Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 76022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“He passed away.”
“Oh.” Coach Dover looked uncomfortable at that, like I’d ruined the mood. Not the whole kidnapping and binding me thing, but talking about my grandfather passing.
“Did your parents approve of you playing soccer?”
“Oh, no. I never played. Not as a sport anyway.”
“Really? I never would have guessed.”
“I was pushed into football. I had the frame for it.”
“Basketball would have worked too. You’re tall,” I added. It was a fact. Judging by the way he puffed up at it, though, he clearly took it as a compliment.
“It always worked in my favor,” he agreed.
“Did you play in college?”
“Yeah. I didn’t get a scholarship, though.”
“What’d you get your degree in?”
“Sports science.”
“But you’re not working as a coach anymore?”
“No. No, I have more important things to do.”
Like build an actual prison.
“You’re not working now?”
“I am. I work from home.”
“Oh, that’s handy.”
Dammit.
That squashed any hope that he might leave each day, giving me a chance to escape without him chasing me down.
Oh, well. I would just have to… sneak out without him knowing. Or, I don’t know, knock him over the head or something.
I would figure it out.
I had to.
“More time to spend with you.”
Oh, joy.
“Um, Coach?” I asked, making my voice even sweeter.
“George,” he corrected. “I want you to call me George.”
“George,” I said, the name unnatural on my lips. “I was wondering… do you have any acetaminophen?” I asked.
“Acetaminophen?” George repeated.
“My face and head really hurt,” I explained, gesturing with both my hands to my head.
“Oh.” He looked at me then like he just realized how messed up I looked. “Okay. Yeah. Sure. I got the sports drink you like too! Blue.”
“The only color worth buying.”
“I’ll be right back with the medicine. Then maybe we can talk some more.”
“Maybe after I rest for a little bit? Just until the headache subsides a bit. Right now, it hurts to think.”
“Oh.” He was disappointed at that, but he was fighting his greater and lesser angels over it. He’d been planning and preparing for this for so long. And I was asking for time. “Maybe a short one.”
“That would be great. Thank you so much.”
With that, he was off.
Alone, I buried my face in my hands for a second, letting myself sink into the misery for a moment. I hadn’t been lying about how much it hurt to think, to speak, to just breathe.
“Do you get headaches a lot?” George asked when he came back with the bottle of meds and the sports drink.
“Only when I hit my head.” And have my brain deprived of oxygen to the point of unconsciousness.
“Good. Because we have a lot of… catching up to do.”
“Definitely,” I agreed, taking my pills and sipping my drink. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a little bit.”
“Okay. And when you get up, we will have dinner.”
“You cooked?”
“You’re going to cook.”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Down here?”
“I made you a kitchen.”
“I see that. That was… thoughtful.”
If I was expected to cook, my hands and feet would have to be released, right? And depending on what I was meant to cook, there would be knives. Maybe, if I was really lucky, a cast iron skillet.
I just had to keep him unsuspecting, make him think I was playing along, feeding into his fantasy.
After my migraine eased a little.
“I’ll be right here,” George said, making his way over to the dining set.
Lovely.
He was going to watch me while I rested.
Could the guy get any creepier?
Much to my horror, between the adrenaline, fear, and pain, I went from just trying to rest my eyes to drifting in and out of sleep.
It was that same heavy clanging sound that had me snapping fully awake. I jerked upright, the movement making my head spin, my vision swim.
My heartbeat ratcheted up, pulsing everywhere at once as I scanned the room, trying to locate my jailor.
But he was gone.
Judging by the footsteps above me, he was frustrated—clomping around the room, probably mad that dinner wasn’t on the table.
The basement was disorienting. There were no windows, no clocks, no way to gauge if it was the same night, if it was morning already, how much time I’d lost.
Was Trix better yet? Was she missing me? Had Saul taken her back to the clubhouse? Was he maybe looking for me to update me on her?
No.
No, I couldn’t let myself start hoping.
Hope was dangerous.
It might prevent me from doing what was necessary to get myself out of this situation.
I’d survived the past ten years without someone else coming to sweep in and carry me off to safety. I could get free again.
Even if, in my heart, I wanted him to be looking for me. Because he cared. Because he wanted to know what happened to me. Because he knew me well enough to know I would never willingly leave my dog that way. That I wouldn’t leave him that way.