“I can’t talk about this with you. Please, just . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Trix.” A single tear races down his cheek.
Shit, this is it. “It’s okay. I understand.” And I do. He’s protecting someone he loves. I’d do the same thing. “I’m . . . I’m not mad at you. You did what you had to do.” My last words are spoken on a whisper.
I need to call someone. 911. Without being too obvious, I walk my fingers toward my clutch that’s between us on the center console. If I could just get to my phone, I might—
“They took your phone.”
All the air rushes from my lungs. “Are they going to kill me?”
“They said no one would get hurt.” There’s doubt in his voice.
So that’s it. I’m completely at the mercy of God knows who.
That leaves me with only one thing to do.
I close my eyes and dip my chin.
Dear Father in heaven . . . help me.
“Call him.” Hatch tosses me my cell then pulls a chair up so close his knees touch the bed.
“Tell me where we are so he can pick me up, and I will.” After a short drive out of town, Santos pulled over to blindfold and handcuff me. He apologized the entire time, and I was done not being mad at him.
Now I’m furious.
I would’ve told him as much, but after one last apology, he left me in the car alone until I was joined by someone else. The person didn’t speak, but I could tell by the smell of his cologne it wasn’t Santos. My first response was to be terrified. Santos would kidnap me to save his wife, but he’d never really hurt me. I believed that with every ounce of my being.
Now that he was gone, I was in trouble.
And as much as I should sob and beg, I can’t. I’m way too angry for that.
I throw my phone on the scratchy polyester comforter. My shoulder aches from being handcuffed by one arm to the bed. Blackout curtains and only a single crappy lamp make it impossible to see anything that would identify where I am other than a shitty motel room.
Hatch growls and shoves my phone back into my hand. “Don’t fuck with me, Trix. You’re lucky you’re still breathin’. Call him now. Break shit off with him. Tell him whatever he needs to hear to know you’re safe but you’re movin’ on.”
I lean toward him until the muscles in my locked-up arm pull tight. “Fuck you!”
He jumps from his seat and presses the barrel of his gun to my temple. “You know how easy it would be to end you right here? Wrap your dead body up in this piece of shit bedding? Cost us nothing more than the price of replacing a comforter.”
I swallow back the urge to cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Why are you doing this?” Human trafficking, prostitution, plain ole sick pleasure, all the reasons have filtered through my head, but none of them seem like Hatch.
How well do you really know him?
“Tell me why you’re doing this to me.”
“Pick up the fucking phone.”
I turn my head so that the barrel is now pressing into my forehead. Eyes fixed to his, I press in, making the gun dig so deep it’s bound to leave a bruise. “Why are you doing this, Hatch?”
An emotion flashes across his eyes, something akin to fear mixed with regret, but he pushes it back. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls something out, and drops it on my lap.
I blink down at the small piece of paper. A photograph with a watermark on the back. My pulse throbs in my throat. Is that . . .? I flip it over and slam my lips closed to avoid giving away a gasping response.
“You’ve been playin’ me.” Hatch punctuates his words with a shove of his gun.
“I don’t know what you’re talking ab—”
He grabs my chin and jerks my face to his. “Don’t fucking lie to me. You think I’m stupid? Think I don’t see the family resemblance. Shit, Trix.”
I try to rip my head from his grip, but he won’t let me, so I close my eyes.
“Lookin’ for information, huh? Gotta say loved the fact that you did that using your mouth and your pussy. No man with a dick n’ balls would pass up that kinda opportunity.”