Gio pulls his car into the entrance to an apartment complex, the wheels dipping into a pothole and back out again.

An...apartment complex.

It’s the most normal apartment complex I’ve ever seen. It’s so normal, with its cluster of buildings, its clubhouse up near the entrance, that it doesn’t seem real. Or maybe this isn’t real. Maybe I’ve hallucinated this kidnapping. Can it be kidnapping if you’re nineteen?

Gio drives past the three-story buildings, lights on in very few of them. Who’s up at this hour? My mind latches onto the question. Who’s awake behind those curtains? Are any of them seeing me? If someone is peering out, will they be the last person, other than Gio, to see me alive?

After a moment, the bigger buildings give way to townhouses. This area is even classier, with little lawns in front of each townhouse, streetlamps at the end of each block. Gio follows the speed limit, a fact that makes me want to laugh and laugh. I’m beyond exhausted. I’m still drunk, I think, and the headache isn’t doing me any favors.

He steers the car into the driveway of one of the townhouses and presses a button on his sunshade. It’s so fucking pedestrian, a garage-door opener.

We wait for the garage door to open.

I can’t believe we’re sitting here waiting for the garage door to open.

This place is too nice for the Gio I used to know. That Gio, middle school Gio, used to wear shirts with old band names on them. This townhouse, with its neat shutters, manicured hedge lining the yard, and its garage-door opener is hardly what I pictured for him.

The door squeaks to a stop and the headlights illuminate a pin-neat garage. There’s a snowblower tucked to one side under a canvas cover, a toolbench at the back. Everything has a holder on the walls. There’s even a separate little loft for snow tires. It looks like he’s swept recently.

“Wow,” I say, opening my eyes wide. “This is the nicest morgue I’ve ever seen.”

Gio looks at me, his dark eyes tortured. I want to scoff at him, but all that comes to mind is a thousand more jokes, gallows humor, that won’t do anything to change the outcome of this. Why the hell is he feeling so tortured, anyway? He’s the one with the weapon. He’s the one with all the power.

He’s the one who looks hot as fuck right now. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, or the panic, but he does.

“I won’t cover your mouth if you promise not to scream.” He says this in the same tone that he might say, "I’ll get the groceries in the paper bags, you get the plastic ones."

My heart picks up. “I won’t scream.” For God’s sake. One minute we’re listening to an old boy band hit in what seems almost like companionable silence, and the next he’s all I won’t gag you if you keep quiet. This is unbelievable. I do not believe it.

“Wait for me to get out of the car.”

What else can I do?

I wait.

He opens the door and it occurs to me then that there could be other guns. There could be weapons I don’t see strategically placed all around this garage, in holders especially made for them. Tucked away, where only Gio would know. The gun in the glove compartment is the least of my worries.

He offers me his hand, and I take it.

He has strong hands, and his skin against mine is warm and smooth. I try to ignore that while I step out of the car.

I stretch, looking back out the open garage door, and suck in a huge breath. The sound of it must startle Gio, because he’s behind me in a heartbeat, that same strong hand tight over my mouth. Outside, the sky above the apartment complex is turning gray, the deep navy of the night disappearing into a colorless dawn. I could die here. I could die in this garage, and it would be days before anyone knew.

His other arm comes around my neck, as relentless as before, and my body lurches against him. Fight. Kick. Scream. The instincts come fast and hard, each one as demanding as the last. Put up a fucking fight.

I dismiss all of them, one by one, because I can feel his heart racing against my back. I can feel the tension in his muscles. I can feel how much bigger he is, how much stronger, and I can feel how he’ll kill me if I push him too far. He must not have any choice, if he’s in this deep.

Consciously, as if this is the most important thing I’ve ever done—because it is—I relax against him, the zipper of his pants digging into my lower back. It’s not a trick. I’m not going limp so I can jump up and surprise him, make a break for it, pound on one of the neighbor’s doors. I relax so that he knows I’m not a threat.

He doesn’t believe me, because his arm tightens around my neck. If he’s not careful, he’s going to cut off my air supply. My breathing is already too shallow. Spots appear in the corners of my vision. I raise one hand—slowly, no sudden moves—and tap him twice on his wrist. Please. Please.

I’m trying to tell him that I won’t scream. I swear, I won’t fucking scream, if he lets me live past this moment.

Gio shifts his weight from one foot to the other and breathes out, a long exhale. I raise both hands in front of us. I surrender. Whatever he wants to do with me now, I surrender. I only need air. I only need to breathe.

He lets me go.

I sway forward, unsteady on my bare feet, and breathe in, glorious gulps of air.

Gio puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me away from the garage door.

At the door into the house, he pauses, hitting a button to the side of the frame. The garage door rumbles and closes, shutting out the gray dawn light. “Let’s go inside.”