Bear

by Zahra Girard

  Nash leads me to the chair, sits me down, pulls a couple more zip ties from his pocket, and secures my legs to the chair, then he binds my arms to the chair. He pulls a bandanna from his pocket and places it over my mouth. I make a grossed-out face.

  “It’s clean,” he says, noticing my look. “I haven’t even worn this one. It’s not really my style. I picked it up at the 7-11 on the corner. Even so, I ran it through the wash this morning, just in case.”

  I give him a look that I hope communicates ‘thank you’ as he gags me with the bandanna and secures it with some duct tape. The little things are important.

  “You stay put,” he says. “I’ll be by every so often to check in on you. See if you need to use the bathroom, water, food, or any of that. Just let me know, ok? And there’s a spare toothbrush for you in the bathroom. Anyways, try and get some rest.”

  He got me a spare toothbrush? What the hell?

  Suffice to say, I’m even more flabbergasted than when he put the gun to my head.

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and snaps a quick picture of me before turning off the lights and shutting the door behind him.

  I listen for a while, making sure I hear his footsteps disappear down the hall. It’s important that I be sure I’m alone before I try anything.

  Once I’m sure, I get to work. One thing’s certain: there’s no way in hell I’m letting him keep me here this easy.

  If he thinks this is settled, he is sorely mistaken.

  Chapter Four

  Nash

  I hit the send button on my phone and settle in to wait.

  It’s so juvenile, sitting here on pins and needles, waiting for the person on the other end of the line to answer. It bugs the hell out of me, feeling powerless, nervous, anxious.

  It’s a while before I’m even sure the message has gone through — some of this techno shit is new to me.

  Hell, it’s been years since I’ve even owned a cell phone.

  Worst thing is, there’s some check mark next to the message I sent that I’m not sure whether it means the message has gone through or if it’s actually been read.

  It’s just sitting there, taunting me.

  Fuck you, check mark.

  I set the phone down on the table before I decide to throw the damn thing across the room. It’s been almost four years since I’ve owned a goddamned cell phone. Back then, all I had was some rectangular flip-phone thing that the guy at the store reassured me would be tough enough to survive a motorcycle crash. And it was.

  I sip from the whiskey bottle and roll the thing around in my grip while I stare at my phone.

  Do kidnappers keep hours?

  Eventually, it buzzes. I snatch it up and see the response I’m looking for. It’s filled with expletives and threats — most of which I shrug off since I know the game has changed — but I get what I want: a picture.

  It’s her.

  Abigail.

  My Abigail.

  It’s incredible how much she makes me smile.

  She’s grown so much since I saw her last through the glass of the prison’s visitation room. From a little blanket-wrapped bundle of trouble to an almost three-year-old, rosy-cheeked girl.

  And her smile tells me she’s still trouble.

  My chest shudders slightly as I exhale and there’s tightness in my throat. In a few weeks, she’s going to be three.

  I stare at that damn screen for ages. All I can think about is how I need to get back to her — somehow, I’m going to be there for her birthday; somehow, we’ll be together and do the kind of family stuff that I never had growing up; somehow, I’ll be there to give her the life I never had, the kind of life that she deserves.

  My chest swells just thinking about that day.

  I send a text in reply — I want to talk to her — and the answer is instant: no.

  I’ll change their fucking minds.

  A quiet click tickles my ears, pulling me back to the present. I set the phone down and listen. Alert.

  Floorboards creak. Not loud, but just enough to grab my attention.

  I sit up, tense.

  Moments stretch on, and silence is the only thing I hear.

  But I’m not leaving anything to chance.

  I get up and head down the hallway to the second bedroom. My fingers clasp around the door handle and I pull it open.

  The room’s empty.

  Empty.

  Four zip ties — split apart at the seam — lie on the floor.

  My vision goes red.

  “Fuck.”

  The words barely leave my lips before something small and sharp jabs me right in the shoulder, biting and scraping along my collarbone. Hot, wet blood seeps from the hole. Slicking my shirt. It stings and burns with the kind of pain that makes me clench my jaw and growl.

  I whirl.

  There she is, clasping tight to a nail file that’s dripping red with my blood.

  She’s not getting another chance to do that again.

  I lunge. She screams. I clear the space between us in a flash, press my body up against hers, flatten her against the wall.

  I seize her by the wrists and twist until she lets go of the file.

  Squirming, her taut body moves against mine as she tries to wiggle her way free. At any other time, I’d love this position — her tits against my chest, her lips so close to mine, her chest heaving with emotion. All of her ripe for taking.

  I’d have her on her knees, begging to take all of what I’ve got.

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Green eyes burning with anger and surprise stare back at me.

  “Stabbing you,” she says. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “No shit. But in my shoulder? What a strange place to stab someone.”

  “I was aiming for your neck. I underestimated how tall you are,” she says, bluntly.

  I laugh. I can’t help myself. This woman’s got some spunk; she’s a fucking firecracker. “Appreciate the honesty. Now, come on, Houdini, I’m putting you back in your fucking chair.”

  She furrows her brow. “No, thanks.”

  “What, you’d rather I rough you up, first? Is that how you like it?” I tease. Even with a stab wound in my back, I’m in a good mood. I press myself into her, feel her tits against my chest. She lets out this little struggling gasp that is fucking delicious. “If you want to get rough, we can do that. Whatever it takes to keep you pliable, Houdini.”

  I press up against her, harder, my hips into hers, the way we were earlier in the night when she was ready to ride my cock until morning. I know she can feel what I’m packing.

  Her eyes go wide. Her cheeks turn bright red. She’s rattled.

  “Why don’t you just let me go? I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

  I laugh again. “That excuse never works. Give me some fucking credit.”

  “Do you know what’s going to happen when you get caught? You’ve kidnapped a judge’s daughter. You don’t get to just walk away from that,” she says, her voice burning with anger. “This is your one chance. Just let me go before things get really bad for you.”

  I shrug and it hurts — there’s a wicked trail of blood working it’s way down my back. “This is more important than than my life, darling. Trust me, these aren’t the circumstances I want when it comes to tying up a hot piece of ass like yourself, but sometimes life throws some curves at you and you have to fucking adapt.”

  “Why are you doing this?” she says. “What has got you so fucked up?”

  “It’s better for you if you don’t know,” I remind her, pulling her away from the wall and keeping my hands on her as I march her back to the spare bedroom and securing her back to the chair. “Trust me, I want you to walk away from all this when it’s over — I like your spirit, I like your attitude — and it’s be a damn shame to kill you. But you’re just a bargaining chip, and if you make yourself not useful, I’ll have to get rid of you.”

  I zip tie her
hands behind her back this time and then tie her legs back to the chair. I tighten them until I’m sure that she won’t be getting out this time. Even so, she’s got this little smirk on her pretty face and I know without her saying anything that this isn’t the last time she’ll be giving me problems.

  “You know you’re just making this worse for yourself, right?” she says. “The longer you keep me here, the longer you’re going to go away to prison. How can you be so stupid to think you’ll even get away with this?”

  She’s got some backbone on her.

  Holy hell, the way she straightens her spine, puffs out her chest and glares at me stiffens my cock until I feel like it’s going to burst.

  Angry, flashing eyes, and a defiant smirk just emphasizes how fiery and sexy she can be.

  The things I could do with that mouth.

  The things she was ready to do with that mouth earlier tonight.

  She sees me wavering, and the second she relaxes, I take hold of her chair and lift it a foot or two off and then slam it to the floor. A booming thud fills the room and the defiance on her face melts to startled fear.

  “Do not fuck with me,” I say, my face level with hers.

  I straighten up and pull my phone from my pocket.

  “Now, say ‘cheese,’” I say, capturing the image of her frightened face with my phone.

  It’s a mask of pure terror.

  It’s perfect.

  Chapter Five

  Roxanna

  “Thanks, darling,” he says to me with a crooked smile before closing the door behind him.

  Holy shit, the man’s a psychopath.

  And even so, he’s still hot. Burning with an intense heat that is as sexy as it is frightening.

  I don’t know what kind of game he’s running, but it seems like move he’s making is just digging himself a deeper hole. That, and he’s doing his damnedest to rattle me.

  Which means, if I’m going to make things even between us — which is probably the best I can hope for, considering I’ve stabbed him, smashed his head with a bottle, and he’s hardly even shaken up — I’m going to have to play dirty.

  I’m going to have to hit him in a way that would rattle any man.

  I spend at least an hour in the chair, trying to come up with some kind of plan. My fingers go numb from loss of circulation, and so does everything below my knee.

  But I think I’ve got things figured out.

  Eventually, just like he promised, he comes back.

  “You doing alright? Need a bathroom break or anything?”

  I nod.

  I don’t really, but it’ll be good to at least stretch my legs.

  “Take it easy. Don’t try and walk on your own, just let me help you, alright?” he says as he cuts my legs loose and helps me up. My hands are still tied behind my back, but at least I can move around now.

  Leaning into him, he helps me down the hallway to the bathroom and shuts the door behind us. The bathroom is decently clean — which is kind of surprising, since I’m sure this guy lives alone — and there’s even toilet paper. The good kind. I even see a box of moisturized tissues.

  He cuts my hands free.

  “Go ahead,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

  I take the gag out of my mouth and stare at him. “With you here? No way. I’m not going to let you watch me go to the bathroom.”

  He lets out a sigh. “I’ll turn around.”

  “You’ll still be like three feet away while I’m peeing,” I say. “Look, I know we’re kind of close here, what with you kidnapping me and, before that, me being ready to fuck you, but, sharing the bathroom while one of us is using it is kind of next level relationship stuff. And I don’t think we’re ready to go there.”

  Nash rolls his eyes. “I’ve done it plenty of times in the service, and I’ve sure you’ve done it with some of your boyfriends. Just go, so we can get this over with.”

  “What if I’m not just peeing?” I say, maintaining direct, uncomfortable eye contact with him.

  I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. But, somehow, I need this bathroom to myself.

  “You mean…?”

  “Maybe I do,” I say. “Are you ready to have those illusions you guys have about women shattered into a thousand pieces? Because I’ll do it. Right here, right now.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Try me,” I say, then I snatch one of the moisturized tissues. “You’re probably going to need one of these once you start crying.”

  He stares.

  “You have two minutes. And I’m patting you down afterward. You try anything, and I’ll have you using a bucket. Got it?”

  I nod. “Fine.”

  He leaves and my brain goes into overdrive. I have to get this right.

  First, I carefully open one of the bathroom drawers and, mercifully, it slides open on quiet hinges. It takes me only a second to spot my tool: a tiny pair of nail clippers. I snatch them up and hide them in my bra. It’s uncomfortable as hell, but these are desperate times.

  Second, I use the toilet, because who knows how long it’ll be until next time.

  Then I open the door.

  He’s standing there, waiting. “You done?”

  I put on my best, most concerned face. Under the circumstances, it doesn’t take much work to make myself worried as all hell.

  “We have a problem,” I say.

  “This whole night’s a fucking problem.”

  “You’re telling me. But, I’m serious,” I say, hesitantly, casting my eyes down to the floor. “I need to know if you have any feminine products.”

  His expression goes from impatient to exceptionally uncomfortable in the span of a blink. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Fuck no,” he says, shaking his head. “And no, I don’t have any. Why would I have those lying around?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you should’ve thought about that if you’re going to kidnap a woman and keep her in captivity for a while and not be a total asshole about it,” I shoot back. “You put enough thought into it to put up soundproofing in a room, seems like the least you could do is make one measly trip to a store.”

  “Do you really need them right now?” he says.

  “Do you really want to find out?” I throw my challenge at him with my eyes as much as anything else.

  And I can see it hits the mark.

  “Fine. There's a drug store across the street. I’ll go get you some.”

  Almost sullen, he grabs hold of me and force-marches me back down the hall and secures me to the chair. I wait until he’s got me tied up before I hit him again.

  “You need to know the right kind to get. Do you have any paper or something to write it down?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously,” I answer. “Let me put it in a way you can understand, since I know you can’t be that bright — what with kidnapping a judge’s daughter and all — but lets say you were about to have sex. And you reach for where you normally keep your condoms, but you find out you’re out. So the woman — or man — you’re with says ‘no problem, I have a few spares you can use’ and they hand you one. Except it’s the wrong size, or the wrong material. Things might be a little uncomfortable for you, right?”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “Imagine you have to wear that irritating condom for four hours. How happy would you be?”

  He pulls out his phone and gives me a heated look that’s part irritation, part something that I can’t quite place. It’s fierce and, in any other circumstances, its the kind of look that’d make me weak in the knees. Instead, it makes me smile, because I know I’m about to send him on a wild and, incredibly embarrassing goose chase. “Ok, tell me, what kind do I need to buy?”

  “Pure Woman Jasmine-scented Organic Ultra-Slim Gentle Glides,” I say.

  “How the fuck is that a thing? Are you fucking with me?”

&nbs
p; “Absolutely not. They’re easy to find. They’re in a pastel colored box with flowers on them. Daisies, I think.”

  “God damn it. Fine.”

  “Oh, and one other thing: there’s going to be two kinds — one with pearls, one without. I want the kind without.”

  “What the fuck are pearls?”

  “Little round things. Duh. Look, if you get lost, just ask someone for some help,” I say. “In fact, you might have to do that anyways. For some reason, they usually keep them behind the counter. I think it’s cause they’re organic. But don’t worry: pretty much every store should have them.”

  I have no clue if these tampons actually exist. They might — who knows — right now, I just want some time and I know for a fact that, like all men when they’re lost, Nash will not ask for help.

  Especially in this case.

  He glowers at me. “I’ll be back. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I nod.

  He leaves.

  The front door slams shut, the thud reverberating through the whole apartment.

  I wait for a second, straining my ears to hunt for the slightest sound until I’m sure he’s actually gone. Once I’m certain, I get to work.

  I start by rocking side to side, each time pushing my chair a little further towards tipping over. Finally, I get it right, tipping myself sideways and landing on my shoulder with a heavy thud. It hurts.

  Step one, complete.

  Now that I’m on the ground and have a little more mobility, I start squirming and kicking until I have first one zip tied leg free of the chair, then another. Sweat drips from my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I push myself to keep going.

  Squinting, I wiggle until I get my feet under myself and then I stand up, with my feet still tied behind my back. Then, crouching, I lower my zip tied hands until they’re touching the floor and then step over them so they’re now in front of me.

  “Piece of cake,” I mutter as I fish the nail clippers out of my bra and start snipping away at the zip ties.

  It’s time to get the fuck out of here.

  I just need to hurry, because if Nash catches me like this, I’ll be dead for sure.