Sharon
“Because she is blonde, you jackoff,” the shorter driver, who was now sitting in the passenger seat, said.
“No,” the taller man who snatched Sharon countered from the driver’s seat. “The one I got is blonde. Do you even fuckin’ know what blonde means?”
Sharon heard the men bicker as she woke up. Still dizzy, she bumped around untethered in the back of the van. There were no seats, no windows, just a rough, cold, dirty floor. She tried to sit up but toppled back to the floor when the van lurched as it hit a pothole. She groaned, the sound muffled behind the tape binding her lips shut. Little bits of gravel dug into the soft skin of her upper arms and her face.
The van slid smoothly to a stop, red light pouring through the windshield, and Sharon seized her chance. She maneuvered herself back on top of her own legs and sat up, surprised by the sharp stab of pain that cut behind her forehead. Disoriented by the position change, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes until the dizziness steadied and the pain lessened to a dull throb.
She opened her eyes and she would’ve gasped if her mouth wasn’t taped shut.
Three other women were crammed into the back of the van with her, all three bound in duct tape just like her.
One of the woman sobbed hysterically. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths, snot bubbled in and out of her nose. Terrified tears smeared mascara down both her cheeks. Her frantic red eyes darted around wildly as though searching for a way out. She wore a tight tank top, a leather mini skirt and black boots. A silver heart-shaped locket hung around her neck. In her dazed state, Sharon’s thought the girl was probably very pretty if she would only calm down a bit.
The other two girls sat stoically. They were both model-thin and wore heavy eye makeup. Their hair was teased and tousled, and they wore tight little clubbing dresses and expensive looking heels. They both rocked gently with the van. They didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t shake. Strangely, they just looked mildly irritated.
Sharon shook her head, still feeling dazed. I am the only blonde, she realized. The crying girl and one of the quiet ones were definite brunettes. The other girl had just a few blonde highlights. So, what did that mean for her? Who was ‘Rocco’ and what did he do with these blondes he supposedly preferred? The more Sharon thought about it, the less she wanted to find out.
The van made a hard right-turn, and sent Sharon sliding across the rough floor. She toppled into the other girls, grunting as she did so, the rough impact compounded her headache. The crying girl muffled-screamed as loudly as she could behind her tape and flooded her cheeks with a fresh wave of tears.
“Woah!” The passenger called out. “The fuck you doin’ man? Thought you took the wheel because you were the ‘better driver!’”
“The fuck you mean?” The driver asked.
The passenger jerked an angry thumb at the back of the van. “Precious cargo,” the passenger reminded him. “You want NYPD pulling us over and taking a look in the back?”
The driver glanced back and noticed the pile of bodies in the back. He registered the ugly weeping and groans.
“Don’t be a pussy, NYPD ain’t gonna do shit.” the driver scoffed. Sarcastically, he called over his shoulder, “Sorry ladies! But I don’t want any of y’all to one-star me on Uber after, you hear?”
Awkwardly, Sharon maneuvered herself back up to a seated position. The firm tape kept her arm pinned and there was no way she could maneuver her hands. She scooted back using her legs, and dug her heels into the floor to try and prevent herself from being dislodged again. Strands of mussed light-blonde hair fell into her tired blue eyes as the car raced through the busy streets of New York.
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