Vivian
“I don’t know who she is,” I say helplessly, shaking my head. Branden and Alan have been interrogating me for what feels like hours. But every passing second leaves me feeling more confused than ever, and before I know it, I’m crying again. My panic and terror spill over in the form of hot salt water dripping down my cheeks, and I shake my head and cry out as Branden comes closer.
Branden glares at me. “She’s fuckin’ breaking down,” he complains to Alan. “How the fuck are we supposed to deal with this?”
Alan stares at me for so long that it makes me uncomfortable. Unlike Branden, Alan doesn’t seem like an evil guy. He just seems like an idiot stooge, someone that Branden keeps around for his muscle and brawn.
“I don’t know who she is,” I say helplessly. “I’ve never heard that name before.” Licking my lips, I swallow nervously and force myself to stare Branden square in the eye. “I don’t know if you understand this, but it’s not like my dad has ever talked to me about club business.” I widen my eyes, trying to make my voice as honest and open as possible.
“I don’t think she’s telling the truth,” Alan says and I glare at him, suddenly hating him and wishing I could take back the nice thoughts I had just a few seconds ago.
“No shit,” Branden says. “She’s a fuckin’ lying little bitch.”
“I’m not!” I cry loudly. “I swear to God, I’m not lying! I’ve never even heard the name Laura before!” It’s true. I haven’t. And I’m trying, I really am. I’m racking my brain for all of the little things I’ve overheard in the past.
Branden stares at me. He pulls a cigarette from a hard pack in his pocket and sticks one against his lip, lighting it and blowing foul smoke into my face. The cigarette smoke makes my eyes water but I force myself to keep staring at him. It’s not like I can lose any more of my dignity. I’ve already been slapped so many times that I’ve lost count. I’ve already cried and blown snot all over my face in front of my captors. I’ve done everything right. Why are they holding me here like this?
“Alright, girlie,” Branden says after a long silence. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Alan and I here are gonna have ourselves a little meal in the next room.” The mention of food makes my stomach growl and I wince, hoping that Branden hasn’t heard me. But the grin spreading across his face tells me that he knows.
“She might be hungry, boss,” Alan says. “She probably ain’t eaten all night.”
“Then maybe she’ll be more willing to talk when we get back,” Branden says icily. He gets to his feet and throws the still-lit cigarette between my legs. I cry out as it lands on the ground, mere inches from my jean-covered thighs.
Branden throws his head back in cruel laughter and stomps out of the room, shaking his head.
I hate you, I think as I stare at his leather-covered back. You’re an animal, a monster.
I feel so stupid. All of this is my fault. If I hadn’t been such a proud little know-it-all, I never would have snuck out of the house and tried to find Landon on my own. I should’ve known that I wouldn’t be able to outsmart my father.
My father. Just thinking of him makes my heart contract. What happened to him? Did Alan and Branden know about the hideout all along? Did they hurt him?
My throat closes like there’s a hand around it and I close my eyes. If anything happened to Dad, I won’t ever be able to forgive myself. More than anything, I want to see him and have him hug me and tell me that everything’s going to be okay.
When I was a little kid, that’s how Dad used to take care of me. Whenever something scary happened–a nightmare, a bad grade on a test, a mean kid in the school yard–Dad was always right there to hold me and tell me that he’d always protect me. Back then, it used to make me feel good, not smothered like it does now.
I’d give anything to go back to those innocent days.
From the other room, I can hear Branden and Alan stumbling around and cursing. I didn’t get a good look at the kitchen on the way into the little house, but from what they’re saying, I’m guessing it’s not particularly modern.
Fuck them, I think angrily. Let them starve.
But then it occurs to me that if I can do anything to improve my standing with Branden and Alan, I should do it. After all, that’s what a survivor would do. Besides, if they’ll untie me, then maybe I’ll have a better chance at escaping from this place.
“Are you having trouble in there?” I call, trying to keep my voice calm. “I know how to cook,” I add loudly. “I can help if you need.”
From the kitchen comes a loud crash, followed by a volley of cursing between Branden and Alan. I smirk, against my will. I can do this, I think. I can help them, and then I’ll get my chance to escape.
Loud footsteps stomp across the kitchen floor and back into the big empty room where I’m propped against the wall. It’s Alan.
“You yelled?” In the glow of the firelight, I can see that his face is red and sweaty. He looks irritated, too.
Good, I think. This is my chance.
“Are you having trouble with the kitchen?” I try to smile sweetly. “You know, I used to cook a lot. I bet I could help out.”
Alan’s features light up and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at how easy it was. But then he frowns and my heart sinks.
“I dunno,” Alan says, his voice trailing off. “I don’t think Branden would be real pleased about that.”
I lick my lips. My heart is jackhammering away, like I’m about to commit a felony, but I know that I have to stay cool. I have to think like a survivor and pull off the best acting job of my life if I’m somehow going to make it out of here alive.
“Well, if you want to go hungry,” I say, still trying to sound sweet. “But I know how to cook just about anything, even if there isn’t a stove. I can cook on a woodstove,” I add, lying through my teeth. “What are you trying to make?”
Alan’s features twist in an obvious storm of confusion.
“Uh,” Alan says. “Be right back.” He stomps into the kitchen, interrupting Branden’s steady stream of swear words. For a minute, I lean against the wall and try to listen to the two of them bickering.
When Alan pops his head back into the living room, I’m sure that I’ve won. I try not to gloat as he walks over to me and picks me up off the floor as easily as if I weigh five pounds. Alan is gentler than Branden, and he carries me carefully into the kitchen.
“She’s gonna help,” Alan announces to Branden. Alan sets me down clumsily in a chair. I almost slide off but I manage to jam my good foot against a table leg and keep myself upright. It feels much more dignified to be in a chair than on the floor, even with my arms tied behind my back.
“I don’t see how she can,” Branden says. “She’s all tied up.”
“If you untie me, I can help,” I say, one step away from fluttering my lashes.
“I don’t know,” Branden says warily. He turns to Alan. “Can’t she just tell you what to do?”
While the two of them bicker, I glance around the kitchen. The back door is barred. There’s even a deadbolt that Branden or Alan fastened above three locks. There’s an ancient woodstove that sputters the occasional small cloud of smoke. Beyond that, there isn’t much. I spy a metal bowl on the floor, and a box of pancake mix with the top ripped off. The design on the box makes it look ancient–like it’s from the seventies or eighties. I shudder. Is that stuff even safe to eat?
Alan grunts and walks towards me. As he pushes me to the front of the chair, I can tell he’s trying to be gentle. He reaches behind me and fumbles with the ropes. My hands have been numb for hours, but being jolted around like this is extremely painful and I bite my lip so I won’t cry out in pain. Agony shoots up both arms and I squirm around on the seat, blinking back tears.
When my hands are finally freed, Alan takes my wrists and pushes my hands in my lap. He rubs his hands together, gesturing for me to do the same. It hurts, but I force my fingers to work through the tension in my hands. Tears stream down my face, but the tingling pins and needles sensation begins to fade, and finally I can feel my fingers again.
“Those ropes were too tight,” Alan says. “Don’t tie her up so tight next time.” He unties my ankles.
I have to work hard not to roll my eyes. Who the hell is this guy, and why does he even care? He abducted me, for god’s sake.
“Yeah, yeah,” Branden says. He turns to me, hands on his hips. I can smell him from where I sit, and the combination of oily skin, bad breath, and cigarettes isn’t a pleasant one. What I’d give to smell Landon one more time–that woodsy, masculine cologne and the scent of leather from his jacket…
I stand up, wincing as I put weight on my bad foot. My foot has swollen so badly that my shoe is clinging tightly, and it almost makes a kind of brace for my ankle. I don’t want to appear weak, even though I know these men have seen me at my most pathetic. Maybe if I look strong, I’ll start to feel strong too.
“What are you trying to make?”
Branden jerks his thumb towards the floor, pointing towards the box of pancake mix. I wait for him to hand it to me, but instead he lights another cigarette and sits down in the chair I just vacated. Biting my lip to keep from crying out, I shuffle across the floor and stoop down to grab the box.
I swallow, reading the instructions. “This says the mix expired in 1975,” I say slowly. “Are you sure you want to eat this?”
Branden snickers. “Fuckin’ pancake mix doesn’t expire,” he says. “Nice try, girlie. I oughta tie you back up and throw you outside!”
“Never mind,” I say, gritting my teeth and walking back towards the wood stove. The heat is finally going, and the surface is hot to the touch. Standing on my bad ankle is killing me, but the heat radiating from the wood stove is enticingly warm.
I can feel the strain of Branden’s eyes on me as I pour some of the mix into the metal bowl, then add water. There aren’t any measuring cups and the water is brown, but I figure that I can’t really do any better. Wincing, I use my fingers to stir until the mix is blended and there aren’t many lumps.
As I pour out small circles of mix onto the top of the woodstove, Branden and Alan seem to relax. They’re talking now about another MC. When I hear Landon’s name, I perk up. Then Branden mentions something about a train and how Landon won’t be around for a long time.
Biting my lip, I turn to face them. “Are you talking about Landon Lockhart?”
“Shut up, you nosy bitch,” Branden says. “Go back to cooking!”
“Because if you are,” I say boldly. “I wouldn’t speak ill of him. He’ll be on his way soon,” I add, trying to sound cavalier and brave. “Landon works for my dad, and he’s going to rescue me.”
Branden’s eyebrows fly up. “Oh, is he?” Branden snickers. “That ain’t what I’ve heard, little girl.”
Even though I want to believe he’s only saying that to frighten me, his words inject a fresh wave of fear into my heart.
“What do you mean?” I ask slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, the way I see it,” Branden drawls, taking a long pull of his cigarette and blowing the smoke in my face. “Landon ain’t gonna be doing any rescuing for a long time.”
At his words, my blood runs cold.
“Landon’s dead, little girl,” Branden says, smirking. “He’s gonna be in the ground before too much longer. But he’s a dead man walking right now.”
The smell of burning pancakes makes me whirl around to face the stove and I blink back tears as I stare down at the food. No, I think in horror. I want to believe that it’s all a joke. that Branden is just fucking with me.
But the sound of his laughter is enough to make me realize that both Landon and I are in serious, mortal danger.