Savages Series Boxed Set

by Jessica Gadziala

  I smiled, placing it with the others, then went about getting myself ready for my day.

  As I said, work was work. Wednesdays suck. I never found it comforting that half the week was over because it still meant you had half to go. Which was especially annoying when you had things you wanted to do with your weekend. Like spend it with your new... boyfriend.

  Boyfriend.

  That's what he was.

  The term sounded absurd given that I was twenty-eight years old and Paine was in his mid-thirties, but that's what he was. He was mine.

  So yeah, while when I was single, I often clocked sixty to eighty hour weeks happily and easily, I was struggling to pull off forty to fifty hour weeks with one.

  I blamed the hormones.

  And the mind-bending sex.

  With a super hot, alpha, but in a sweet way, guy.

  I left work and headed to the gym, planning on just putting in a good twenty minutes, just to keep things tight. Chinese food always made me feel greasy and bloated the next morning and, well, it wasn't easy to feel sexy when you were greasy and bloated.

  I took a quick shower, dressed in plain jeans and my old college sweatshirt and headed out the door.

  I did this while not looking up because I was searching for my keys.

  As such, I ran into a solid wall of man.

  "Oomph," I grunted on impact, my keys falling out of my hand as I took a hasty step back. "Hey sorry, I wasn't paying..." I looked up and froze.

  He looked down and sneered.

  Because we both recognized each other.

  It was actually kind of hard to realize that it was only nine days before. It felt like a lifetime. But it was just the Monday before last that I found myself running through the streets of Navesink Bank being chased by a not-so-fit man named Trick who had at least half of a brain and a muscle-bound, brutish, single-celled organism named D.

  Now, granted, I hadn't gotten the best look at either of them being that I was scared out of my skin and running for my life, but I'd caught a good enough look at D to recognize him as the man standing in front of me in black basketball shorts, black sneakers, and a too-tight gray wifebeater. Yeah, shorts and a wifebeater... in the middle of winter. I wondered if steroids somehow made your body temperature rise.

  "Barbie," he smiled evilly.

  In about point-three seconds, I took in the empty parking lot and knew the front doors were only about twenty feet behind me. There was a tree blocking it from view, but if I ran and screamed, there was a gym full of big, muscle-y guys who could run to my rescue.

  I turned and had one leg out to start my sprint. But one hand clamped down around my mouth while the other arm curled around my belly so hard it felt like it was rearranging my insides, and lifted me up off my feet against his chest.

  The panic started in a second, making my heart hammer in my chest, a sweat spread across my body, my throat start to feel constricted. I flailed as much as the position would allow as I was dragged backward. I needed to get my feet on the ground. I remembered a self-defense video I watched once where they grabbed a guy from behind and he said the only way to overpower a much stronger attacker from behind was to get your feet on the ground and jump as hard and fast as possible, thereby breaking his hold on you. Then you were supposed to run like hell. But my feet never hit the ground again as I was pulled across the lot.

  We stopped beside an old tan sedan, as in old, like it had been alive almost as long as me. The next move happened so fast that I couldn't react. One second, a hand was still over my mouth and an arm around my middle, my entire body dangling. The next, my mouth was uncovered and my middle was released as my feet slammed down hard, the pain ricocheting up my thighs. But before I could even scream, a strong forearm was around my throat from behind, cutting off my air supply. My hands went up automatically, trying to claw his arm away to no avail as I felt my brain start to get fuzzy. I didn't know much about things like self-defense, but I did know it only took seconds to pass out while being choked. I was vaguely aware of D moving around behind me, of a trunk being opened.

  But then, only a matter of five or six seconds later, I wasn't aware of anything as unconsciousness claimed me.

  I woke up fully alert.

  That hit me as strange. I figured I would wake up groggy, unfocused, a little unaware of what happened. But that wasn't what happened. One second, I was trying to claw a hand from my neck. Seemingly the next, I was rolling around in a trunk, acutely aware of what just happened to me. I was choked out and thrown in a trunk by a member of the Third Street gang.

  I threw out my arms and legs automatically, hitting all four corners of the trunk and holding myself in place as the car took a hard turn that made my stomach do an uncomfortable flip-flop.

  Okay. I needed to focus. I needed to ignore the painful thrumming of my heart in my chest, the throbbing points of my pulse in my throat, wrists, and temples. I had to swallow the nausea.

  I needed to not panic.

  Everyone knew the story about car trunks. Hell, we all learned that in assemblies at school. Newer cars had an emergency escape latch. Older cars didn't. This was an older car. In older cars, your best bet was to kick out the brake lights. I scrunched up in the small space, finding the corners where the lights were situated and slamming my heel into it three times before, on the fourth strike, my foot went straight through. I turned again, thrusting my hand out of the space and waving it around frantically, wondering if anyone was even around to see it, let alone try to intervene.

  The car took another sharp turn and something slammed into my side. I reached for it with my free hand, feeling the familiar slippery material of my gym bag. I always locked my purse in my trunk when I was leaving work for the gym, not trusting leaving it in a locker room even though I had a lock. Two things came to me right at that minute. One, I had a lock. As in a padlock. As in a solid piece of metal that could really cause some pain. Two, while I locked up my purse in my trunk, I always threw two essentials into my gym bag along with my clothes and water bottle: my Ipod... and my cell.

  I pulled my hand out of the hole, knowing that was probably not going to help me anyway, and fumbled through my bag, cursing the sweaty gym clothes and tossing them into the dark of the trunk. My hand found the metal of my gym lock first and I pulled it out, clicking it closed, then slipping two fingers into the loop so I wouldn't lose it. I found my cell with a sharp exhale. I got it in my hands and tapped in my passcode when I felt the car stop. Not more than a second later, the driver's door slammed.

  He was coming.

  He was coming and I had no time to call the police.

  And I didn't even have Paine's number.

  Christ.

  Okay.

  My hands shook as my screen came up and I clicked my Facebook app, thankful for good service even in a freaking trunk parked God-knew where. I hit my status and dropped a pin.

  It was a long, long, long shot.

  But it was all I had time to do.

  I prayed as I heard the key slip into the trunk lock, turning off my phone and slipping it into my back pocket, that Sawyer and Barrett were still on my case. If Barrett was, he would see the pin. And, if maybe he was suspicious enough, he would know something was wrong. And then I hoped to hell he would call his pain in the ass, cocksure, annoying, baddass mother effing brother who would call Paine and they would come save me.

  But like I said, I knew that was a long shot. As in, it was probably never going to happen. So I had to try to save myself. I curled the lock into my hand, knowing it was too awkward a position for me to hit him as soon as he opened the trunk. I didn't have enough of a range of motion to get a good hit in. So I had to wait.

  "Gotta take you to the boss," he said as he reached in and curled his hand around my bicep, squeezing in hard enough for me to wince and hiss out a breath as he started dragging me out of the trunk. I scrambled out, trying to keep my feet. He slammed the trunk and then he slammed me against it, locking me ther
e with his body. His pelvis was against mine and I could feel his erection through his jeans. "But maybe I can have a little fun with you first," he said with that ugly-freaking sneer again, his hand moving out and closing over my breast through my lightweight sweater.

  And, well, that was apparently my breaking point.

  I leaned slightly backward as I planted my feet. My arm went back and, without even pausing to think, I swung out with the lock. It made a sickening crunching sound as it collided with his cheekbone, making him rear back on a howl.

  I didn't consider the chance of staying and fighting, hitting him until he couldn't see so he couldn't chase me. I just turned and ran.

  I realized too late that I should have went with the blinding him idea because I was shoved so hard in my lower back that I fell forward, flailing, stomach dropping. I had the foresight at the last possible moment to throw my hands out to break my fall. But my momentum was high and the impact was hard, scraping across my palms which didn't hold my weight and I went down on my forearms, crying out in agony as it felt like something snapped inside as the pavement burned and ripped the skin. The side of my face collided too, but much more gently because I instinctively locked my neck. The road scratched my cheekbone, but not bad enough to cause any real damage.

  I couldn't even blink away the tears before a hand reached down and grabbed my hair at the ends and pulled so viciously that I pushed up onto my busted palms just to try to ease the searing pain in my scalp. But it was no use, because he just kept yanking as I went onto my knees, as I moved to try to stand.

  "You stupid fucking cunt!" he screamed, finally releasing my hair, but only because he needed his dominant hand to swing out and collide solidly with my jaw. The impact did two things at once. One, the pain spread out from the point of impact until the throbbing ache overtook the entire left side of my face. Two, it was enough to drop me to my knees.

  And, well, my knees was somewhere I didn't want to be.

  I knew this when his leg cocked back then kicked forward, hitting right above my navel and knocking out my air. I doubled over, gasping uselessly, taking in nothing but the taste of my own blood from the punch from before.

  My hair was grabbed again, but closer to my scalp, pulling me back onto my feet.

  At this point, I was done. My face was throbbing; my stomach was aching; my forearms and palms were burning and bleeding and I was just... done. He pulled and I went with him.

  "I ought to slit your fucking throat for that you stupid cow," he roared as he pulled me across a lot. It was then I realized where he was taking me. Before me, a long, wide, windowless metal structure loomed at me, a perfect kind of irony. I wanted to know what was inside. I guess I would be figuring that out after all. "Maybe once the boss finds out what you got to say, I'll get the privilege of killing your ass. But not before making you wish you were dead first," he said, giving me a once over as we stopped outside the warehouse door.

  I felt my stomach clench hard, knowing what he meant, knowing that he would take a sick amount of pleasure in beating and raping me before putting me out of my misery.

  I swallowed hard, proud that my eyes were dry, knowing that while I was absolutely weaker than he was, that at least I wasn't looking that way.

  "Is your chosen form of torture talking 'cause, let me tell you, I'd certainly take death over this."

  D's fist banged on the metal door three times, the sound loud enough for me to shrink away from it. "You're going to regret this," he promised as the door pulled open, revealing the other guy from that night nine days ago. Trick. Paine had called him Trick and he was the one with more of a brain. I wondered if that worked for, or against, my favor.

  "The fuck'd you do to her face?" he asked, looking down. "And her arms?"

  "Bitch hit me with a fucking padlock. The fuck was I supposed to do, let her get away with it?"

  Trick sighed heavily, like he'd hit his limit at having to put up with D's shenanigans. "I'll call the boss," Trick said, moving out of the way of the doorway so we could, presumably, enter. I was given very little choice because I was shoved forward with two hands to my back, making me trip over my own feet. I managed to stay upright somehow and Trick's hand reached out to steady me. "Ease up," he said over my shoulder toward D.

  The smell hit me first. It wasn't something I could place, but it was chemical, unnatural. It made my nose burn to breathe it in. The air inside the warehouse was hot, stiflingly so. I felt sweat already start to bead up on my scalp as I heard the door slam behind me. My eyes quickly found the sources of the heat and humidity, locating long, low work tables in four rows down the center of the room. People stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Some were doing some sort of grinding, others stirring, but also some... cooking things. As in over fires. Small ones. With beakers over them. Like in science class.

  No one even bothered to look our way despite the initial commotion. I guessed they were either too focused, too scared, or too used to such things to bother. Or maybe a combination of all three.

  "Stick her over there," D said, waving a dismissive hand toward a small closed off space in the corner, like an office, except the walls didn't go all the way to the impossibly high ceiling.

  "Come on," Trick said, his voice going low. "Better not to piss him off. The boss won't do the talking with fists and boots. You're better off laying low until the check in."

  "Check in?" I found myself asking, immediately cursing myself for being nosy and cringing at the pain even the slightest bit of talking did to my, I imagined, hideously bruised jaw.

  "Check in," he agreed, not dumb enough to elaborate as he opened the office door and ushered me inside. "You got about... two hours," he said, looking over the room quickly before moving back toward the door. "Sit tight." With that, he closed and locked the door.

  For a long second, the panic swelled up to epic proportions. I felt like I was choking on it. It made my skin feel like it was crawling, like bugs were going to burst from the hair follicles covering my body. It made my mind race and my breath hitch.

  There was some kind of slamming outside the door that made me jump and somehow managed to fight back the swirling thoughts so I could think clearly.

  Panic wasn't going to help me.

  I needed to think.

  I needed to...

  "Idiot," I hissed at myself, reaching into my back pocket and grabbing my cell. I was so nervous that my hands fumbled and screwed up my password twice before I took a deep breath and tried again. My screen unlocked and flashed bright and beautiful, like a lighthouse beacon to a lost ship. That was until I looked at my service bar and saw a big, ugly X over it.

  My brows drew together, confused. I'd never seen an X over my service. I had service every-freaking-where. I was once in a field full of wind fans in the middle of bumbfuck Montana and had all my bars. It was never simply... gone. Not willing to accept the X, I clicked off of the now-blank Facebook page, and hit my number pad, typing in 9-1-1, hitting send, and bringing the phone up to my ear. I waited. I pulled the phone down when I heard no ringing, saw that it was doing the dot-dot-dot thing, trying to connect, brought it back up to my ear and waited some more. I hung up. I dialed again. I waited again.

  But it was no use. There was nothing.

  Maybe the Third Street guys had one of those signal-blocking things.

  On a sigh, I slipped it back into my pocket and crept across the room, taking it in fully for the first time.

  No windows, obviously, and just the one door. There was nothing on the bare Sheetrock walls. In the center of the room was a cheap Ikea-looking black desk and ergonomic desk chair. On the surface was a blank memo pad and two pens. I grabbed the pens and stuck them in my pockets, knowing it wasn't much, but it was something. As much as my stomach turned over at the idea of stabbing something like that into someone's eye, well, if it would save me from rape and death... I was willing to steel my stomach and do what needed to be done.

  I took deep, slow breaths as I moved
methodically over every inch of the small space, looking for any point of escape (there were none) or anything I could use to defend myself (aside from the pens, all I found was a heavy rock that I guessed someone used to prop the door open).

  It wasn't much.

  It certainly wasn't a metal, bone crushing padlock.

  But it was something.

  It was all that I had.

  With nothing else to do, I sat down on the office chair, tried my best to ignore the pain that was overtaking my entire body, and tried to ready myself for anything.

  SIXTEEN

  Paine

  I'd like to say I knew something was wrong, that I had a gut feeling, that I had some kind of fucking sixth sense that told me my girl wasn't okay. Sure, I'd love to claim that. But it wasn't true. I wasn't some superhero and I wasn't psychic.

  So at eight when Elsie still hadn't showed up, I expected she had stayed a little longer at the gym, doing a guilt workout to work off the whole container of Chinese food she had devoured in one sitting. When eight-thirty rolled around and I was sitting in her kitchen next to the dinner spread of a giant salad, baked rosemary chicken, and side of green beans I had made, mindful of the fact that we both liked to keep our bodies in shape and to do that, you had to feed them right at least sixty-percent of the time, and she still hadn't showed up, I started to worry.

  When another twenty minutes ticked and she still hadn't pulled up, I grabbed my keys and I headed over to Willow to check the gym. At first, I spotted her blue Porsche and felt my stomach muscles unclench, my hands relax their death grip on the steering wheel. She was just staying extra late at the gym. Hell, maybe she ran into a girlfriend and got to gabbing. But as I did a quick K-turn, ready to go and wait at her place so I didn't show up and look like some possessive prick, I spotted something that made me put the brake to the floor while pushing my car into park and running out of it. There were keys on the sidewalk.