She didn’t know how many beers she’d had. Four, five, maybe, in those big red cups. Light beer. Who got drunk on light beer? She was merely tipsy. Mere-lee tip-see. You’re cool to drive? Ride?
Oh yeah, I’ve had like one beer. Which wasn’t true. She’d seen him have three. Or four.
Rebecca had never ridden on a motorcycle before. Her mother would have been aghast—that was the fifty-cent word that came to her that night, aghast—at the thought. And as soon as she thought it she knew she would agree.
The bike was a big rumbling old Harley. Neither of them wore helmets. Connecticut didn’t have helmet laws for adults, surprising for a northeastern nanny state but true. A brain bucket? the guy said. Forget it. Just hold on tight.
He brought her home in one piece. Didn’t even try to take her inside. A gentleman, or maybe he had a girlfriend. His name was Jake, or Nate, or Dave—even at the time Rebecca hadn’t known. Four letters, ended in an e, all she could remember when she woke up the next morning, her head in a vise and her stomach doing backflips. Never again, she told herself.
Not the motorcycle, she had to admit she liked the motorcycle, its unavoidable carnality. The way she’d spread her legs around his waist, the thrum of the engine. If dancing was a vertical expression of a horizontal desire, riding a motorcycle was sex backward. But riding drunk, with a guy she’d just met, stupid stupid stupid.
One pleasure at a time.
So yeah, Rebecca understood, nineteen was not exactly the age of wisdom. She understood more than Kira thought. She understood something else, too. It was her fault, not Kira’s, that Kira hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her about this guy. Because probably Kira would be fine, probably she’d escape this mistake just like Rebecca had slid off that Harley without a scratch.
But if Kira didn’t… Rebecca would blame herself, now and forever.
* * *
“Becks,” Brian said, bringing her back to the sticky Spanish night. “You okay?”
Not even close. “We split up. Show her picture to every bouncer in the Gothic Quarter. You work back toward the apartment, check on Tony. I’ll go the other way.”
“You sure?”
“Cover twice the ground.”
He nodded. “Meet back here around four? We can talk to the Mansion manager?”
The question bothered her, though she wasn’t sure why. “Sure.”
They mapped the blocks. Brian wrapped his arms tightly around her. “After we find her, we’re gonna take her to the vet to get her chipped.”
“I like it.” She extracted herself from his arms. “Go.”
He went. She watched him turn a corner and disappear into the Gothic Quarter before she realized why his meet back here around four comment had bothered her. He hadn’t said, Unless we find her first.
He’d just assumed they wouldn’t.
7
Somewhere in Spain
Frigid air poured out of the car’s vents. Kira found herself shivering, a high-frequency shaking that set her handcuffs rattling. Jacques and Rodrigo didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t understand the point of the air-conditioning.
Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe there was no point.
So much she didn’t understand.
Panic real as water poured down her throat. For the second time this night she couldn’t breathe. But now she felt no opiate pleasure, only a desperate need to escape.
Impossible. She lowered her head, made herself see the stun gun Jacques held. Two choices. Scream and be punished. Or close her eyes and think. She didn’t feel drunk anymore, the fear had overwhelmed the alcohol. Maybe the spray they’d put up her nose had helped too. She didn’t know how that stuff worked. Still, reality kept sliding away from her. She wanted to tell herself she was dreaming.
She rubbed her wrists in the handcuffs. These men had hurt her already. They would hurt her more. Pretending she was dreaming wouldn’t stop them.
Pretending she was dreaming was the same as giving up.
* * *
She couldn’t count on her parents. Or the police. Or anyone. She’d better figure out how to save herself.
The biggest panic of her old life, her life BK, before kidnapping, had been the SAT, the college admissions exam. Her first practice test was dismal. The second was worse. Rebecca’s advice came down to study study study some more. Casual reassurance, not Mom’s strong suit. Kira could feel her eating disorder creeping back as the test approached. Forget college, I’ll get skinny enough to model.