Wanted (Amanda Lance) - By Amanda Lance Page 0,9

large metal object. I strained against him and continued to scream, but it was as though my actions weren’t even registering—they were hardly even an inconvenience against his brawn. Somewhere along the line, he had taken off his denim jacket, and I understood now why he wore it. Underneath he had been wearing a holster with two small-caliber handguns—something I wouldn’t have noticed in the rest stop with the jacket on. Without the collar of the jacket there to obscure it, I could see the lines of a large tattoo on the right side of his neck, something I imagined he was also trying to hide.

Unexpectedly, he reached out a hand toward my face. So here it was. He’d strangle me to death with one hand, or maybe he’d smother me. Maybe it was shock setting in, but, I wasn’t as afraid as I should have been. I tried remembering the steps of grief. Had I bypassed those first four stages and gone straight to acceptance? I closed my eyes and tried to think of something nice, maybe some place far away.

Yet his hand didn’t reach out to hurt me as I predicted. Instead, it brushed the falls of hair from my face, even attempted to place several of the more stubborn strands behind my left ear.

I don’t know why I expected his face to be different. I just did. He was a villain now, after all. He had abducted me against my will and would probably kill me before the hour was through. But still, his face was as ruggedly handsome as it had been when I first saw him. All of the features were the same, even more enhanced now I could examine them at close range with him kneeling next to me. His expression changed as he took off his oversized sunglasses—another gesture I hadn’t expected. I could see very clearly now the fresh bruise forming between his eyes and the slight swell of his nose. Had I done that? Good, I decided. I was glad I’d hurt him—even if it had given me a splitting headache.

We glared at each other for moments that had no end. His stare was making me angry. If he was going to kill me, why not just get it over with? I hardly wanted to be ogled or have a staring contest. Meanwhile, I ran through the inventory list of known colors in my head to try and place the palette of his irises. He reached out once more and again I failed to flinch away, but this time his thumb touched my face, pulling away an eyelash that had been caked on by my tears. Briefly, I wondered if it had been with me since the rest stop.

A voice called out from somewhere in the house, pulling him away from some thought I couldn’t read. He stood up, but only for a second, because when he looked back down at me, he made sure to secure the bungees to what I now recognized as an old radiator.

“Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you.” His voice was a whisper and he looked over his shoulder as though we were having an intimate conversation he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Just keep quiet.”

I was so angry I would have spit in his face if I could have.

He stepped out of the room with four quick strides. As soon as I was somewhat confident he was gone, I went back to thrashing against the bungees, only now that I had more room to work with, I scooted my legs against the radiator and pushed against them for leverage. I shoved against the cord with everything I had, but only felt the material gnawing against my skin. In frustration, I threw my bound hands against the radiator, instantly regretting it. The metal made my hands ache, and the sudden pain spread all the way up to my elbows. It forced me to refocus and take in my surroundings.

Below me, I felt the grime of the linoleum floor. I imagined it had probably been yellow at one point. Now, however, it was a monotone of brownish-grays, covered in an array of large, male shoe prints. I supposed I was in what used to be a kitchen nook of sorts, although it was difficult to tell, as the plastic sections that used to be pantries had been taken from their hinges and were lying in scattered pieces on broken sections of countertop. Fixtures, and what I guessed

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