“Can I change?”
He sighs, noticing the goosebumps on my arms. “Yeah, just put your password in and I’ll step out.”
I type it in and press enter, stepping back as it chimes in confirmation, the desktop loading.
“Good enough.” He nods. “I’m going to wait outside. Come get me when you’re finished.”
I want to collapse on the bed but adrenaline pulses through me, a weird tingling sensation as I stand, staring around the room as if the walls will start talking to me.
Sliding my wet clothes off, I throw them in the bathtub to dry. The towel covers my skin, but the flesh is raised in permanent coldness no matter how hard I rub the water away.
Throwing on my ratty black sweatpants I wear as pajamas and a Creighton T, I double-check again, leaving no surface untouched.
My eyes drift across the room. All of her items are still here.
I check her suitcase, rifle through the drawers, nothing is missing.
Except for her.
Her clutch isn’t here, neither is her phone or any evidence she came back to the room.
Except she did.
Her hair extension was outside, key card inside.
But she didn’t stay.
Why wouldn’t she stay?
I sink to my knees, the sobs bursting out.
12
Bristol
I wake up abruptly, jerking forward into a sitting position.
Except I can’t bring my arms where I want them. I pull, they follow, but are yanked back by a force.
“Ouch.” I moan, constricted.
Bewildered, my eyes seek out light in the darkness, but there’s nothing but pitch black.
Not a light, not a glimmer from the water like I’m used to seeing through the blinds on the balcony of our hotel room.
“Blair?” I look around, flustered. “Blair, are you here?”
Where am I?
“Will?” I shriek. “This isn’t funny.”
It’s like a garage of some kind or maybe a windowless bedroom. I can make out four walls and the creaky mattress I’m on. Besides that, there are objects in the room, but they’re shrouded in blackness.
Wrenching my arms forward, I can’t seem to twist out of what’s holding me hostage.
“Argh.” I grit my teeth. “What the hell?” I scream. “Let go of me, Will.”
Except when I look over my shoulder, I see the outline of a bed frame with no one behind me, forcing my arms back.
I’m being held against my will. My elbows bend and twist like a pretzel, but I can’t turn over.
My wrists confined, I shake my legs. A feeling of dread tingles up and down my skin as I notice they’re also restricted – my ankles are shackled to something. I can move, but not freely, and only enough to rile me up even more.
Panic sets in.
Don’t panic, I remind myself as my breathing intensifies.
Blink once. Count to ten.
Blink twice. This time start at ten and go backwards.
This isn’t the hotel bed, I can tell by the way the scratchy fabric underneath me rubs my bare skin raw. My legs feel itchy, like the wool socks my mom used to make me wear under my winter boots. The Waterfront has cream-colored, five-hundred-thread-count satin sheets. These have a type of pattern, I just can’t make out what, maybe some kind of animal?
It’s also not king-size, my petite 5’4 frame fills the entire surface. It reminds me of the twin-size trundle bed Blair and I used to share when we were little, before we had the independence of our own rooms.
Is this where Will sleeps?
Would a twenty-two year old really use such a small bed? I can’t imagine his built muscles and tall body fitting.
I search for answers, but pieces of my evening are missing in gigantic chunks.
Am I in a guest room? Maybe a younger brother or sister’s bed?
I’m trying to justify a reason I’d be fastened to a bed in the first place. Maybe Will let me sleep off what must be a hangover, not wanting to make me feel uncomfortable by sleeping next to me. Gentleman-like, I tell myself.
Except he took it too far. Was he worried I’d stumble and hit my head, harming myself because I was that intoxicated last night?
As for the sledgehammer pounding my head, I’ve heard my sister talking to her friends on the phone about the wicked effects following a night of drinking. She seemed dramatic, especially when she would come home from school and lay in bed, a pillow over her head, complaining of headaches and nausea.
If this is what drinking feels like, I’m never doing it again, I promise. I’ll ask Daddy for his Bible and swear up and down.
My stomach feels empty but squeamish – like if I took a bite of food, I would retch all over the floor.
“Will?” I yell. “I’m up.”
But why are my hands and feet bound?
Dread washes over me, adding to the discomfort my achy limbs feel. I can keep my hands at my side, but I can’t shift over. The only position I’m able to lay is on my back, stuck in a spread-eagled position.
My eyes adjust to the dark, but there’s still no light peeking in.
Glancing down, I stifle a scream.
I bite my lip hard, swallowing the taste of blood and my own yelp.
The outfit I wore last night is missing, the pink and black plaid mini-skirt now replaced with a short-sleeve shift dress of some kind.
I move my fingers up my leg to my pelvis and in place of my black thong, I’m wearing some type of frilly briefs.
Is this Will’s idea of a sick, twisted sex game?
I’ve read in magazines about fantasies that involve role-playing, but I thought it was for bored, married people.
Is this some kind of a fetish? I always considered fetishes to be whips and chains, but maybe it includes changing outfits. This isn’t sexy though, more like drab.
Hollering at the top of my lungs, I beat my hands on the mattress at the same time I scream, “HEELLLPPPPPP.”
Stopping and starting, I take short breaths in between, inhaling air in, exhaling air out, horror enveloping my lungs.
Feeling faint, my heart beats out of my chest a million miles a minute.
Can teenagers have heart attacks? You sometimes hear about athletes that collapse from an unnoticed birth defect. Does your body eventually succumb to death when you’re tied up against your will? I feel like mine’s going to jump out of my chest, a frantic thumping in my ears.
It could run a marathon right now without my help.
My howls echo through the gloomy room, but no light flickers on and I wonder if I’m in some kind of a lab, the kind you develop photos in.
A darkroom, that’s it, like we have at school for our photojournalism class.
Tears run down my face, sliding past my cheeks to land on the collar of whatever the hell I’m wearing.
It doesn’t matter. As much as I wail and pound the bed, silence fills the spaces around me. There’s no hum of a refrigerator, no noise of outside traffic, nothing I can make out that tells me I’m around people.
I pause for a moment to listen – no thud of furniture, footsteps, or people moving below or above me. Waves don’t crash and seagulls aren’t flocking.
Where the hell am I?
“Blair!” I screech. “Blair, where are you?” I ball my fists up and sob, my body heaving as I shake on the musty mattress in clothes that smell like my grandma’s attic.
I pass out, waking when a sharp bang smashes against a wall.
Shaking, I stifle my screams as a scratching noise thuds over and over.
The appearance of light filters through a crack. A door groans as it’s pulled open, creaking in the blackness.
It must be a padlock or some kind of gadget meant to keep me in or someone out. I tremble on the dingy bed.
A flashlight, the low beam shining a path from the doorway to the bed, twinkles in front of a metal sliding door. I see a bulky form clothed in jet black that reminds me of th
e Sleepy Hollow Horseman, headless and faceless in the shadowy light. I can only make out shoulders and a broad torso.
Will?
I’m hallucinating, I have to be. This isn’t real life.
Pressing my eyes shut, I swiftly count to five, except it’s more like one and a half, fearful of the vague figure standing mere feet away.
Thank God.
Someone’s here to untie me. I clasp my hands, waiting to be acknowledged.
Except it’s hushed, the outline stands still, biding their time.
“Hello?” I scream. “Will, this isn't fucking funny.”
I see the shadow coming closer, the massive frame pausing to stare at my outburst. Disapproval covers the small space between us. “There’s no need for language like that. Don’t let me hear you cuss again.”
It’s a male voice shrouded in darkness.
The black lightens to a dull gloom, a small bulb the culprit.
A man stands in front of me, bathed in the pallid glow. His hand holds the flimsy string attached to the bulb in the ceiling.
“Who…who are you? I quiver. “Why am I here?”
He strokes his chin, eyeing me keenly. “Little girls don’t use foul language. Do I make myself clear?”
I look to my left, there’s a wall.
To the right, small objects fill the room, taking shape in the dimness.
When he comes closer, I can make out the lines of his face, the strong jaw and the towering limbs.
I scream bloody murder until I’m knocked senseless, my body sliding into self-imposed protection at the smash of his fist.
13
Blair
Voices interrupt my thoughts outside the door, definitely a female.
I hear a heavy knock on the door, a beep as the key card’s accepted. The handle turns.
Bristol.
Thank God.
I sink back on my knees, ashamed at my overdramatic self – she was with Will all night, the tall drink of water she fell head over heels in love with.
At least for a night.
We can go back to the way it was, and I can refer to her as the brat again.
I’ll apologize to the security guard. Heck, I’ll even knock on the cranky lady’s door and offer to buy her a coffee for waking her so early.
My face falls when Mark enters and not Bristol. He sees me crouched over on the floor and levels his gaze.
“Ready to chat?” he asks conversationally.
I nod at the floor, avoiding his gaze. I’m not ready to be interrogated.
Pulling out a chair from the small table, he sits down, settling back into the seat.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper.
“Let’s talk.” He rests his hands on his knees. “I want to help you, I really do, but you have to trust me.”
“Do you have any kids?”
“Yes.” He pulls out his wallet, flipping through the photos in clear plastic.
“Daughters?”
“Two.” He shows me their school pictures and one portrait of his family, smiling on the beach.
“How old?’
“Twelve and nine.”
“You have a nice-looking family,” I remark.
“Thanks.” He shuts the wallet, putting it back in his pocket. “Now we need to focus on you,” he says, “and your sister.”
“I’m scared she’s in trouble.” I wipe a hand across my face. “And that we’re both in trouble.”
“With who?”
“My parents.” I shrug. “Maybe the police.”
“Why don’t you tell me the story and we’ll see if we can sort it out together?”
“Okay.”
“But no bullshit.” He’s strict. “Don’t waste my time lying to me.”
“Okay, fair.” I sniffle noisily.
“Come sit down, grab a tissue, and blow your nose,” he instructs. “I’m gonna jot down some notes.”
I rise slowly, making my way over to the other side of the table.
“If I need to involve the police, can we agree that’s acceptable?”
“If I was your kid, what would you do?” I grab a Kleenex, wiping away the snot.
“As in what?”
“Punishment.” I draw in a deep breath. “Like, would you ground me for life?”
“Let’s hear the crime before the punishment’s determined,” he winks, “to make sure it fits. I think you’re beating yourself up too bad. We’ve all done dumb shit involving alcohol.”
“What did you do?” I want to detract from the situation. Partly because I don’t remember, partly because I want to believe she’s with Will.
“Irrelevant.” He points at the room key. “Why do you think your sister’s in trouble?”
I run through last night up until I leave the bar.
Then I abruptly stop.
His blue eyes pierce me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s gone.”
“What is?”
“The rest,” I pause, “the rest of the night’s memories.”
“You remember nothing after leaving the bar with a young man?” He glances down at his scrawled penmanship. “Nick?”
“He goes by Nicholas,” I say.
“What happened when you left the bar?”
“It’s like a big blank in time.” I groan. “It’s foggy and then blank.”
“Were you that drunk?”
“I don’t know.”
He gives me a ‘don’t bullshit me’ look. “No, truly. I had a couple drinks, but I felt different this time. It was like I was on the outside of my body looking in.”
“Where was Bristol when you left?”
“Still on the dance floor.”
“Can I speak freely with you?”
“Yeah.”
“I think your sister went home with the guy, Will. I know you’re concerned, rightfully so, but it’s a little after 8 A.M. If you were out late, there’s no telling how much longer she was out, and I think she’s still sleeping off her hangover.”
“But what about her hair extension?” I ask lamely, motioning at the paltry pink hair piece, “and how do you explain her key being in the room?”
"She could’ve come back to the room, grabbed something, and forgot it.”
I tap my fingers on the table, considering his point. “True.”
“Are you sure the clip-on didn’t fall out on your way to the bar?” He taps his chin. “It doesn’t look like it secures very well.”
“No, it was in.”
“How ‘bout this. Do you have the number for the guys you went out with?”
“No…” then I think of our surf lesson. “But I think I can get it.”
“Can you contact them and check if Bristol’s with Will? That should be the first step before going into panic mode.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll let the front desk know you found your key but that Bristol will be requesting one when she comes back.” He looks at his watch. “You need to stay put for a couple hours and see if she shows up. Can you do that?”
“What about my purse?”
“Call the bar you were at last night.” He points at the phone.
“I might go search the beach later.”
“If you left it in the sand, it’s either in the ocean or gone. When do you fly home?”
“Friday.”
“I’d work on calling for an ID and seeing what you can do about canceling the credit card.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t have any money. I had my Daddy’s credit card and cash. It’s all gone.”
He pulls his wallet back out again, fumbling through his cash until he finds a large bill. “Here’s fifty bucks.” He slides it across the table, “and here’s my card. I’m off at three this afternoon, but call my mobile if you need anything. If I don’t answer, leave a voicemail.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “Thank you.”
He nods. “I have two girls. I hope someone would show them the same kindness.”
After he leaves, I settle on the bed and adjust the pillows against my back. What Mark said makes sense, she’s probably still with Will.
Maybe they’re having sex.
Eww… it’s weird to think of my little sister, the brat, being intimate with someone. She’s only seventeen.
But it’s better than the alternative.
As long as she’s comfortable with it and he didn't push himself on her.
I don’t know why I’m worrying this much, probably because of how I felt when I woke up, a chunk of memory vanished, with no purse.
Dialing “0” on the keypad, I call the operator.
A man answers. “Front desk, how may I assist you?”
“Oh, I wanted to see if anyone has turned in a purse, ID, or cell phone? I seem to be missing all three.”
“Oh no, let me check. Hold please.” Annoying elevator music pierces the silence. He’s gone for thirty seconds, but it seems like hours. I feel like I’ve heard an entire symphony as my annoyance and panic grows with every thrashing crescendo.
“Ma’m?”
“Yes.” I hold my breath.
“No, sorry, no one’s turned anything in yet.”
“Okay.” I sigh.
Staring at the phone, I continue calling Bristol’s cell over and over.
It rings, then goes to voicemail.
I leave message after message. Some are calm, others frantic.
Heading down to the lobby, I avoid the gaze of the front desk woman who I spoke with earlier. Her eyes judge me across the room.
I notice the same man at the concierge desk, the one who helped Bristol and me book a surf lesson. He’s standing at a computer, hands flying furiously over a keyboard.
“Hi.” I walk over to him.
I pause, waiting for his fingers to stop clicking. He peers up at me. “I don’t know if you remember, but I was down here with my sister yesterday.”
He gives me a fake smile, one that implies he doesn’t remember shit, but he’ll play the overenthusiastic card and pretend he does.
“Of course, darling. How could I forget the two of you! So lovely. She’s your older sister, right?”
“Younger.”
“Arkansas?”
Into the Night Page 8
