“I should go. Thanks for the wine,” she blurts out.
Not now, you don’t.
I lash an arm around her waist and she calls out a sharp “Hey!” as I pop the lid of the trunk.
Before she screams for help, I clamp my hand over her mouth, keeping my palm cupped to avoid being bitten. In the process of getting her kicking legs into the trunk, I misjudge the space between the trunk’s lid and her head. A dull thud precedes Morgan’s chin dropping to her chest and her body going limp against mine.
“Shit.”
I knocked her out.
“Morgan,” I whisper, laying her down in the trunk as gently as possible. In the grainy light, her face is placid, her eyes shut. I turn her cheek but not so much as an eyelash flutters. Shit, shit, shit. If I stay and attempt to rouse her, the cops will think I harmed her on purpose. With a rap sheet as long as mine, there will be no avoiding prison. I’m out of time, and despite the lurching of my stomach, I shut the lid of the trunk, and her inside.
I climb behind the wheel, and as I’m gunning the engine, I see a police car in the side mirror. Swirling lights pull into the front lot, so I slip out a back road with the headlights off.
Nice going, dumbass.
Now what do I do? What if she needs a doctor? Do I take her back to town? Drop her closer to home?
“Dammit!” I slam the heel of my hand into the steering wheel. My mind races as fast as the tires on the asphalt. Trees blur my vision as I drive farther from the store. I need to get to safety. For Morgan. For me.
I shouldn’t take her to the cabin, but at this point, I’m not sure I’ve much of a choice. It’s late and with the cops looking for me—and possibly her—it isn’t like I can take her to a hotel. Shit. What a mess.
Once I’m sure I’m out of the range of the police, I swerve to the shoulder of the road and pop the trunk. Morgan’s eyes are still closed, but her breathing is steady. I’m relieved that I didn’t do any permanent damage. This is difficult enough without adding guilt over harming the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. Precious seconds are lost as I debate over what to do.
I put my hands on my hips and lean my head back, studying the night sky for answers. There’s nothing but haze and more questions. Like what to do with the girl who will apparently accompany me to my sanctuary. At least until I can figure out how to get her home without jeopardizing myself—or my chances that Aaron Young will take my case.
My father has to be stopped at all costs. Aaron is my only hope. And to get his help, Morgan has to believe I’m serious about what I’m going to ask. She needs to believe I might hurt her if she doesn’t cooperate. Which means I can’t let her think I’m nice. Arguably, I’m not.
My eyes land on a length of rope in the trunk as Fate smiles upon me yet again.
I lash Morgan’s wrists and ankles, saying a silent prayer I don’t get caught before I have a chance to make Aaron understand. Which means I’ll have to tell Morgan everything. I need an ally and she’s all I have.
One final glance at the beauty in the trunk, I shut the lid and get back into the car. I pull away from the shoulder, darkness enveloping me as I put more distance between us and the city’s lights.
I can’t get caught. Not until I have the proof I need to send my father to jail.
If I get caught before that, I have a feeling the interrogation room will not be as kind to me as the last one. And last time, “kind” wasn’t the word to describe my treatment.
Chapter 3
Stolen Away
Morgan
Jostling in the dark, I come to. Hectic, labored breaths rattle my lungs as I attempt to grasp my surroundings in the dark. Then it hits me.
The 7-Eleven. The wine. The police sirens. The trunk.
The trunk of Tucker Noscalo’s freaking car!
I lift my hand to my aching skull and my other hand comes with it. My wrists are tied and, after attempting to move my feet, I notice my ankles are as well. I can’t reach the throbbing, probably bleeding, part of my head, so I put my arms down and rest my head on a blanket or rag that smells of oil.
The car swerves and takes a sharp curve, and my stomach tosses, the combination of alcohol and tacos and a head injury not settling well. The constant jarring movement and the exhaust aren’t exactly helping, either.
What kind of car am I in? I squeeze my eyes closed and try to remember. Black. Definitely a muscle car. Year, model, and make elude me. I don’t give much attention to things like that. The car bounces over an uneven bit of road and my stomach lurches again. I refuse to throw up and lie in a pool of my own vomit. I do have some dignity. But not a lot of hope.
Not since Tucker Noscalo, known convict, has piled me into his trunk and driven me far, far away from screaming police sirens. I hold my breath and listen. I hear nothing. No other passing vehicles. Just the swish of road beneath the wheels and a loud, growling engine.
I wonder what he plans to do with me. Whatever it is can’t be good. Men who put women in the trunks of cars aren’t exactly heroes. I spot my new wristlet on my arm and what little hope I do have flares. There’s a pointy-tipped metal nail file inside. The file would serve as a decent weapon in a pinch, but the most important item inside my purse is my cellphone. All I need is a little luck and a signal.
I lift my arms, but in my awkward position on my side, all my squirming serves to do is slide the purse up my arm. After a few fruitless attempts with my teeth, I give up, dropping my head again and letting out an agitated sigh. Gravity is working against me, and there isn’t enough clearance in the trunk to so much as lift my head. Getting the purse open isn’t going to happen.
Along with my phone and file, there are a few anti-anxiety pills in there. Not my prescription. Drew scored the Xanax from a friend. I take them sometimes, when life gets to be too stressful. I brought them since tonight is my birthday and I thought a little extra buzz would be nice. Now, I think drugging my captor with them might be nice.
What a turn my evening has taken.
I twist my body in the darkened space hoping to bump into a crowbar, a forgotten knife, jumper cables, anything, but I can’t twist far. My bound ankles offer little reach and my fingers are going numb from the ropes around my wrists. With a resigned sigh, I realize that even if I did manage to get ahold of a weapon, I couldn’t wield it.
My head swims. I’d better not have a concussion. Wouldn’t that be the topper to this day?
“I am Morgan Young,” I say aloud, just to make sure everything is in working order. “My father’s name is Aaron, my stepmother is Julia.” I lift my wrists and bite the rope with my teeth. A sting radiates across my jaw. Those suckers are on tight. Through my clenched teeth, I continue talking to myself. “Today is June eleventh, and the year is…” Before I can finish, the car hits another bump, and my head cracks into the trunk lid. Then, as I’m groaning and gritting my teeth against a fresh wave of pain and nausea, we roll to a stop.
Eyes wide, breathing shallow, I listen.
The car moves forward again, but slower, turning right…or left? I think right. Then we are bobbing over soft earth.
Panic numbs my lips. Soft ground. Mud? Maybe a field…or the woods.
Just when I conclude the least of my worries are suffocation by the exhaust steadily streaming into the trunk, we stop. Footsteps approach, swishing through what sounds like tall grass. My breathing escalates along with my heart rate as a few thin branches slap the side of the car. Is he hiding us?
Why would he do that?
Before the terrifying, and obvious, answer takes root, the lid pops open and Tucker towers over me, one arm resting on the lid. His eyes are cold, his hair blowing in the breeze cooling the sweat on my skin. He reaches for me and I make two futile attempts. One, twisting my body as he pries me out of the trunk, and two, screaming at the top of my lungs. Despite the dark of the surrounding woods, there’s a wild glow in his eyes. Blue, almost silver, in the moonlight. He props me on my feet, holding me upright
so I don’t fall over.
“Don’t waste your breath,” he says. “No one can hear you.”
No one.
His words are like ice down my spine. There is no one in these woods. Maybe no one for miles. I’m correct about the car. He has moved a few downed branches to hide it, but from what? I don’t see a clear path out of here and I don’t see a road. The darkness is so complete it swallows me with it. There are no lights from lampposts or warm glows from the windows of houses. Nothing but a looming, thick mass of trees hiding an ink-black car.
Dodge. License plate W0X 884. I repeat the number-and-letter combo in my head three times, interlacing it with a prayer that I’ll have someone to repeat it to soon.
Tucker surprises me by bending and slicing the ropes at my feet. I make a fast decision. This is my best—if not my only—chance.
I lift my knee and connect with his jaw, hearing a soft grunt and the clack of his teeth. Since I graduated high school, I haven’t done much running, but muscle memory is a beautiful thing. I take off, pumping my legs and running as fast as I can in wedge sandals over the uneven ground. In all my years of track, I never practiced in heels or with my hands bound or in the dark. I have no idea if I’m running toward a road or away from it. With my head aching, and the night shrouding me, odds are stacked against me getting out of here on foot.
I pause and blink, trying to see a clearing, a path—anything. Heavy steps sound behind me, slow and steady like a monster from a scary movie. I’m out of options, so I go with plan B: running and screaming.
I manage a few hoarse shouts, but I’m parched. Too much alcohol combined with inhaling exhaust for God knows how long hasn’t left me with much of a voice.
I wonder if I’m dreaming. This feels like a movie. Like I’m outside of myself, watching it happen to someone else. Someone with much worse luck than mine. How did I start my birthday in my new favorite outfit only to end it running from a man in the woods? Yet here I am. And I’d better make the most of this chance or I’m dead.
“Help!” I shout, picking up as much speed as I dare. “Help me!” My cries sound foreign and desperate. Futile.
Or maybe not.
A structure emerges as I run, and hope lifts my chest—fresh and revitalizing. There are no lights shining from the windows of the place, which is too small to be a house but is larger than a shack. Ivy crawls up the walls, and the brown paint is chipped and neglected, but maybe I’ll get lucky. I’m due for some luck tonight.
I don’t have much of a head start from Tucker, so I can either go to the door and knock or continue running through the woods and hope I don’t sprain my ankle. I’m too slow in these shoes and growing more tired by the second, so I take my chances and climb the warped stairs to a small deck. I slam my body against the front door, using the last of my energy to scream for help.
Sharp pain slices through my shoulder, so I step back a few inches and kick the door instead, hoping it will miraculously pop open like in the movies. A smear of dark liquid appears on the door and I notice a stick wedged in my sandal. I’m bleeding. The pain hits me a millisecond later, and a millisecond after that, I hear Tucker step up behind me.
The next thing I know, my head is being jerked back, Tucker’s fist wrapped around a handful of my hair. It doesn’t hurt as much as it startles me, but the moment my head hits his solid chest, tears stream down my face.
My gamble didn’t pay off. The house is empty. I’m at Tucker’s mercy.
“You saved me carrying you here.” He lets loose my hair and wraps a solid arm around me, pinning my bound arms to my chest in the process. A key appears in his other hand, and whatever hope I had flickers out like a lit match on damp leaves. This place is his. No one was home because he lives here.
He holds me, restraining me, as he slides the key into the lock, his not-at-all-labored breaths tingling the sweaty skin on my neck. He’s taking me inside of his secluded house in the barren woods. What’s he going to do with me?
You know, my mind offers.
I don’t know. But I can guess. Rape. Murder. Rape then murder.
Fresh panic floods my veins, the adrenaline spike giving me the energy I need to rear back. I kick the side of the cabin and push my weight into the man holding me. I must have surprised him, because I succeed in knocking him off balance. Then we’re falling, me landing hard on that same shoulder I busted on the door. I groan as I roll to my back and see that he’s caught himself against the railing surrounding the open, square deck.
He lunges for me. I scramble again, but he’s too big. Too fast.
I’m pinned down onto the splintered wood, his lower half trapping my kicking legs, his arm bracing my tied wrists. His heart races against my heaving chest and a cocktail of fear and desperation crosses his shadowed features, which oddly reflects my own.
“Please,” I say, my voice barely a wheeze. I hold his gaze, going for the last-ditch effort of escape by begging. I can’t outrun him. I can’t outfight him. Begging is all I have left. Tears blur my vision and stream down my face. “Please don’t rape me.”
The pressure on my arms and legs lessen as he rears back, chin pulled and lips twisted. His expression is stark shock and disgust, then his eyes go soft. My pleas are working. He peers down at me, his face surrounded by a veil of glossy, dark hair, then slowly slides his body to one side. He holds fast to my wrists, but my legs are now free.
“Please, Tucker.” I use his name, and his eyebrows close in. I can see the conflict in his eyes, which I hope means I’m getting to him. “D-don’t hurt me. I’ll give you whatever you want.” The last few words come out as a whisper, and I shut out the voice in my head telling me this is futile. The desperate, taken girl in the movies never ever makes a plea strong enough to penetrate the hardened heart of the attacker. But something in his eyes makes me believe anyway. There was a day in the halls of Baybrook High when my kidnapper’s heart was solid gold.
But.
Those days are long gone. That memory so far from the alarming reality of this moment, it’s like I’ve slipped into a parallel realm.
My only hope hangs on a hero saving me. My father will assume Drew and I are spending my birthday out until the wee hours—or think I crashed at Shayna’s apartment. My dad will go to work at six a.m.—yes, even on a Saturday. He might call or text midday, but maybe not. By the time he comes home around nine at night, he’ll assume I’m out with Drew again. Julia called this morning to say happy birthday, so I doubt she’ll call again. She’s neck-deep in “girls’ weekend” and being plied with margaritas and gossip.
My heart sinks to my stomach. I have no hero. Unless the cops followed us here. But the deafening sounds of nature are all that surround us. I drop my head to the deck with a soft thud, saving my strength for a better chance at escape later.
Tucker lifts his weight from me. I make one last attempt to kick, but he lashes both hands around my bare ankles, his warm grip heating my cool skin. “You stop fighting, I won’t hurt you. You continue, your birthday is going to get a lot worse.”
My blood goes cold. I blink at his gorgeous, terrifying face, pale in the light filtering through the trees, and remember a time in my past when he looked eerily similar. The black-leafed trees fade into mint-green concrete blocks of the basement of Baybrook High.
I am there after school, walking the hall alone. Luke Bromberg emerges from the records room, calling out lewd suggestions. Suggestions that escalate to him grabbing my ass, and me telling him to shut the hell up. A rough grip closes over my hip and I am pressed against the wall by two hundred pounds of linebacker I can’t wriggle away from. I yell at him to let me go, but he doesn’t listen. Instead, he tells me I’m gorgeous as he flicks the stud of my jeans. Then his hand goes for the zipper…
Tucker takes my elbows and helps me sit up. The trees come back in stark focus as he helps me stand, hands cupping my elbows. I watch him carefully, my mind locked onto that day at school. The way Luke flew into the air like he’d
been plucked up by a tornado. Luke was sliding across the linoleum before I knew what had happened. While I shakily rebuttoned my jeans, Tucker stalked toward Luke, fists clenched, nostrils flared, like a fighter in a ring.
Tucker beat the shit out of Luke in that hallway. He straddled him and slammed a fist into Luke’s jaw once, then twice. I ran. Up the stairs, past the lockers, and out into the warm sunshine. I never told a soul I was in that hallway—that I had witnessed—and was the catalyst—for their fight. Luke showed up the next day with his father, bandaged and bruised, his arm in a sling. Tucker fared better—a busted lip and a few minor scratches.
I never thanked him. He never spoke to me after that.
His hand wrapped around my upper arm, he thrusts me into his humble abode. I allow him to, but I haven’t given up. I don’t care what he saved me from five years ago, the boy who pummeled Luke and guarded my virtue never would have thrown me into a trunk and brought me to his torture cabin.
God. I hope Tucker doesn’t torture me. The sweat on my neck turns cold and I shiver. I have to believe there is a human side to him still. Despite the fact he’s been to prison and it’s been years since he was my rescuer.
He sweeps the room with his cellphone that he’s wielding like a flashlight. The inside of his place isn’t much. A kitchen and living room—if it can be called that—and a small dividing wall partially concealing a mattress on a raised wooden frame. I catch a flash of a mini-fridge and a two-burner stove, and against the wall, a plastic table with two mismatched lawn chairs.
He sweeps the beam across the room again and it strikes me as odd. If he lives here, he should know his layout. And if he doesn’t live here, why does he have a key?
Tucker pockets his phone and shoves me deeper into the cabin. “Stay put.”
Then he’s gone. I hear movement outside, and a motor vibrates to life. He’s through the door not a minute later and flips a switch that turns on a few dusty light fixtures attached to the wall.
Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1) Page 3
