Wrong Series: Wrong Part 3

"Mmm, I see." His eyes rake over me. "I untie you and you try to kill me. You see the problem I have with that?"

"I wouldn't try to kill you. I'm not a murderer," I huff.

"You'd be surprised what people will do to survive," he says quietly.

He crawls toward me, the gun clasped in his hand, which makes me nervous to say the least. His lips kick up in a smirk. He's like an animal stalking his prey, toying with it.

"You really should look at this particular situation like this, I'm your saviour. I didn't kidnap you. I'm most likely gonna f.u.c.k up my own guy for busting those pouty-a.s.s lips of yours."

My saviour! Is he serious right now? My temper flares. I have been bartered in exchange for a b.l.o.o.d.y debt to this man, who clearly has the morals of an alley cat. I'm not a f.u.c.king object to be traded and exchanged at will!

"Oh, spare me your chivalrous bulls.h.i.+t," I interrupt him. "You're going to beat the s.h.i.+t out of your guy because he's an idiot." My hands are trembling as I attempt to scramble back away from him. I know I should be careful how I speak to him, but honestly, if he wants to kill me, he will.

He sucks in an agitated breath and continues, "...and I haven't killed you, although I probably should seeing as how you just tried to steal my gun."

He's moving slowly, stealthily. All I can think is how much his movements resemble a big cat. This d.a.m.n room is so dark, which doesn't help. His cold eyes lock with mine, making me recoil even more. For every inch I move backward, he seems to move forward two. The last thing I want is him anywhere near me.

I laugh nervously. "Don't you think you're being a bit over-dramatic?" I try to keep my voice level, but it wavers under that murky green gaze. Honestly, I wouldn't even know how to shoot a gun. One look at his expression, and I know I've said the wrong thing.

His eyes narrow as he growls. I can smell the whiskey on his breath as it blows across my face. I panic. I don't know why I do, but out of instinct I lash out, slapping him across the face. His head snaps to the side slightly before his gaze swings to mine, and a sick grin twists his lips. "Wrong f.u.c.king move, sweetheart."

Oh, G.o.d. I think I'm going to throw up. The look on his face tells me that I'm in for a whole world of s.h.i.+t right now.

"I'm sorry!" I blurt, but it's too late. I thought he was an a.r.s.e yesterday, but that's nothing compared to this. He's going to kill me. I know it. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and the next thing I know I'm flat on my back. He violently slams me to the floor, his large body pinning me to the ground. His hand wraps around my throat, pressing me mercilessly into the wooden floor boards. I gasp and panic, fighting against his hold. The more I struggle, the more his fingers threaten to tighten.

"You have no idea who you're f.u.c.king with, little girl." He inhales, the air hissing through his clenched teeth. Those icy eyes of his bore into me, and he leans in until his face is inches from my own. "If you did, you'd learn I'm not a person you want to provoke."

I feel his fingers press into my throat a little more, and the weight of his body lays over me, nearly suffocating me. I gasp desperately as my lungs start to falter.

My pulse quickens, hammering through my veins as fear consumes me. He's going to kill me, right here, right now. I'm going to die in his bas.e.m.e.nt and no one will ever find me. My senses are heightened; I can hear each labored breath I manage to pull in echo through my ears, and all I can smell is him. The earthy scent of his sweat and cologne mixed with a touch of whiskey, it makes my stomach churn. All I can think is that I'd rather he shoot me than strangle me. I'd rather bleed out than have the life choked from me.

He moves until his lips are almost on my ear. "I am that guy your father warned you about." he hisses, the heat from his breath touching my neck, making me tremble underneath him as sheer terror grips me. "I am that man that you pray you never run into in a dark alleyway on the wrong night. Do not mistake my pity for weakness. I will put a bullet in your skull without a second f.u.c.king thought. Do you hear me?"

I buck underneath him, trying to throw him off me as my basic desire to survive kicks in. His fingers constrict around my throat, and I claw at his arms, trying to pull him away. Of course it's pointless. He must be at least three times my weight, but my survival instincts are determined to give it a b.l.o.o.d.y good shot. His eyes lock with mine, unyielding, unforgiving, and ice cold. As adrenaline floods my veins, my breathing grows shallow, my vision swims.

"Do you hear me?" he snarls in my face. I gasp and cough under the pressure of his fingers, managing a small nod. He tightens his hold again, and dark spots skitter across my eyes as a low hum rings through my ears. I'm about to lose consciousness. Suddenly, the pressure releases, and his weight is gone.

I roll onto my stomach, dragging oxygen into my lungs. I choke and cough violently. My eyes are streaming, as tears pour down my face. My throat is screaming in pain, and my chest hurts. I've never been so scared in my life. For a second there, I really thought he was going to kill me. It takes a certain type of person to choke the life out of someone. Shooting someone is one thing, but being that close, watching the panic in their eyes....I'm dealing with a monster. Lifting my head, I find him leant over his desk with his hands braced against the wood and his head hung. He looks so calm.

"s.h.i.+t!" he shouts, making me jump.

I crawl away from him until my back is against the wall. I watch him warily, my chest heaving as he starts to pace in front of his desk.

He raises his head and moves toward me, stopping directly in front of me. "Come on." He gestures for me to stand, and I do, but I keep my back to the wall the entire time.

He eyes me carefully, his gaze flicking down to my throat before he stalks away from me. "Come on I said," he shouts. I do as he says, because honestly, the last thing I want to do is p.i.s.s him off.

I push off the wall and gingerly follow him out of the office. All I can do is stare at him. He's so large, his frame seeming to fill the hallway. His shoulders are rigid, his steps hard as he storms through the house. When his hand reaches to his pocket, I tense, fearing he's changed his mind and is going to shoot me.

He pulls a phone to his ear. "Get down to the guest rooms, now!" he snarls. I suddenly feel very sorry for the person on the other end. Apparently his treating me like s.h.i.+t isn't personal.

I have to almost run to keep up with him as he navigates a set of stairs, and then along another corridor. At the end of a hallway, we reach a door. He slams it opens, stepping aside to let me in. I keep my eyes trained at the floor, unable to look at him.

Oh, G.o.d, is this going to be a torture chamber or something?

I peer inside the room and find a double bed, a chest of drawers, a TV. It's just a bedroom, or maybe a prison cell.

Hurried footsteps tromp down the hall, followed by a deep southern male voice. "Hey, what's up?"

"I have a job for you besides bringing me my f.u.c.king whiskey," Jude barks.

I keep my head hung, but peep up through my hair at him. His jaw is clenched as he narrows his eyes at me.

"You're gonna watch her." He points at me. "Don't let her escape. No phone calls. Don't f.u.c.king trust her. Got it?"

"Her? A girl? You want me to watch a girl? Why is a girl even here?"

"Problem with that?" His tone is clipped.

"No," the other man responds quickly.

I hear the door click shut. Knowing he's gone, I raise my head and find a young guy standing just inside the door. He looks up at me from beneath his long brown hair.

"Hey." He smiles shyly and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. He's not like Rich, or the other guy. He's just a kid. He can be no older than twenty.

"Hey." I say quietly. If I am going to be locked in a room with one of these guys, I'd much rather it be with this kid.

He stands in front of the closed door for a long time before he speaks.

"f.u.c.k!" The sound of the psycho screaming is followed by a loud thud that shakes the wall. I jump and this kid remains completely unfazed.

"Uh, I'm Caleb," he tells me. He's staring at me like he's never seen a woman before...and maybe he hasn't.

I stare at him, study him, really.

I swallow. "Ria. I would say it's nice to meet you, but, well, you know, kidnapped and all."

He frowns, looking utterly confused. "Wait, what? Jude kidnapped you? Jude?" He shakes his head and then resumes glaring at me like he has no idea what on earth to do with me. "That's f.u.c.ked up," he mumbles, and his eyes dart to the floor.

This guy may well be my only hope....

I shut the door, groaning as I rub my hands down my face. I nearly make it to the end of the hallway before my anger gets the better of me. "f.u.c.k!" I scream, pulling my fist back, and slamming it through the sheetrock. Pain splinters up my arm, and I watch the flurry of debris settle. I shake my head and suck in a lungful of dust. This is some f.u.c.ked-up s.h.i.+t Richard's gotten me into, and I'm going to beat the ever-loving p.i.s.s out of him for it.

On every f.u.c.king level, women are a weakness of mine. And that is something most people who know me are aware of.

I tromp up the stairs to my bedroom, fuming. I kick open the door and rip the black t-s.h.i.+rt over my head. I grab the edge of the dresser, lean in, and stare at my reflection. There's an angry handprint on my left cheek and several raised welts on my arms from where she clawed at me in a pitiful attempt to get me off of her. The look of absolute fear plastered to her face when I pinned her down by her throat flashes through my mind, and I have to close my eyes.

She f.u.c.king hit me and I lost my s.h.i.+t. What did she expect? I grip the edge of the dresser so hard my knuckles fade to bone-white.

I pull my s.h.i.+rt on, straighten it out, then grab my Colt 45 on the way out of the door.

I pa.s.s the room that girl and my brother are locked in, and stop to pound my fist over the door. "Caleb? Tie her up any time you take her to p.i.s.s, got it?"

"Yeah, Jude. Got it," I hear him shout through the wall.

And then.... "You are not watching me p.i.s.s!"

I shake my head. Caleb should have fun dealing with that one, I just worry he's too d.a.m.n nice. She's unfortunately an attractive woman, and half the guys in this house are f.u.c.king Neanderthals. Caleb's the only one with enough restraint not to touch her. h.e.l.l, I barely had enough restraint last night. She has one h.e.l.l of an a.s.s, an accent that makes everything sound filthy, and a smart mouth. Everything about her is just asking to be f.u.c.ked.

I pa.s.s through the living room, eyeing the guys glued to the television. "She doesn't leave, and no one f.u.c.ks her, understood?" I point at Bob in particular.

They wave me off. And I leave, was.h.i.+ng my mind of her while I tend to business.

I've been in this room with Caleb for nearly three days now. I'm starting to wonder what the h.e.l.l is going on. Three days, Euan said. Three days, and he was supposed to pay the money, and I walk free. Then again, I don't exactly trust the word of a guy who would sell out his own girlfriend to a bunch of criminals as collateral. I won't pretend I'm not hurt; I am. I would never say that Euan is the love of my life or any of that c.r.a.p, but I thought he cared about me, respected me. I thought he was a decent guy. How wrong I was. Panic is starting to kick in now, and it feels as though the walls are closing in on me. I have to get out of these four walls.

s.h.i.+t, what if I never get out of here? What about my job? My life? What if they kill me? It's the waiting that's killing me, the not knowing.

I glance at Caleb, sprawled casually across the small double bed. He's wearing a football jersey and keeps intermittently yelling at the TV, watching some game. He's completely absorbed in it. I study him carefully. He's the typical American college kid with s.h.a.ggy, dark hair and dark eyes. He's good looking, albeit he is still rather wiry for his height, but I can already see that he will bulk out.

I hate to admit it, but he seems nice. He hasn't given me one death threat. He seems genuinely concerned about my welfare, even though he clearly has no idea what to really do with me. I haven't really spoken to him since we've been locked in here. I'm not going to acknowledge a guy who is aiding my captor. He doesn't seem bothered, though. He's perpetually chirpy, constantly trying to feed me, asking if I want to watch a film. He's wearing me down without even b.l.o.o.d.y doing anything. I feel like I'm going mad. He obviously works for that maniacal psychopath, but he doesn't fit in with a gang of murderous thugs like Jude and Rich. Why is he here?

"Yes!" he shouts at the TV.

I'm sitting on the floor with my back to the wall, trying my best to block out the irritating ruckus of the TV.

"Is it really necessary for you to watch this in here? Can't you go and find another room?" I huff.

He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the TV. "No can do, chick. I have to stay with you, but I also have five grand riding on this game. Not f.u.c.king missing it."

"You do know that gambling is a fool's game, right?"

He flashes me that wide, boyish smile of his. "Not when you're a statistical genius. It's all about calculated risk."

"You're a statistical genius, really?" I ask sarcastically. He looks like the quarterback. The attractive guy with nothing going on between the ears.

"Not me," he chuckles. "Jude. He's got to know exactly which odds are in his favor. He's good at it. Really good."

I frown, because I have no idea what the h.e.l.l he's on about, but I don't want to talk about that b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I steer the conversation away. "So, do you have any plans for your life, aside from working for that f.u.c.k-wad?" I'm genuinely curious. I can't help but think that he's better than this.

He glances away from the TV again and c.o.c.ks an eyebrow at me. "I'm a paramedic," he says, shocking the s.h.i.+t out of me.

"Wow, okay. So why the h.e.l.l are you working for Jude?"

"You're nosey." His attention flicks back to the game. "I don't work for him, well, not really. He's my brother. I just help out. All this mess just comes with being part of the family."

I gasp. "I'm sorry, you're related to him?" I ask incredulously.

He nods, still not looking my way.

What the h.e.l.l? How on earth can he and Jude possibly share the same genetic makeup? Jude is dangerous and scary as f.u.c.k, whilst Caleb is almost sweet. I don't know, maybe that's just what they want me to think. Maybe he's every bit as bad as his brother. I look at his boyish face, and I just cannot summon even a fraction of the fear I feel toward Jude. Now that he's said it though, I see the similarity in their features. The line of his jaw, the set of his nose, broad and straight.

"How unfortunate for you," I mumble, and draw my legs to my chest.

He smiles. "You know, you really shouldn't judge him. You don't know him."

"Oh, so he's actually a really nice guy, I just caught him on a bad day?"

His eyes dart to mine, and his lips press together.

"Didn't think so."

"Either way"-his look grows stern-"you need to rein it in around him. I hear you've already p.i.s.sed him off after just a few hours. Not good, chick. He's not known for his patience, and he's got one h.e.l.l of a temper." His eyes flick to my neck, which I know has now blossomed into deep purple bruises, my own personal reminder of just how short-tempered Jude is.

"Yeah, I noticed," I remark.

"Yes!" he shouts again, fist pumping as he grins at the TV.

I glance at the set and see a sea of purple and gold going nuts.

"Did they win?" I ask, because I really have no idea what is going on.

He grins at me. "I just doubled my bet and won ten grand." He rolls off the bed. "That is what happens when you have a bookie for a brother!"

Odds, statistics. Of course. A bookie! Oh f.u.c.k. He's legitimately a gambling mobster. Holy s.h.i.+t.

By the time the evening comes round I'm climbing the b.l.o.o.d.y walls. I've been pacing the small room for the past half hour.

"You want something to eat yet?" Caleb asks, stretching next to the door.

I furrow my brows. "No, I don't want anything to eat. I want to go home!"

Ignoring my request, he sighs. "You're gonna to have to eat something, or you're gonna get me in trouble. It's been three days. You must be starving by now."

I groan and go back to pacing at the end of the bed. I am not going to stay here like some f.u.c.ked-up guest. I do not want to be here, and I'm sure as s.h.i.+t not eating their food like a good little prisoner. I'd sooner starve.

He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. "Okay, fine. I'm going to go downstairs and get some food. I'll bring you some in case you change your mind."

He turns and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him. I hear the click as he locks it from the other side. Guest rooms my a.r.s.e. What kind of guest room has a lock on the outside of the door? These rooms are just glorified prison cells.

As soon as he's gone I scout the room, frantically searching through all the drawers, under the bed...there must be something in here that I can use as a weapon. I eye up the chair in the corner. Maybe I could smash it and snap a leg off or something. What the f.u.c.k? As if I'll be strong enough to break a chair. Who do I think I am, the Incredible Hulk?

I eventually give up. There's not a d.a.m.n thing in here that can help me. I hear the lock turning again, and I look up to see Caleb walk through.

He's carrying a plate with a sandwich on it. "Okay, last chance, Ria. You sure you're not gonna eat?"

I glare at him. "No, thank you."