Page 163 of Axel

I force myself to joke, to find my next inhale and exhale, obeying with trembling hands.

With my wrists and ankles bound and a gun in my face, I’m utterly defenseless except for my mouth.

I could scream, but it would only be swallowed by the empty night and cicadas. So I hold my fire.

When he waves his gun for me to crawl out of the backseat, fuck yes, I lift my chin. When he reaches to grab my arm, I jerk it away.

“I can walk and you can kiss my ass. Every time you touch me is every stab I’ll put in your dick.”

He laughs. Sick and twisted and amused.

“I have lots of plans for your ass tonight.” He presses thecold muzzle to my temple. “And I’ll record it. And send it to the fucking bogus email you gave me and who ever it is that you work for will pay me a million dollars not to fuck your ass again. But I will…” He smirks. “Off camera.”

I’m okay.

I’m okay.

Shuffling in my heels over broken pavement, I let him shove me toward a blistered, red door. Behind a tattered curtain, yellowed with age, a light glows inside the creepy hotel room.

“In,” he commands, so I reach and twist the rusty doorknob, opening the creaking door.

Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of mold and stench attacking my senses. It retches my stomach when I see the old bed, its bare mattress covered in gross stains.

There’s no power in here. The light that glows is from two camping lanterns he must have brought earlier.

“On the bed,” he orders, and with every ounce of strength I have, I make myself sit and not shake into a million pieces.

Do not drop.

Do not drop.

Breathe.

Stay here.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” I glance around. “It’s giving meThe Walking Dead.”

He doesn’t answer. He leans against the cinder block wall, texting something.

“I was always Team Daryl on that show. You had me at a hot, red-neck MC with a motorcycle and a crossbow. Though Rick was hot,” I chuckle, “his accent was not. We don’t sound like that. Do we? Go ahead. Say something Southern and I’ll tell you if it sounds like your mouth is full of syrup.”

Silence. Texting.

“But I gotta say. Your new limo driver look? All black? It’sway more snatched than your belt with whales on it. That thing is Moby Dickless.”

“Shut up,” he mutters before lifting his phone, its camera light practically blinding me.

“Cheese.” I smile for his kidnapping photo. “Anyway. Let’s talk about your seersucker suit. Ain’t no dick getting sucked in one of those. Sorry, but I’m keeping it real.”

I’m keeping myself sane and talking. I don’t want to slip. I don’t want to drop.

With aping, my picture’s sent. Probably to the email that Grant checks. I don’t know, but I’m sure my kings will come for me, but what if it’s too late? What if I have a seizure?

Stay here. Stay here. Breathe.

“So my advice is to stay away from nautical fashion for men.” I stay present. “Pussies go dry at sailboats and whales. Ain’t nothing wet about them. Stick with the black. Maybe mix it up with some kicky greys and sick whites and?—”

In two steps, he’s backhanding my mouth so hard he splits my bottom lip open. The taste of blood spills over my tongue while my ears ring from the impact, my head spins to the side while I force my focus on the moldy carpet.

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