Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

He edged his way back out to the foot of the bed, and I could almost breathe again with him on his way out, but he stopped and turned back, studying me. “Show me your tits.”

My eyes bulged, and I coughed, choking on my own breath. “No,” I growled.

One hand moved to the wall, and the other rested on the mattress, leaning in closer. He was still too far away, but the intention of intimidation was not lost on me. “Show. Me. Your. Tits,” he ordered, his calm veneer slipping even more. Simple brown eyes vanished, and a wild darkness took their place as he stared at the part of my chest my knees couldn’t cover. “I just want a little teaser. You don’t always wear a bra, and I’ve done nothing but stroke my cock all day, imagining what they look like. They’re so small, and I just…I need to see what color your little nipples are.”

His voice edged on a hysterical desperation that scared me more than anything up to that moment. When he started closing the gap, taking small steps to come back to me, I broke my silence and screamed. I lashed out with my feet, hoping to scare him from getting too close, and screamed as loud and wild as I could.

“All right. Fine. Shut the fuck up. Jesus,” he shouted, backing out again. “Just stop fucking screaming.”

I did once he passed the bed and was two steps closer to the door. I could only imagine how I looked—a feral animal with my hair wild and teeth bared.

“I’ll make sure to get some duct tape while I’m out,” he grumbled just before he slammed the door.

It wasn’t until the creaking of the steps stopped and the front door slammed that I even considered relaxing a single muscle—too scared that if I did, I’d fall apart while he could still come back and find me weak. A car door slammed, and the engine faded. Only then did I allow myself to fully sink back against the wall, and it was as if I’d been holding a tsunami back. As soon as I stopped giving it everything I had, it crushed my weak defenses, and I crumbled.

Sobs wracked my body, and as mad as I was that Parker left me, all I wanted was to be with him—to have him come storming through the door to my rescue. Anything. I just…I needed him.

I needed him even when he hadn’t been there.

I needed him.

I needed him.

It was all I could think of, crammed in the corner, losing faith I’d make it out of this. Wondering if I did survive, who I’d be on the other side.

“I’m going to die here,” I mumbled through cracked lips.

My stomach cramped in on itself, and I curled around it, wishing the hunger pains would stop. They had to stop eventually, I reasoned. Eventually, my mind would give me the blessing of blocking out the physical pain because the mental one was enough.

My captor left and hadn’t come back. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I’d had water. The first night, I’d cringed while giving in to drink the water from the flower vase. I’d almost thrown it right back up, but I’d been desperate and didn’t know how much longer I could wait until he returned.

If I’d known he wouldn’t have come back at all, I would have saved the water, making it last.

I had no idea I’d be left chained to this bed for who knew how long. I’d lost track. I knew it hadn’t been that long, but I was so tired, and my body ached. Sometimes I passed out, not knowing for how long. Did I miss a night? Did I miss two? How long could a person go without water? Five days? Or a week? Or was that food? I tried to remember the obscure facts I’d seen on a TV show somewhere, but I could never focus long enough to figure it out.

Not that it mattered anyway.

Because I was going to die here.

I’d been grateful at first when the man hadn’t come back. More time between me and misery. More time for me to think of a way to escape. I’d thought about dragging the bed to the closet in hopes I could find something to get free—only to find it bolted to the floor.

I’d stretched to reach the window, hoping to discover neighbors close enough that I could get help from—only to find nothing but land. I wondered if I was even in the state of New York anymore. It hadn’t stopped me from getting it open and screaming. I’d screamed until it hurt to breathe, the air too rough for my raw throat.

I’d wriggled my hand, forcing it into the smallest shape possible to slide free of the cuff, only to result in a raw wrist. I’d considered breaking my thumb like I saw on a show one time, only to figure out there was nothing I could actually use and that I was too scared to pull it off.

Now, laying here in my own waste, I didn’t care about fear, but now I was too weak to break a cracker, let alone my hand.

Now, I just wanted the earth to have mercy and let me pass out for good.

Now, I just wanted to quiet my mind, frustrated with the pendulum of hope, too scared, too desperate, too angry.

After the first night, I almost hoped to wake up to the sound of his steps coming up the stairs again. I hoped maybe he got caught by the police, and they were questioning him, and I just needed to hold on a little longer.

When I woke up the day after that, and he still wasn’t there, a hesitant form of acceptance crept into my mind, spreading as the hours passed. I took the time to wonder why? Was it all a joke? Did he kidnap me just to scare me