Page 2 of Pounded in the Patch
The rope around my wrists is thick and rough—probably the kind serial killers use in movies. Whoever did this knows what they're doing. The knots are tight, too.
The vehicle drives like it’s expensive. And the leather seats probably cost more than I make in a month. This isn't some beat-up van or stolen car. This is someone with money, someone with resources.
The mafia?
Could it be? Fuck.
I strain my ears, trying to catch any sound that might give me a clue about where we're going. No radio. No voices. No GPS giving directions. Just the steady hum of the engine and the occasional crack of a rock being kicked up beneath the car. The silence from the large male in the driver's seat is the most terrifying part of it all.
Who are you?I want to scream.What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?
But I keep my mouth shut, because my gut is telling me that staying quiet is safer right now. Let him think I'm still unconscious. Maybe I can learn something that will help me escape. Maybe I can come up with a plan before he realizes I'm awake.
Escape.
How the fuck am I supposed to escape when I'm tied up in the back of a moving car?
I test the bonds around my wrists again, but the rope is unforgiving, with no give in the knots. They’ve done this before—there's no slack, no loose ends to work with, no hope of slipping free.
How many women has he done this to before me?
I try to push the thought away, but it lingers like a poison in my mind, festering and spreading with each passing second. Am I just the latest in a series? Is there some pattern I fit, some type he prefers?
The car takes a turn, and I slide across the seat, my shoulder bumping against the door with a thud. I look down as I winceand try to hold back a gasp, and I’m suddenly aware of what I'm wearing—my sexy vampire costume from the office Halloween party.
That's right. I’m the office slut.
The memory comes rushing back. I went all out this year, wearing a fitted black corset with intricate lace details, a short black skirt, thigh-high boots, and dramatic vampire makeup complete with fake blood effects and plastic fangs. I'd spent an hour perfecting the blood splatter pattern on my throat and décolletage, wanting to look authentically undead.
If it's still Friday night, I won't be missed until Monday morning when I don't show up for work.
Three days.
No one will even know I'm gone for three fucking days.
My throat closes up so tightly I can barely breathe. Three days is an eternity. Three days is enough time for... for whatever sick plans this psychopath has in mind.
Don't think about it. Don't let your imagination run wild.
But it's too late. My mind is already spinning through possibilities, each one worse than the last. Images from every crime drama I've ever watched, every true crime podcast I've ever listened to, every news story about women who disappeared and were found days or weeks later…
Stop it. Stop it right now. You're going to live through this
Think about solutions, not problems.
Maybe I can reason with him. Maybe I can make him see that this isn't worth the risk.
Maybe I can convince him to let me go. I could try to pay him. Friday was payday. I should have an entire paycheck in my bank account, minus the $7 I spent on coffee before work and the $26 I spent on a salad and mozzarella sticks for lunch.
I know how naive it sounds. Someone who's willing to kidnap a woman isn't going to be swayed by one measly little paycheck, especially when they drive a carthisnice. But what else do I have? Brute force is impossible and escape is currently out of the question.
My mind. My body. They’re all I have left.
Can I fuck my way out of this?
Or can I outsmart him?
The car slows slightly, and I feel us turn off one dirty road and onto another, rougher road. Gravel pings against the undercarriage while the driver maneuvers large dips. The ride becomes bumpier, more jarring, and I have to fight to keep my position on the seat.
