me back against a shelf of bottles and jugs. The cuffs clanged against the metal of the shelf and something that felt like a broom handle clattered sideways, smacking me on the head as it fell.
The hand moved from my shoulder to my face and ripped the blindfold off. I blinked, staring up at the figure crouched in front of me, trying to distinguish his features. The guy—I was pretty sure it was a guy—was silhouetted by the light shining in from the hallway. The light needled my eyes, and my vision swam.
He was dressed all in black, and when he turned his head to glance back out at the hall, I made out a rough beard, a nose that looked like it had been broken three times, and a heavy brow—a combination of features that practically screamed ‘evil henchman.’
I almost felt like I should compliment the guy on finding a line of work that fit his face so well, and a hysterical giggle escaped me.
Well, tried to escape. It only made it as far as the gag, which still tasted rotten and sulfurous and turned my stomach. But the man must have heard something because he looked at me, and then smacked me across the cheek for good measure.
“You gonna behave if I take this off you?” he asked, tugging on the gag a little.
I nodded frantically. As the guy worked on loosening the gag, I did my best to scan my surroundings in greater detail, looking for some way of getting free. The best thing I could come up with was pouring bleach into his eyes, or at least bashing him over the head with a bottle. But both of those would require the use of my hands, which were currently cramping, still shoved against the shelf behind me.
I heaved a sigh of relief as soon as the gag came loose, and then, mad at myself for being so docile, demanded, “Who the hell are you? What do you think you’re—”
A second smack cut me off, and I fought tears. I probably should have expected that. In movies, the hero could always laugh when he got beat up, and say something snarky to prove how tough he was. But I was no hero.
“No talking,” the man snapped. He reached behind him and grabbed a bottle of some strange, Nordic sports drink, and unscrewed the cap. “Open up.”
I complied, not even ashamed of how compliant I was being right then because holy shit, I was parched. I opened as wide as I could, swallowing as quickly as I was able, and of course my brain took the opportunity to point out that it was a good thing I’d had so much practice opening wide and swallowing over the years, which prompted a completely inappropriate laugh, which made me splutter and spray Icelandic Gatorade everywhere.
The guy jerked the bottle away and raised his fist. “You gonna keep it together, or do you want a punch? I’m supposed to keep you in one piece, but I don’t think anyone will care if you’re missing a tooth…or twelve.”
I elected not to make a joke about fisting at that point, which I thought was fairly mature of me, and reminded my stupid, inappropriate brain that this was not porn, and pissing this guy off was not going to lead to fun, sexy times for anyone.
Or at least not for me. To tell the truth, this dude kind of looked like he might get off on violence. But that wasn’t a theory I felt the need to test personally.
“I’m sorry,” I said, doing my best to sound harmless. “I just—I can’t—if I could hold the bottle, it would be easier.”
The guy considered this, and after a long moment, nodded. To my astonishment, he felt at his waist for a keyring and then bent me forward so he could undo my cuffs. Not the smartest thing to do, but maybe all his developmental hormones had been spent making his ham-hock fists and hadn’t left much for his brain.
What he should have done was re-cuff my hands in front, giving me enough mobility to hold the bottle but not to do anything else. What he actually did was let the cuffs fall to the ground behind me, and then caught both of my wrists in one of his own massive hands. He used the other to place the bottle between my palms.
“Drink,” he said, his voice cold.
I considered trying to wriggle free, but decided that for