When I open my eyes, the first thing I register is the smell of cooking meat. I lie still, staring up at the ceiling. My head is pounding and my mouth is dry. I feel like I’ve got the worst hangover of my life. Despite the fogginess in my brain, I know immediately where I am.
X’s house.
I have no clue how I got here. The last thing I remember was the premiere filling up with smoke, and this asshole choking me with a chloroform-soaked gag. Fear rolls over me as I remember the explosions. The screaming. Matt disappearing in the crowd. I have to press my lips together to force back a sob. Oh my God. Is he okay? Did he get hurt? Did people die at the premiere, because of me?
I force myself to take a deep breath. I can’t break down right now. It could kill me. I have to stay calm. Squeezing my eyes shut again, I try to steady my breathing. I need to come up with a plan.
“I know you’re awake,” X says, his voice hard with irritation. “There’s no point pretending.”
Grimacing, I push myself upright. I’m still on the sofa where he left me. Thankfully, he’s removed the bucket I threw up into, and he’s cut the zip ties on my wrists. Something about that fact sends fear rushing down my spine. If he’s decided to untie me, he must know there’s no way for me to escape.
I look blearily around the room, taking in my surroundings. I’m in what looks like a cabin. This room is an open-plan lounge-slash-kitchen; I’m sitting on a stained pink sofa. In front of me is a small kitchen nook with an oven, a fridge-freezer, and a dining room table covered in a red-checked cloth. There are layers of thick foam stuck to the walls, which I guess must act as sound insulation.
I turn my head. There aren’t any windows, but I note the corridor running off to the right, lined with doors. I know one of them leads to a bathroom, but I’m not sure about the others. There must be an exit somewhere.
There’s a clatter, and I look back at X. He’s standing in the kitchen in a pink apron, pulling a roast chicken out of the oven.
He doesn’t look anything like I expected. I’d been picturing him as some terrifying, muscle-bound behemoth. A movie villain. Instead, he just looks like a regular middle-aged man. His pale brown hair is thinning, and his eyes are small and watery under a pair of wire-frame glasses. He’s not tall or short. Not attractive or ugly. His accent sounds like a mix of English and American. He’s just… average. It seems ridiculous that someone so average could do something so terrible.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he drones. “I cooked dinner for us both.” He sets down the tray of chicken with an angry clatter, slamming the oven door shut with his thigh. “It’s going to be lovely.”
I need to buy myself time. The last time I woke up, he was pretty gentle with me in the beginning. I shudder as I remember him stroking my back as I threw up. His hands felt horrible—sweaty and soft, the pads too fleshy. But I prefer gross to dangerous.
“X,” I say softly. He doesn’t respond, lifting the lid off a saucepan and checking inside. “X.”
“What?” He snaps.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for being rude. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He turns on me, his pale eyes flashing. “Are you? Or are you just saying that so I’ll let you go?”
I hunch up. “I’m sorry. I think it was the drugs. My head wasn’t clear, I didn’t realise what was happening.”
He grunts, turning back to the stove.
I lick my lips. “I was… disorientated. But I do remember you.”
He snorts. “Yeah? Where did we meet?”
“I don’t remember the venue. I just remember—” I fight the violent urge to gag, “a, ah, handsome man with kind eyes, picking up my handbag.”
He doesn’t say anything, stabbing a carving fork into the chicken.
I try a different tack. “When I woke up here, I thought you wanted to hurt me. I’m used to men trying to take advantage of me.”
He twitches with interest, but doesn’t look up, pulling the meat off the bone.
“But… ” I swallow thickly. “But I can see now, you’re not like the other guys. You want to take care of me.”
“And what about that man?” He asks, loading a plate with chicken. “The bodyguard?”
“Who?”
“I saw you kissing him. It was all over the magazines. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. I thought maybe he was going undercover as your date. Maybe the studio was making you take those pictures. I know that happens in the industry all the time. But now—” His lips press together. “I don’t know if I believe that anymore.”
He must be talking about Matt. I swallow, my mind running so fast I can barely catch my thoughts. What does this man want to hear?
“He made me,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “He’s… so much bigger than me.”
It’s the right thing to say. His shoulders relax. He drops the knife with a clang into the sink and rushes over to me, dropping to his knees at my side. “I knew it. Oh, sweetheart,” he croons. I close my eyes, letting real tears slip down my cheeks, and he makes a soft noise. “Oh, it’s okay, darling. You’re safe, now. He can’t touch you anymore. I promise. I’ll keep you safe.” He wipes tears off my skin. “You perfect, perfect girl. Of course he forced you. I’m so sorry for ever thinking otherwise. God, I’m such an idiot.” He slaps himself in the forehead.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For believing me.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to kill him.”
I shake my head. “No. Don’t hurt him. C-could you call the police? I’ve been too scared to do it myself. I want to report him.”
He cups my cheek, his hot, sour breath fanning over my face. “I wish I could, angel. But then the police would ask to come and see you. And I don’t trust you enough for that, yet.” He taps his finger on the tip of my nose like I’m a little girl. My stomach churns. “Anyway, they’ll probably be looking for me. Because of the bombs. I’ll need to lie low for a while.” He smiles. “We’ll get to spend some time together, just us. That’s what you want, right?”
I can’t speak, so I just nod. He beams.
“Come now, angel.” He stands and wraps an arm around my waist, helping me up. I try not to shudder under his hands as he leads me to the small dining table. He pulls out my chair with a flourish, and I sit down slowly, looking over the table. It’s like something out of a cheesy romance; checked tablecloth, napkins folded into swans, a long-stem rose in a vase. A battery-operated tea-light flickers light over the cutlery.
X goes back to the counter, returning with two steaming plates. He sets one down in front of me. “Here we are, angel. Eat up.”
I stare at the plate. He’s cooked a full roast dinner: chicken, potatoes, sprouts, and carrots, all drenched in gravy. Maybe it’s the lighting, or the drugs lingering in my system, but the food looks fake and plasticky, like the inedible prop food we sometimes have on set.
“I don’t eat meat.”
He sighs. “I thought you might complain about this. I don’t want you doing any of those LA fad diets anymore, they’re unhealthy and dumb. Human beings were made to eat meat. It’s just biology.” He strokes my hand. I close my eyes, forcing myself to keep still. “I think the celebrity lifestyle has gotten to your head, darling.”
I lick my lips. “I’m not really hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
“I’m still nauseous. From the drugs.”
“I’m sorry about that,” he says, his face softening again. “I’m very sorry about that. But you have to eat the food, I’m afraid. It’s part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
“It’s how my mother taught me,” he says, proudly. “You always have to take a girl to dinner first.”
“First?” Ice slides down my spine. “What comes next?”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t tease me. You know what comes next. Here.” He shuffles his chair closer to mine. “I always imagined us eating like this.” He cuts a few bites of food and stacks them up on his fork, then holds the mouthful to my lips. “Open up!” He says brightly. It takes everything in me not to spit in his face. Slowly, I open my mouth, letting him push the fork inside. I chew and chew and chew, hyper-aware of his face just millimetres from mine, and eventually manage to swallow.
“Very nice,” I croak out, and his smile spreads to a beam.
“I thought you’d like it. My mother taught me to cook, when I was younger. I didn’t want to learn, I didn’t think it was really a man’s place,” he sloshes some wine into our glasses. “But she insisted that a good man should be able to feed his woman. And I guess she was right, huh?”
I nod, looking down at the plate. “Can I lie down? My head hurts.”
He shakes his head. “Not until you eat everything. There’s pudding, too. I’m doing this right.”
“Right.”
X reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I am so happy that you’re here,” he says quietly. “I love you, Briar. I know you might not believe that yet. But just give me a chance to prove it to you.”
I force myself to smile, turning back to my plate of meat.
And I eat it. I eat every last bite. When I lay my cutlery back down, my stomach is churning.
“Pudding time!” X announces brightly. “It’s a little late, but I made you a birthday cake! Chocolate, your favourite!” He goes to the fridge and pulls out a covered plate. He places it in front of me and pulls off the lid with a flourish, revealing a thickly frosted chocolate cake with my name piped on top in shaky calligraphy. “Do you like it?” He asks, looking anxious. “It took me four tries to get it perfect.”
I think of Kenta handing me the heart-shaped doughnut, Glen sparking up the candle with his lighter, and tears press behind my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m really full, though.”
X considers for a moment, then smiles. “Well, that’s okay,” he decides. “We can have dessert after, I suppose.” He takes my hand, helping me out of the chair.
I press a hand to my stomach. “What now?”
He giggles—actually giggles—and the sound is so creepy that goosebumps brush down my spine. “Come. Sit on the sofa here with me.”
I sit stiffly next to him. X slides closer, wrapping an awkward arm around my shoulder. His fingertips skim my back, left bare in my dress, and I can’t hold back my full-body flinch as he reaches for the zip.
X sighs. “That security guard really hurt you, didn’t he?” He coos. “You poor baby. Don’t worry. I’m not like him. I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to.” He lets go of the zip and cups my face. I close my eyes. “Don’t be nervous,” he whispers. “We’ll go slow.”
“What’s the time?” I ask.
He pauses, then checks his watch. “Quarter to nine. Why?”
“No reason,” I whisper.
Three hours. I got to the premiere at four thirty, and I was probably only there for an hour before the bombs went off. Which means that I’ve been kidnapped for over three hours. And no one has come.
How is that possible? Can the Angels not find me? Isn’t this their job?
If they haven’t been able to track me down by now, something must have gone wrong. My heart sinks. God. They must be hurt. Or dead. I don’t know what happened after we left. Maybe more bombs went off. For all I know, the entire premiere got blown up.
Whatever’s happened, I’ve bought myself as much time as I can afford. X’s free hand slides up my thigh, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
I can’t do it. This sweet, submissive act seems to be working, but there’s only so far I’m willing to go. I’d rather die than let X rape me.
I can’t wait for the men anymore. I’m going to have to find my own way out of here.
X shifts even closer, touching his thumb to my lips. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years,” he whispers. “I’ve imagined it so many times. In bed, late at night.” His breath touches the side of my cheek. It smells like sour wine and meat. His hand slides higher under my dress, caressing my thigh.
I grab his wrist, holding it in place. “Touch me,” I say clearly, “and I’ll gouge out your motherfucking eyes.”
