Take Me in the Dark (10 page)

Then, off to the side, I see another car with three large men waiting outside of it. And instead of turning around and taking a different route, we drive towards it.

Nervous energy spikes in me as contradictory thoughts swirl in my mind, growing thicker the closer we get.
You have no chance. You don’t know until you try. It’s too late to try—trying will only make it worse. You can’t stop fighting; even when it’s hopeless, you still have to fight.

I’m still thinking these things as the limo stops next to the car and the three men walk to
my
passenger door.

I grip Dolly’s fan as if it were a knife, but I know deep down inside that it isn’t a knife and even if I had a knife it wouldn’t help me.

The driver presses a button and my door unlocks.

Oh shit. This is really happening.

The door opens.

It’s over. I’m never getting out of this.

A man leans in, reaching for me with large hands. His shoulders are too wide and the back of his neck too thick, and his black hair is so short I can see his scalp.

It doesn’t matter. I have no choice.

I don’t think, just act, throwing my cello at him as if the force of it will bring all him and the rest of the men behind him down like dominoes.

The man’s eyes widen, giving me false hope, but at the last moment he catches it. He winces as his wrist slams into the door frame.

At least my momentum counted for something. The man grits his teeth, trying to push himself off the door but is unable to keep his footing. His arms shake as he pushes on the cello, trying to steer me back. My own grip starts to slip.

Don’t give up. You’re so close.

There’s a small opening between him and the door. Maybe I can burst through it. Maybe, once out, I can run.

You can’t outrun three men in heels, Laura.

Panic pushes down that voice, refusing to let me believe it. I bend my knees and launch myself forward, grunting as I slam into the man in an attempt to rush past.

Things don’t go well from there. Two large arms slide around my stomach. I kick at the man’s shins as he yanks me back. My cello slips from my hands.

I scratch and scream and beat the man’s beefy forearms with my elbows. My heels hit his thighs, but each strike just makes him hold onto me tighter as he pushes me against the limo.

I continue to fight even though I know it’s stupid. I scream even though I know no one will hear. The last thing I see is the driver is leaning against the hood again, smoking and looking off into the distance in the same position he was in the first time I saw him, before a burlap sack slips over my head.

They secured the sack around my head, cuffed my hands behind my back, and put me in the trunk of that little car and started driving. I don’t know how much time passed. It felt like hours. Days, even. I tried counting seconds, and then my breaths, but my heart was beating so fast that after a few minutes any order I tried to create disintegrated into panic.

I remember hearing once, long, long ago, that if you were ever stuck in the trunk of the car you should kick out the tail lights or look for an emergency latch. My hands sifted through the dark, looking for something, anything, finding only hard, impenetrable contours. And when I realized that was all I’d ever find I kicked randomly until my muscles ached and cramped and I realized that I was using up whatever oxygen was in the trunk and unless I settled down I would pass out.

It was hard being so still. Feeling the motor vibrating under my cheek. Knowing that I could do nothing but wait. The burlap bag stuck to my wet cheeks, itching like hell, smelling like dust and dirt and desperation.

And then the car stopped. And I whimpered, wishing I could stay in that small, dark space forever, because I knew that whatever was out there was insurmountably worse.

I was right.

They ripped me from my claustrophobic sanctuary, and I screamed, not from fear or help, but because their grip was so hard. The air was so cold that my first inhale shocked my lungs.

And then I fought blindly. Stupidly. Pathetically. Wild delusions raced through my mind. I thought, maybe, my determination could overpower them. I imagined throwing them all to the ground and running away, so fast they nor anyone else would be able to follow me.

By the time they got me to the room, I was too tired to move. My strength had abandoned me before we’d finished inching up the stairs. My voice was so hoarse from screaming that I couldn’t do anything but whimper.

They set me down on a chair and sat like a rag doll. I think that bothers me the most—that the body, at some point, stops struggling. That the mind goes somewhat blank in preparation for enduring whatever comes next.

After tying me up again, they left, leaving the sack over my head.

I sat. And I sat. As I waited for only God knew what. Still counting seconds. Counting breaths. Trying to create some sort of order that wouldn’t feed my terror. And I tried, more than anything, to not think of all the things that might happen to me. I tried to make my mind as blank as a Zen master’s. I thought of deserts and piles of rocks and perfectly manicured shrubbery—anything to try to convince myself that this was all an illusion.

But I couldn’t, because nothing could make me forget that it was just me, alone and insignificant and trapped in this room. I wasn’t a master of anything. Not Zen, and certainly not my own fate. And nothing could prevent me from replaying the horrific series of events that led me here and pretending I’d done just one thing differently. That I’d gone to the after party instead of going home. That I’d networked all night as Professor Cade would have liked. That my greatest concern was being bothered by that creepy man.

I’m here. It didn’t happen
, I tell myself as my mind taunts me with images of buffet tables overflowing with muffins and coffee and the kind smiles of other performers.

I think of my friends waiting up for a phone call I’m not going to make. Of Dolly pacing the room, getting angry. Of Cassie trying to calm her down though she’s equally angry. Of Anna getting more and more panicked. I wonder if they know I’m missing yet. If anyone’s looking for me. Dolly will be so upset when she realizes that I’m not neglecting them, but gone.

I love them so much. I’m probably never going to see them again.

I’m thinking of these things—the conversations I might have had, the food I might have tasted, my best friends—when the door opens.

My head whips up even though I can’t see.

The person steps forward.

My breathing grows louder and faster. My teeth chatter. I clench the muscles in my stomach and strain against my binds. I’m so scared that I barely notice that such swift, uncalculating movements aggravate my bruises.

The person notices this. He has to. Yet he keeps advancing at the same pace until he’s in front of me.

The person leans over and unties the burlap sack gently. Tenderly. It’s so different from what I expect that I shiver.

The sack scrapes my nose as he pulls it from my head.

Light shoots into my eyes, blinding me. I cringe and hunch over, blinking, trying to force them to adjust.

Slowly, the floor comes into my view. It’s cement. Grey as a dreary winter sky. Like pencil lead and morgue tables. Like a warehouse floor.

My arms shake. Did they drive around the same warehouse in circles for hours and hours and hours just to fuck with me? Or am I in another warehouse in some other part of the country?

The person tilts up my chin.

Something silver flashes. Momentarily, I’m blinded again.
Look away
, some part of me pleads.
You shouldn’t look straight on at things that can hurt you
. But I don’t listen. I raise my head only to meet a pair of cold blue eyes.

My body turns to ice.

It’s him.

No, it can’t be him.

A new despair fills me. I realize it wouldn’t have mattered what I did—if I’d gone to the party or not, if I’d socialized and networked or not—any route I could have taken would have led me here.

To him.

His cruel, cold eyes assess me. I wonder what he sees. It feels like too much. I knew it when I first noticed him at the Guchenberg and felt his gaze on the back of my neck like a hand encased in latex gloves. I knew it when he’d cornered me on the yacht, and his interest conjured up all sorts of things inside me my body never wanted to express.

His face is impassive as he studies me—his blue eyes impenetrable. He looks even less kind than the first time I saw him, if that’s possible.

“You struggled a lot.”

My body shakes harder.
What the fuck did you think I’d do?
I want to scream again, but I don’t. My breath stutters, drags in deep and ugly. I’m heaving. My eyes begin to water.

Don’t you dare cry, Laura. Don’t you dare cry.
But I can’t stop the cold, sticky shame streaming down my cheeks.

He glances away, but not before an emotion flickers across his eyes. Anger, perhaps—or maybe fear. Are my silent tears making him uncomfortable?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.

There isn’t a single part of me that believes that. “Why are you doing this to me?” I probably should have asked something else first—something that seemed less pathetic—but it was all I could think of as I looked up into his face.

He looks at me again with an intensity that makes me go completely still. “Because you’re here.”

What?
“That makes no sense.”

“The first time I saw you, I thought it was a coincidence. I didn’t get close enough to really look at you. And you were with someone. I thought, maybe, I could let it go.” His eyes grow darker. “But here you are again.”

Um, I’m here because you brought me here. I really don’t want to be here. Really, really, really, really.
“I can go. I can make sure I don’t see you again.” I hope my sniveling tone makes me unappealing. I’d throw up, maybe, if I wasn’t so scared.

His grip tightens on my chin. “Can you make that promise?”

“Yes. I won’t tell anyone about this. I promise. I won’t—” I choke on my sob. He continues to hold up my head as saliva slips down my chin and onto his hands. “I promise I’ll leave. I’ll make sure you never see me again. Never hear from me again.”

“And what if I don’t that?”

A jolt of fear rips through me. “I don’t understand.”

His expression turns hard. Irritated.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I whisper. “I’m just a musician. I have no idea who you are and I don’t want to. Just let me go.”

Seconds pass, then minutes. His breaths deepen and slow as mine become increasingly erratic. “What’s your name?” he asks.

I swallow. My tongue recoils in my throat.

“I’ll find out soon enough, but I’d like it if you told me.”

“I’m just a girl,” I tell him. “Nobody.”

“I’d still like to know.”

My chin trembles. Does it really matter if I tell him? He has my purse somewhere. It’s not like he can’t look inside it. “Laura,” I whisper.

If that name means anything to him, he doesn’t show it. “How old are you, Laura? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Twenty-one.”

“You look younger.” His features soften, or maybe I’m just searching for softness—for something human I can appeal to—but suddenly he looks very close to my age. There are no wrinkles on his face. No deep lines. The pores on the bridge of his nose are small. It’s just his weariness that makes him look so old—and maybe, also, his precision. Young people don’t seem so calculating or driven.

Or powerful.

“You don’t look so old yourself,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

The silence and his unflinching gaze break me. “What are you going to do to me?”

“That depends on who you are.”

“What do you mean who I am? I just told you, I’m a musician. I was asked to play at the charity concert. I’m nobody.”

“We’ll see.” That’s all I get. We fall into more silence. My vision fills with those horrible eyes I can’t look away from.

“Please. This has to be some sort of misunderstanding,” I reason.

“I don’t think there’s been a misunderstanding.” His voice is distant, as if he isn’t really here with me in this room. His eyes look at me as if they don’t see me—as if he’s trapped in some vision only he can see. “I found you,” he whispers, drawing the tip of his finger across my throat. My body reacts as if it were a knife.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter who you are. Someone knows me more than I’d like them to.”

His closeness is intolerable. I grit my teeth.
Get away. Get the fuck away. You’re rambling and crazy and I hate this.
But you can’t say confrontational things like that to someone like him when they’ve got you tied up. I settle on, “I don’t understand.”

“Then I feel sorry for you. You’re either someone’s pawn, or extremely unlucky. Either way, I’m going to find out.”

“And then what?” I blurt out.

He drops his hand until his fingers rest on my collarbone.

“And then what?” I repeat. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“And you believe that?”

It feels like he just sucked all the oxygen from the room. My answer swirls in my mind, merging with panic.
Yes. I believed it because I wanted it to be true. Because I am a fool.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispers. “But I won’t let you go either.”

What do you mean you won’t let me go? I want to scream, but he’s touching my face again. His hands burn me—burn away everything—until all that’s left is a mesmerizing fear.

“You sound so beautiful when you sing. Like you’re crying.” He presses his fingers into my cheeks, rubbing my tears into my skin. “Now that I’ve found you, I can’t let you go.”