someone’s scapegoat.

“Akh.” Mr. Smith wrinkles his nose. “Get on with it, Chloe. We don’t have all day.”

“Yes, sir.” Chloe picks up the glass paperweight.

Pain erupts through my head, and everything goes dark.

Chapter Three

Briar

Iwake to a pounding headache and an unfamiliar sight. I’m not at home. I’m not even in the lawyer’s office. Instead, I’m lying in some sort of pallet-like thing, without a roof but with plastic walls a foot-and-a-half deep that curve gently inwards and hug my arms and legs.

With shaking fingers, I pull the IV needle out of my forearm. A drop of clear liquid clings to my skin. They drugged me? Seriously! I do not remember agreeing to that.

I try sitting up and find that I’m not lying down after all but that the pallet is vertical. Staying still, I was kept snugly in place. Moving, I easily fall forward, and I hit the ground on all fours, gasping as fresh pain shoots through my skull, sending black spots across my vision.

It feels like someone’s hit me, and when I touch a hand to the back of my head, I find something has matted my hair together. My fingers come away coated in flakes of dried blood, and I stare at my shaking hand as I try to think around the pounding of my headache and make sense of everything that’s happened.

Surely I wasn’tactuallyattacked. Surely Mr. Smith’s secretary didn’tactuallydeck me with the paperweight. Things like that don’t happen in real life.

Do they?

Slowly, with black spots threatening my vision, I sit back on my heels and search for answers in the surrounding space. The room’s small, about the size of the kitchenette in my crappy studio apartment. My pallet’s set into one wall, and beside it is a complicated-looking machine with all sorts of buttons and a touch-screen tablet that’s flashing words in a language I can’t read. In the wall opposite is a door. Closed, of course. While set into the remaining two walls are two more vertical pallets, connected to two more machines.

Each pallet holds a woman.

Heart hammering, I struggle to my feet. My head swims, and I press a hand to my mouth in an attempt to not be sick.

They’re both about my age and dressed to impress in fancy winter coats and fur-lined boots. They look to be sleeping, except for the plastic tubes that’ve been pushed down their throats and the needles in their arms. The tubes and needles are connected to their machines, and I hover over one screen, trying to work out which buttons to press to set them free. Because, fucking hell, we’ve been kidnapped!

Literallykidnapped!

For reality TV? Or was that all a ruse to lure us into Mr. Smith’s office? Like the biggest, stupidest idiot in the entire world, I didn’t tell anyone where I was or that I’d signed a contract.

The contract— I try to remember what it said, but aside from reading the first few lines, I’d skimmed the following pages, too worried about my own problems to spend any amount of time thinking about legalities. What if I’d signed something to say I was fine being kidnapped?

Is that even possible?

The strange words on the touch screen all blur together. It’s like my eyes can’t focus properly thanks to the lump on the back of my head. I’ve never been concussed before, but this has got to be what’s wrong with me. Concussed, kidnapped and fuck knows where.

For a second, I contemplate pulling the tubes out of their mouths, because surely whatever is keeping them unconscious is being pumped into their bodies via the tubes. But I’m not a doctor. I’m probably not even thinking clearly, and there’s no way I want to risk hurting them.

Why didn’t I have a tube?

Had I been as resistant to whatever those tubes are filled with as I am resistant to anesthesia? Or had our kidnappers not even bothered trying? Maybe they’d assumed I’d be unconscious for longer. Or, worse, maybe they didn’t care.

I rub my forearm, where the IV had been, which is marked by a circular bruise about the size of a penny. Had the drip just been keeping me hydrated, or was it something more sinister?

Get help.That’s what I’ve got to do. Call for the police and an ambulance. I pat my pockets, but they’re empty, and there’s no sign of my cellphone or purse in the tiny room.

On unsteady feet, I walk toward the closed door. As if sensing my approach, it slides open. I swear my heart leaps into my throat, but there’s nobody on the other side, just an empty passageway.

I creep down the corridor, hoping to find the way out before anyone finds me. The next door opens as I pass, but there’s nobody to see me, nobody to scream about how a prisoner has escaped, so I risk another glance inside. It’s one of those dressing rooms you see backstage, with three places to sit and lights around a wall of mirrors. There are curling irons and hairdryers as well as a whole array of makeup laid out before the chairs like a fancy feast.

The next room is one large walk-in closet, sectioned into three areas and each with a name. Harlee’s clothes are all blue. Lydia’s are all pink, evidently to match her dyed hair.

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