I’m lying—my favorite movie of the series is actually Rocky II—but this asshole doesn’t need to know that. I’m banking on the fact that these guys don’t intend on killing me because they still haven’t shown me their faces. Which means that they plan to eventually let me go. Which, all things considered, is a plan I can get behind.
Still, part of me feels like pissing this guy off because clearly I’m an idiot. I mean, just what the hell am I thinking? There are times when I say stuff without giving much thought to what I’m saying, but damn, I need to cool my jets.
“On second thought,” I say, “I didn’t like how the Russians were portrayed in the movie. I felt it was irresponsible of the director to portray the Russian people as a bunch of pussies. Not that I think all Russians are pussies, especially you, though at the same time if you consider yourself a pussy, I don’t want to offend you and say you’re not a pussy, so maybe it would be best if we just got it out in the open and you told me whether or not you’re a pussy, otherwise I won’t be able to think about anything else.”
What the hell was that? Shut up, Holly, I tell myself, just shut the fuck up.
The masked man doesn’t answer me, of course. At least not verbally. He just sits there, staring at me, and then in an instant he leans forward and backhands me across the face.
Okay, so maybe I’m reading the situation wrong. He still has on the mask, which might mean these guys don’t intend to kill me, but that certainly doesn’t mean they won’t hurt me. After all, he did say that, so that’s what I get for calling his bluff.
The man doesn’t apologize for backhanding me, which frankly is pretty rude. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone. Flips it open and holds it up for me to see.
“From what we understand, your father has a special cell phone he keeps just for you and your sister. So that if you are ever in trouble, you call him and he will help you. Am I wrong?”
It’s true—my father told Tina and me the phone number years ago, told us to memorize it in case something terrible happened and we needed to reach him ASAP—but how the hell does this man know that?
“No more fucking around,” he says. “Give me the number.”
I say nothing.
He leans forward, his eyes even more intense. “Give—me—the—number.”
Now what is a girl to do? What is a girl who’s bound to a metal folding chair with a psycho who just backhanded her supposed to do when said psycho wants her to call her father? Whatever’s going on here, it has nothing to do with me other than the fact I’m now being used as leverage. But, well, the thing about this girl is that she hates being used for anything, let alone leverage, so of course she says the stupidest thing imaginable.
“Fuck you.”
Three hours to go.
Ten
I expect him to backhand me again, but instead he bolts up from the chair and wraps his hand around my throat.
Squeezing, he says, “Do not fuck with me.”
I stare up at him, not able to speak, let alone fuck with him, but that doesn’t seem to bother the man. He’s going to kill me, I realize now, and it all could have been avoided had I just called my father.
There’s an insane intensity in the man’s eyes like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but then he blinks and the expression changes and his grip on my throat lets up.
He steps back, glaring down at me, and again holds up the phone. “Shall we try this again?”
I stare up at him, trying to catch my breath, hoping my voice box hasn’t been completely crushed. I have no plans of ever becoming an international pop star, but I’d at least like the possibility to always be there.
When I don’t answer immediately, the man says, “Do not be a stubborn bitch. Give me the number.”
I open my mouth, try to speak, but it doesn’t seem to work. I have to clear my throat, try again, and finally manage to utter a few words.
“Can I … ask you … a question?”
He stares at me.
I lick my lips, clear my throat again. “Is your name … Dolph?”
Unsurprisingly, the man doesn’t think this is funny. He gives me another backhand, then leans in again, wraps his hand around my throat, but before he can do too much damage, there’s a knock at the door behind him.
The man lets go of my throat, stepping back as he glares down at me. A couple seconds pass, and then he turns and exits the room, leaving me alone.
The door now closed again, there’s complete silence except for that strange humming coming from somewhere far away. Or is it close by? Doesn’t matter. Whatever’s happening now, the only thing I can do is wait, and so I just sit here in this tiny room and wait.
My face stings from where Dolph backhanded me again. My throat feels tender. My mouth now free of duct tape, I’m able to shout for help if I want, scream as loud as I can, but part of me knows it would be a waste of time. Wherever I am, I’m far away from the general public. I can shout and scream all day and nobody would hear me. All I’d do is wear myself out, and right now I need to store up as much energy as possible.
Five minutes pass, then ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes.
Oh hell, I don’t know exactly how much time passes, but it seems like forever. Maybe this is how they
