“What the fuck!? Stop!” I scream as they rough me up to the car. I’m completely useless. “This is fucking kidnapping!”
“Stop screaming,” Emmett says almost patronizingly, like scolding a child. He opens the back door. “No one from the track will help you.”
His words send tendrils of deep fear into my chest. I’m shoved into the backseat, and my wrist stings from breaking my fall. Fuck, this thing will never heal.
Emmett gets in behind me, and I scramble for the other door, furiously pulling the handle.
“Child-locked,” he says.
Of course it is, I think grimly to myself.
He moves to the middle, and I squish myself against the soft leather interior. Thoughts torpedo through my mind. What the fuck am I doing here? What do they want with me? I can’t get out of the car, which is now backing out and pulling out of the parking lot.
“So, what do you want?” I demand. I’m trying to keep my fear locked tight – I don’t know what they can do to me, but in my weakened state I know I can’t put up much of a fight. I can’t escape them either.
“Oh, nothing,” says Vincent, twisting around and giving me a sick grin. “Just a little Jameson hospitality.”
I don’t want to know what their definition of “hospitality” is.
My track bag is shoved between my legs. My phone is in the side pocket, but it’s pointed toward Emmett. If I could just call 911 without them noticing...
Emmett is on his phone, seemingly oblivious. I move my fingers to my thigh. No indication he notices. I move them to the zipper, trying to fiddle with it inconspicuously. His eyes flicker over, but when he notices I haven’t done anything, he goes back to scrolling through Instagram. I casually try to gather my bag into my chest, but his fingers whip out and wrap around my forearm.
“Drop it,” he says, still looking at his phone. A painful squeeze. “Now.”
I do several things at once, one singular thought in my mind: 911. I reach over and knock his phone out of his hand. It bounces on the seat next to him. I put my back against his shoulder, and use my body as a shield, rummaging around in the side pocket. My fingers brush the cool glass of my phone before suddenly I can’t breathe.
I choke. Emmett’s fingers tighten around my neck. Panic stops my heart – I cannot breathe. The feeling is all-consuming and terrifying, and I grasp for purchase on his fingers, clawing at them. I need air. His fingers dig and I cannot make a sound. The air is muted around us. There’s a rushing sound in my head.
Is he going to kill me?
“Phone, baby,” he says in a low voice.
I’m seeing spots. My limbs are heavy. Somehow, I manage to pull my phone out and hand it to him.
Blessed air surges into my lungs. My vision returns and tears rush to my eyes. I bend at the waist, chest heaving and burning, and what just happened shoots through me with frigid awareness.
He could have killed me.
I rub my neck, feeling heat rise from the indentations his fingers left. I choke again, then suck in air like a fucking vacuum.
“You okay now?” Emmett’s voice is distant, far away. Briefly, I’m aware of a hand on my back, rubbing soothing circles. I wrench myself away, pushing back against the door.
“Are you fucking insane?” I rasp – I sound like a smoker.
He reaches out, gaze fixed on the hot tears rolling down my cheeks. His eyes are a dark gray, but they’re filled with a soft emotion. If I didn’t know better, I would call it concern. I smack his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” I say weakly. My throat is still fucked. “Ever.”
Emmett stares at me. His gaze sends a bad taste in my mouth.Then he turns to Trey, who is driving, and says, “This is good enough.”
I look outside – I hadn’t realized we’d traveled outside of the city. The forests of Massachusetts rose up on both sides of the road. I don’t recognize the road at all. I curse myself for not paying attention.
“Out,” Emmett says. I look at him like he’s crazy. Deliberately, I pull the handle.
“The child lock, genius,” I snap at him.
A flicker of anger crosses his handsome features. Then he scoots to his side, opens the door, and steps out, motioning me to follow.