Taken

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2012 Kelli Maine

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Edition: July 29, 2012

To the king, the queen and the muse. Howard Stern,

E.L. James, and Joe Manganiello.

Chapter One

The club is packed. Bodies grind together on the dance floor. There’s barely room to move. You catch my eye.

You’re alone.
 

Bass pounds through my body, rushes from my head to my toes, takes the same path your eyes follow. Your dark-eyed stare is flutter-soft on my skin. It raises goose bumps. Makes me flush. My vodka and cranberry-soaked blood runs hot with need.

You smile. Dimples pierce your cheeks. Your eyes flash. I can’t resist.

“Rach!” Shannon grabs my arm. She’s sweaty from dancing and pulls her blonde hair up off her shoulders. “I’m going.” She tilts her head toward Shawn or Shane or Seth—I’m not sure—the guy she met two hours ago.

“How am I supposed to get home?” She drove.

Shannon shoves her car keys in my hand. “See you in the morning.” She winks and pushes back through the crowd toward the guy whose name starts with an S.

When I turn from watching Shannon go, you’re standing right in front of me. “Hi,” you say. Familiarity strikes, but I don’t think I’d ever forget meeting you.
 

“Hi.” I fall into your dark eyes and can’t get out. They’re serious and focused on mine. Looking away would be a crime.

You run a hand through your wavy black-brown hair. Are you nervous? I can’t tell.
 
“What were you drinking?” You tap my glass, empty except for melting ice.
 

“Vodka and cranberry.” I take in a thick, damp breath. Dancing bodies fog up the air, make it heavy to breathe.
 

You shake your beer bottle, indicating its emptiness. “I’m headed to the bar.
 
Would you like another?”

I have to drive Shannon’s car home, but I don’t want to stop talking to you. I nod.
 
“Please.” I’ll drink slowly. I’ll drive even slower.

I follow behind you, taking in the view of your incredible backside in jeans. A black long-sleeved shirt shifts with your strong, wide shoulders and hugs your narrow waist. You work out.
A lot
. The body I’m staring at didn’t come from luck and a good gene pool.

You glance back to make sure I’m following. When a group of people push between us, you reach out and take my hand. My fingers curl around yours like they’re possessed.

We reach the bar. You squeeze between two men. I stand back to wait while you order. I watch you reach into your pocket. A second later, you turn to me and hand me a glass.
 

“Thanks.” I take a deep drink, ignoring my self-promise to sip and make it last. Looking at you, I need all the courage this vodka is offering.

You sip your beer, watching me. An intense magnetism pulls between us. I’m sweating. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The vodka is kicking in fast. I stumble sideways. You grip my arm.
 

“Feeling okay?” you ask.

The room spins and tilts. Black spots swim through my vision. “No.
 
I need to sit.” My drink slips through my fingers and splatters on my bare leg.
 

“I’ve got you.” You put an arm around me and lead me toward the door. “You need some air.”

I’m blacking out and coming to, over and over again. This has never happened from three and a half vodka and cranberries before. “I need to get home.”

“I’ll take you,” you say.
 

“No.
 
I…” The words won’t come. They buzz around in the darkness inside my mind searching for the light. I watch them break apart and fade.
 

You usher me through the parking lot. Open the door of a black car. Put me inside. “We’ll be home soon,” you say, buckling a seatbelt around my waist.

I try to grip the door handle to get out. My arm won’t move. My head lulls on my shoulder. The blackness narrows, leaving a small tunnel focused on the dashboard. Then it closes completely.

No more words.

No more light.

No more sound.

Just like that—I’m taken.

Chapter Two

My eyelids are heavy, too heavy to lift. Light glows white behind them. I turn toward its source, and it gets even brighter. I crack my eyes open, peel their stickiness apart. Everything’s blurry. Light shoots through my head like an electric shock. I cringe and squeeze my eyes shut again.

My mouth is dry. My tongue, stuck to the roof, is limp and swollen. I swallow, but there’s no wetness to quench my thirst.
 

I open my eyes again, slowly this time, just narrow slits to get used to the light. There’s a window. All I see is sky, clear and blue. Where am I?

Panic surges through my chest and squeezes tight enough to make me gasp. I don’t remember anything—where am I? How did I get here?

I sit up. Ropes tie my hands to the bed. My heart rate speeds, my muscles quake, my eyes dart around the room and land on you.

“You’re awake,” you say, standing from a leather couch and thumbing a button on a remote to turn off the muted T.V.
 

I remember you. The club. The
drink.
 
“You put something in my drink.”

Quickly, I take stock of my clothes. Skirt—still on. Top—still on. Underwear, bra—both in place. My shoes are the only things missing.
 

“I didn’t touch you,” you say, coming to the side of the bed and pulling up a straight-back chair. I shift away as far as I can, press my shoulder against the cold windowpane.
 
The bed sits higher than mine at home and it’s smaller, narrower. You lean forward and rest your elbows on the mattress.
 

We stare at one another. Your intense gaze is the same as the last time I saw it—when you drugged me. My chest heaves with the effort of breathing. My heart races. “Why am I tied to the bed?” My voice cracks.

You reach for a bottle of water on the nightstand, twist the cap off and hold it to my lips. “Drink.”

I shake my head and pull away. The ropes scratch and burn my wrists.

You smile. “There’s nothing in it.
 
I promise.”
 

Your dimples make you look like a nice guy. You’re not a nice guy. “I want to go home.”

You run your finger underneath the rope and stroke my wrist. “You are home, Rachael.”
 

I try to pull away from you. “Don’t touch me!” Sobs roll up my throat and out my mouth.
 
Tears gush from my eyes. “I want to go home!”

You sit back and prop your foot up on your opposite knee, thread your hands behind your head and watch me crumble. Your face is etched with remorse.
 
You close your eyes—I want them open, want you to feel pain and guilt for what you’ve done to me.

Flames of rage dance in my belly, crackle and roar inside me. I dart for you, thrashing against the ropes. I will kill you. Tear you apart.
“This is fun for you?”
I curl my feet up underneath me and push against the ropes with my toes.
“Let me go! Let me leave!”
I manage to get my teeth on a rope and try to chew my way to freedom.

You reach out and grab my shoulders. “Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

I lick blood from my torn, raw lips. My wrists bleed. I throw myself back onto the pillow and scream at the top of my lungs. I scream until my eyes throb, until my ears pop, until my voice is only a rasp.