“Move!” the younger one told me as he shoved me toward an elevator door at the other end of the garage.
It seemed to be a service elevator and essentially nondescript. Once we stepped off into a back hall several stories up, a sense of familiarity began to creep in.
The older one grabbed me by the hair and jerked me back. A huge knife was held to my throat. “Get the door, Skid.”
The one called Skid carefully opened the door, poked his head out, then motioned for us to proceed. The dread that blossomed in my chest was smothering me.
Because I knew exactly where I was.
A ridiculously tall door swung open at the end of the hall. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing an expensive, immaculate suit, was the man who should’ve protected me.
Before he punched me in the face, I heard him murmur, “Welcome home,daughter.”
I awoke lying on the floor of my old room as if I’d been tossed in. My head was pounding, and nausea swirled through me. Unsteady, I got to my feet and stumbled clumsily to the bathroom.
My knees protested the concussion of hitting the marble floors as I hurled into the commode. The heaves continued in their attempt to turn me inside out, well after there was anything left to bring up.
“Oh, God,” I whimpered as I carelessly lay my head on the seat. By the time I believed it was safe to get up, my legs had gone to sleep. Barely able to move one foot in front of the other without crying, I painfully made my way to the sink.
I was a mess. Black streaks from both my mascara and whatever had been in the back of that truck covered my face, arms, and scrubs. My eyes were swollen and red. Hair, wild and ratted, stood on end. Some of the black crap from the truck was in it too.
Dizziness engulfed me, and I gripped the edge of the sink. My head swiveled to the door when it stopped, and I took a few hesitant steps into the bedroom. The door was only about fifteen feet away, but it seemed like miles.
Slowly, I made my way to it. My heart fell when the door was locked, but in all honesty, I’d expected it. Not that I hadn’t been hopeful. It didn’t stop me from shaking the door and pounding on the wood.
Of course, no one came.
I tried the balcony doors, but they were locked as well. Not that I would’ve had anywhere to go. The balcony ran all the way around the penthouse, but it was innumerable stories up. Unless I could fly, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything but fall to my death.
Glancing around, I found my room was as I had left it the last time I’d been home, almost two years ago. It might be incredibly sumptuous, but it was a prison nonetheless. A gilded cage for a broken bird.
Part of me wanted to curl up in a ball and retreat inside my head as I’d become accustomed to as a young girl. Except the other part of me—the part that had a beautiful, badass tattoo on her neck—demanded I fight.
Filled with newfound resolve, I shuffled back to the bathroom, holding on to the furniture and walls to stay upright. Dizziness consumed me, and my legs were now painful as feeling returned to them. Once I got in there, I closed the door, locked it, turned on the hot water, and stripped. My pants hit the floor with a thud, and my brow furrowed in confusion.
In slow motion, I picked them up and found the source of the weight. My phone that I’d forgotten was in there.
Shit.
I could’ve called for help after they’d taken me. I wanted to cry all over again.
When I pressed the screen to wake it, I wanted to wail with the unfairness. It was nearly dead.
“It’s okay.” I started a pep-talk with myself. “Nearly dead isn’t dead.”
Then I saw I’d missed several calls from Ogun, but my phone hadn’t rung the entire time. It made me wonder if the metal of that freaking box I’d been in had blocked my signal.
After taking a deep breath, I first dialed Ogun. Except it rang and rang before it hit voicemail. I tried again and again. I tried Geneva. Voicemail for her too. Glancing at the time and the sun barely breaking through the Chicago skyline, I realized she was likely already at work. No one I tried was answering.
“Are you serious?” I huffed on a breathless sob. I considered calling my mother, but she wouldn’t be any help, because I knew she was in Fiji with my aunt.
Deciding I’d leave Ogun a message, I called again. It rang and rang. Voicemail picked up, but right as I said, “Ogun, I’m—” the phone went silent.
“No. No, no, no, no, no!” My head dropped until my chin nearly rested on my chest. A quick search of all the drawers for a charger I might’ve left behind left me empty-handed.
“It’s okay,” I assured myself again. “I’m going to shower and get my head straight.”
Except when the hot water hit my skin, the tears started again. Melding with the water, they trailed down my face and to the drain. Images flashed through my mind of Sasha lifeless on the ground, then of Ogun as he’d stared into my eyes the last time he’d made love to me. Knowing I’d likely never see them again, I slid down the marble wall and sobbed.