for miles in any direction and never find help. I could die out here. This place looks like it’s been closed for some time. I don’t even know if there is food or water here.
My helplessness mounts, and I push it down. I can’t think like that. First things first.
I have the perfect excuse for him to uncuff me. My mouth is dry as dust from the rag there. The question is, will he care?
I make a muffled noise, trying to get the guy’s attention.
He stops whistling for an instant, but then starts up again. He takes a phone from his pocket. A few seconds later, a strange series of dings and plonking sounds reach my ears.
The sounds are coming from his phone. I roll my eyes and drop my head back. I know those sounds. They’re the kind video games make. Porter’s boys used to play games like that on their computers, one of the few things my previous employers let their kids do online.
Again, I make a noise through the gag, more desperate.
He’s humming now, but he stops. There’s a clack as he sets the phone on the island. He jumps down, regarding me with suspicion. I jerk my head.
He sighs and walks over, squatting in front of me. He unties the cloth from my head and pulls out the gag. I move my jaw around, working moisture into my mouth.
“Wa…” I clear my throat, not faking the way my voice croaks in my dry throat. “Water.”
“Thirst is going to be the least of your worries in a few minutes. Just sit tight.” He starts to replace the gag.
“Wait. Can you… please leave that off?” I pretend to be winded, huffing. “It’s hard to breath with the rag in. I won’t scream. I promise.”
If I’m going to convince this guy to uncuff me, I need to get him talking, get his guard down, and I can’t do that while I’m gagged.
He watches me with a calculating look. Then he shrugs, apparently deciding that a dead captive is of no use to the Bastards. “Whatever. Just keep your mouth shut.”
“Thank you.”
He ignores my words and walks back toward the other end of the island.
Several times I try to get him to let me use the restroom, but he refuses. I don’t have to go; he either realizes it’s a ploy to get him to uncuff me, or he doesn’t care. I try for food, and he ignores me. He pockets his phone and goes to the window, looking out, clearly on edge. Whomever he’s expecting must be late.
The guy saunters over to the jukebox. Still whistling, he digs into his pockets. There’s a clinking noise of coins dropping. He presses a few buttons.
A song plays, a man’s deep, sultry voice crooning through the room.
“I’ve got you under my skin…”
The song is vaguely familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t remember where I heard it before. I can tell it’s also very old. The kidnapper dances around, humming along.
What in the world? Considering the situation, hearing such a slow, sappy ballad seems horribly out of place and creepy. The guy has me cuffed and held prisoner, and he’s dancing around as if he’s at some sort of gala. What’s with this dude?
“I’ve got you under my skin…” That incredibly deep, honeyed voice continues. I’d love hearing his voice if the man playing it didn’t freak me out so much. And if the half-formed memory of my having heard it before didn’t unsettle me.
“I’ve got you under my skinnnnn…” The song stutters, and the jukebox winds down like a dying battery. The guy swears at it and kicks it a few times, but the song stops, and the thing just dies.
“Fucking thing ate my money,” he spits, coming back to the island and glaring at me as if I’m responsible for the jukebox’s thievery. “You see that? The son of a bitch ate my coins.”
This guy’s not giving me much to work with. And I’m starting to get the feeling that he’s slightly unhinged.
Not sure what to say or how to handle him, I watch him, remaining silent. As he lights up a smoke, I notice his tattoos, able to see them clearly for the first time. They cover the length of his arms, disappearing under the short sleeves of his dark tee. A menacing snake travels from one elbow to his wrist, the head of a cobra drawn in intricate detail.