Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,6

my eyes from the wound on my temple, so I close them because I can’t see through this thick pillowcase anyway.

My fingers come into contact with what feels like a small torch. Not the weapon I had in mind, but it’ll have to do.

I’m interrupted when I hear someone tsk me before I’m being dragged by my long hair which falls down my back and hurled against what feels like a cushioned bench seat. The pain in my head just amplifies. “Arms behind. Hands together.”

I shakily comply, sobbing around the gag.

He reaches around me, and when the unmistakable feel of metal snaps around my wrists, I know my freedom is dwindling by the second. He yanks at the handcuffs to ensure they are tight. They are.

My breathless panting reveals my fear, but when I feel the predatory touch at the back of my calves, I freeze. Two hands glide up and down my flesh, humming in satisfaction. He’s on his knees before me.

Oh, god.

“You pretty.” His English is broken, but I’m not lost in translation. I know what he wants.

Your looks are used for evil…my mom’s words echo loudly within. Maybe she was right after all.

“We going to have fun, and it’ll be our secret.” Next, I feel a wet tongue lap its way up the side of my calf. The smell of cigarettes and sweat has my stomach roiling.

Adrenaline takes over, and I attempt to kick him, but he’s too fast, chuckling as he pushes down on my ankles. He then begins to bind them with coarse rope. “You bad girl. Boss going to like you.”

Who is this boss, and why does he want me?

Once he tugs at my restraints, it sounds like he stands. I try to kick my feet out, but they’re tied to something hard beneath me. I’m bound. Hands and feet. And gagged. I’m not going anywhere.

“She tied up?” I almost sigh in relief when I hear the American. He was the only one who showed me an iota of mercy. The other two scare me. The American doesn’t.

“Yes, like a present. You want to unwrap her?”

I suddenly feel so objectified and dirty and attempt to recoil, but I can’t move. My heart is racing, and my breathing is uneven. The tears have long dried as I’m awaiting their next move.

“Shut the fuck up and let’s go.”

That was not the response I was expecting. The Russian laughs.

“Calm down, неудачник.”

“Fuck you. Up on deck now.” The American talks big and seems to be calling the shots. I wonder who he is?

My only clue to what’s going on is what I hear, and before the hatch closes, I’m presented with clue number one. “Be in Turkey soon. I hope you don’t get seasick, Saint.” Then the hatch closes, leaving me with the sound of the muted voices above me.

Turkey? Why are we going there? But more importantly, I just uncovered the name of my American captor…Saint.

Ironic, isn’t it, that someone who bears a name denoting nothing but holiness can deliver nothing but hell.

Bon voyage.

I awake from a nightmare so heinous, I can’t believe my brain could conjure up such images.

Blood, violence, abduction. I really need to lay off the caffeine.

As I attempt to roll over and snuggle into the warmth of my new husband, terror overcomes me because I can’t move.

No.

My eyes snap open, only to be confronted by pure blackness. I try to scream, but it dies a muffled death when I realize I’m gagged. Panic overcomes me as I attempt to move, but I can’t because I’m bound.

No.

Realization hits, and I shake my head helplessly. Passing out from shock and fatigue was a small mercy, but now that I’m awake, I have no other choice but to face this reality.

Three men kidnapped me while on my honeymoon. Two Russian. One American named Saint. I scoff at the notion. We’re on a boat headed to Turkey to see someone they call Boss? Ugh, this is adding to the throbbing in my head.

I think back to what I remember, hoping it’ll give me more clues. Flinching when I recall Saint beating Drew to a pulp has something materializing. In the pocket of his white bathrobe, I could have sworn…but I shrug it off. It’s impossible that what I thought I saw buried deep in his pocket was a cell phone because if it was, why didn’t he call the police?

Yes, he was struck down, but when I left, he was moving and moaning. He had every opportunity