Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  Shit. Breanne! Where is she?

  To my left someone coughs and I realize I’m not alone. I cock my head in that direction and squint with my good eye. Through the darkness and blurred vision I am able to make out the man with the tattoos double knotting a rope restraint around Breanne's wrists. He drags a chair closer to him and shoves her into it. From his back pocket he pulls out what I think is more rope. Crouching in front of her he grabs her left ankle and places it next to the chair leg and forcefully ties them together. He moves to her right ankle and she tenses up.

  “Move your leg or I’ll do it for you,” the tattooed man warns. I don’t need my sight to know that she won’t give this guy the satisfaction of cooperating. “Have it your way,” he cautions her.

  At this angle his body is blocking most of hers from my view. What I can see is that she is struggling. What the fuck is going on? He mutters something under his breath and moves just enough to the side for me to watch him wedge his shoulder between her knees while he pulls on her right leg. For a small woman she is putting up a good fight, which is clearly pissing this guy off. He pushes back on his heels abruptly and stands.

  “Listen you fucking priss I’m not trying to get into your pants,” he leans down only inches from her face. “Move your fucking leg now,” he commands. Breanne stares back at him and doesn’t move. He leans closer so their foreheads are practically touching. “I was instructed not to kill you yet, but don’t think that I won’t.”

  Breanne pushes him with her tethered hands and spits in his face.

  “Uh, you fucking cunt,” he bellows, then backhands her across the face.

  Furry builds inside me. Without thinking it through, I begin to writhe and shout as many expletives as I can think of, but all that is audible is an unintelligible roar due to the duct tape. The tattooed man turns and watches me impassively. I bang my handcuffs against the chair but my rant only amuses him.

  “Oh good, you’re awake,” he says, shifting my hat that he’s wearing backwards. “Just in time to watch your latest floosy die.”

  He bends to pick up a roll of duct tape from the floor, ripping a small piece and pressing it over Breanne’s mouth. Stepping back he pulls a gun from the back of his pants. He removes the safety and slow raises his gun, aimed at Breanne’s head. My eyes widen in horror. How the hell can I stop him? I try like hell to loosen my legs and free my hands but it's no use. I scream so loud that my throat burns. The metal cuffs dig into the skin on my wrists but I don't care - it's the only thing that makes me feel like I'm doing something for her. I flail so hard in my chair, screaming and shaking the chair back and forth, that my chair tips over and I face plant on the ground.

  I am momentarily sidetracked by pain but the wicked laugh of this asshole re-energizes me. Groaning, I press hard into the ground through the toe of my shoes and slightly inch forward. I do this again and again and again, one inch at a time. I glance up at Breanne who is eying me carefully – the gun still pointed at her head. I have no plan. Maybe my plan is to distract him. Maybe he’ll shoot me first. Maybe she’ll be able to tell by my sacrifice how I feel but will never be able to tell her – that I’m falling for her. This is so fucking unfair.

  A primal growl escapes from my lungs and lodges in the back of my throat while warm tears prick my eyes. In my twenty-eight years I have never felt this way. It’s insane. It doesn’t seem possible to feel this way for someone after so little time, but I do. I’m not falling. I’ve already fallen. I love her. I fucking love her. I have never wanted anything more than I want to have a future with her. I’ve only known her for a few days yet she’s changed my perspective on everything. I want everything with her to be right. I want to take care of her and spoil her. I want to enjoy little moments. I want holidays with both of our families. I want to grow old and grey together. I want to be the kind of man she deserves. I want time.

  Being tied to this chair and unable to protect her, I have never felt like less of a man. I would do anything for this woman and yet I can’t do anything about it. I instantly regret the silence of our drive here. I should have explained why I acted the way I did in the barn. I was worried that I’d upset her or she’d reject me. But I’d welcome either of those reactions to her not knowing how I feel.

  "What’s that, Drew? I couldn’t understand you," the man mocks. He walks towards me and kneels on one leg before me. “What are you trying to do? Save her?” he asks looking me square in the eyes and taps me on the head with his gun. Laughing to himself, he stands and takes a few steps backwards. “You can’t save her! Look at you, you can’t even save yourself!” he proclaims, and then kicks me in the gut like he’s punting a soccer ball.

  I groan and cough in agony. My body tries to coil into a ball but my restraints make it impossible. I think he may have broken a few of my ribs but I can’t focus on that. He’s making his way back to Breanne with the gun pointed at her leg. Blind with determination I continue pushing forward. I can’t lie here and watch our lives be ripped away before we’ve even had a chance.

  “What’s it going to be?” he asks her, ignoring me. “Are you going to move your leg now or should I shoot you and force you to watch me kill him for his pathetic attempt to rescue you?”

  She quickly moves her right leg and he grins in victory. “Maybe I should try to get in your pants,” he says, pushing her legs further apart than necessary. “You must be good if lover boy gets this worked up about someone else touching you,” he says, running his hands slowly down her leg.

  Fury ripples through my body to the point of pain at the sight of this prick’s hands on her. I cry out in desperation as loud as possible, trying to distract him. At this point I can’t tell if it’s tears, sweat or blood that’s running down my face. It hurts like hell to breath but I don’t fucking care. All I can think about is beating the shit out of him for hurting her. If given the chance I would kill him with my bare hands.

  His hands push back up the insides of her legs, stopping at the apex of her thighs. He watches me as he strokes one of his thumbs over her center and licks his lips. I snarl through gritted teeth while Breanne attempts to move back further in her chair.

  “Too bad we don’t have time,” he says, disappointed.

  I’m still screaming with everything I have left when he bends down and removes the rope from his pocket and begins tying her ankle to the chair leg. Breanne and I look at each other briefly before she looks away with a pained expression. This is it, I think. We aren’t going to make it home. Maybe he won’t kill us this minute, but he will soon. We made it this far and now we’re going to die. They are going to torture us and kill us and I’ll never again know the feeling of having her in my arms. Part of me thinks I should be happy that I even got the chance, but I can’t be. I feel so gypped. I choke back the bile rising up my throat and drop my head against the floor in defeat. I want to stay strong for her but I am about to lose my damn mind. God, what I wouldn’t do for another chance.

  The tattooed man stops mid-motion and looks up at Breanne and jerks his head in my direction. “You moved on quickly. What would Mark think?” he laughs, and then returns to making his knot. It’s as if he had to deliver one final below.

  I watch Breanne carefully as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. I’m expecting to see tears but they don’t come. She won’t give him the satisfaction and I admire that. While the tattooed man continues tying his knot, Breanne gracefully raises her bound arms over her head. I watch her hair cascade down her shoulders and wonder what she’s doing. In a flash, she opens her eyes and her arms circle back down with a pointed metal object in her hands that she drives straight into the tattooed man’s neck.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Seeing Red

  Breanne

  Blood pores out of the wound as I remove my makeshift weapon from the gunman’s neck. A lone growl pierces the otherwise silent air as his body slumps to the floor, only to rest on my feet. Everything is happening both incredibly fast and in
slow motion. My brain can’t make heads or tails of what I just did. Holy shit, did I really stab him? Is he dead? My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear and my head is spinning with a range of thoughts and emotions. I feel dizzy, numb, overwhelmed, and detached all at the same time. Aside from an uncontrollable tremble that has taken over my body, I am transfixed – completely unable to move from my chair.

  Slowly, I am able to get some amount of composure. My eyes trail from the red pool collecting on the floor to Drew’s face. His wide eyes tell me he is in shock too, but he’s also rapidly trying to assess my state. Through his duct tape muzzle I can visibly tell he’s trying to say something but I don’t hear anything other than my pulse thudding inside my ears. I shake my head a few times to remove the confusion that has clouded my comprehension of this fucked up reality.

  “Breanne,” I think I hear him trying to say. “Breanne!” a muffled version of my name resounds more urgently this time but still not loud.

  He bellows a long string that translates only into mumbled garble. I can’t make out his words, nor can I reply – not only because of the duct tape, but because of the lump that’s formed in the back of my throat. If I were to guess he’s probably telling me to move, quickly! And I want to move, to get as far away from here as possible, but I am literally frozen – by the weight of this man’s lifeless body and the weight of what I’ve done.

  I shake my head again and look down at the man I’ve just gouged and then back at Drew. His eyes plead with me. As if I’m praying for divine intervention or clarity I stare at the ceiling. You can do this; you have to move. Get it together. I take a deep breath and bend forward to begin untying the restraint around my left ankle. Once my leg is free I quickly rip off the duct tape and clench my jaw to stifle a scream. Ahh, that smarts! I’ve never had a lip waxing but there’s no doubt I’ll have to get them regularly after this. That may have hurt more than this asshole hitting me! Swiftly, I rub my lips to alleviate the pain and then get back to the task at hand. In my head I tell myself what I have to do – move your feet from under his body, walk to Drew, help him get free, get the hell out of here.

  Very slowly, as if I’m trying not to wake a monster, I pull my feet from underneath the tattooed man. The sound of my shoes dragging against the damp rubble of the cement floor is like nails on a chalk board. Cringing, I step over his body and take the few steps towards Drew, half expecting this monster to grab at my ankles before I can get away. With my hands still tied together I push Drew onto his side and as quickly as I can, I rip the duct tape from his mouth just as I did to myself. He releases a low growl, followed by a couple quick breaths.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. My hands instinctively fly to his mouth and rub the area around his lips.

  “Sorry? For what? You saved us,” he praises me in a strained voice.

  “The guy with the buzz cut is still out there. We need to get out of here,” I anxiously remind him and he nods.

  “Can you try to pull me upright?” he asks.

  “I’ll try,” I tell him and move to his side. It takes all my weight as leverage but I’m able to get his chair in the upright position.

  “Ahh!” Drew groans, clearly in pain.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Did I hurt you?”

  “I think my ribs are broken,” he grimaces and I look him over, head to toe.

  Shit, he’s in bad shape – possible broken ribs, a pinkish-purple eye that is swollen shut, dried blood from his nose to his chin, his arm injury and the effects of the snakebite. My eyes well up and my chest aches. God, I wish I could take away his pain. It’s my fault he’s hurt. I lift my hands to his face but decide not to touch. An involuntary cry escapes as I think of how much he must be hurting. I desperately want to do something to help him but our best bet is to get out of here first.

  “Breanne. Breanne,” he calls me to the present. Looking at him I wipe my nose and bite my trembling lip. “It’s going to be ok,” he says more gently. “You need to search him and see if he has the keys to my handcuffs,” he instructs.

  Sniffling, I nod and reluctantly make my way back to the tattooed man.

  Thankfully, the keys are sticking out of his back pocket. With my hands still tied together I carefully maneuver them out, as if he’s sleeping rather than dead. For all I know, that could actually be true, in which case I better step it up so we can get out of here.

  Once I have them in my grasp I step over the body and quickly crouch behind the chair that Drew is handcuffed to so that I can set him free. It takes longer than I’d like as I can’t steady my hands, and the damn lock is so tiny that my trembling hands have difficulty lining up the key to the lock.

  “Are you ok?” he asks.

  “I’m trying. Just give me a minute,” I sputter under pressure.

  “I meant from where that asshole hit you,” he clarifies.

  I snort ironically at his question. “My face was already numb so it really wasn’t that bad.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I pause, realizing he doesn’t know. “After he knocked you out I launched myself at him, kicking and punching. The other guy came to help this one and I clawed his face,” I explain. “Once buzz cut had a grip on me, though, this jerk backhanded me. I didn’t expect it then, but this time I knew it was coming.”

  “He put his fucking hands on you? Twice?” he bellows, clearly pissed. “I’ll kill him. If he’s still alive, I’ll fucking kill him!” he growls loudly.

  Drew fists clench and his body tenses, but he says nothing else so I resume my attempt to unlock the handcuffs. After a few more fumbling attempts I finally free his hands.

  If I had blinked I probably would have missed it - Drew practically flying through the air with the chair still attached to his ankles and landing on top of the tattooed man. Not even a hummingbird’s wings could have fluttered from the time his handcuffs are unlocked, he’s flipped the tattooed man over onto his back, and the instant his fist made contact with the guy’s face. I watch temporarily paralyzed, as he delivers blow after blow after blow. Each punch paired with a savage grunt full of pure hatred. The only movement the tattooed man makes is from limply absorbing punches.

  Drew could barely move just seconds ago and now he’s on some kind of testosterone fueled high. The thought of him wasting all his energy on this guy motivates me to leap forward and pull at Drew’s shirt.

  “Drew, stop! It’s not worth it! He’s not worth it!” Drew keeps going and I wonder if he can even hear me in his rage.

  “Hope. You. Fucking. Die.” Each word is a staccato, staggered in between each forceful punch.

  I grab his right shoulder this time and plead with him. “Drew! You are wasting your energy – please stop! I’m fine, really, I’m fine. We need to get out of here.”

  Again, he doesn’t respond so I quit trying – I only have so much energy left as well.

  Who knows how long Drew’s assault goes on for; I’ve sunken to my knees, engrossed by Drew’s vicious rampage. Eventually, though, the blows become less forceful and his pace slows until he’s likely worn out. Resting on his hands and knees, he tries to catch his breath and I patiently wait. I open my mouth to speak but no words surface. Without looking up he crawls over to me, dragging the chair behind him…but not before taking back his stolen hat.

  “That really wasn’t necessary,” I whisper.

  Once he reaches me he forcefully pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my hair. With one arm secured tightly around my back and the other one firmly cradling the back of my head he crushes me against his body. His neck, which is completely drenched with perspiration, sticks to mine. His breathing is labored and his entire body is trembling. My arms are pinned to my chest as if I’m praying and I want so badly to reciprocate his embrace. I want to wrap myself around him like a vine to be sure his touch is real and to know that we really are still alive. But given my restraints, the best I can do is fist the collar of his shirt in my bound hands hoping he u
nderstands how deeply I need and care for him.