American Prince (New Camelot Book 2)

after

I’m in a car. That much I know, that much I can feel by the vibration of the road thrumming through my skull. The thought comes, illuminating my mind, and then other sensory information floods in after it. My hands are taped behind my back, my ankles bound together. There’s something over my eyes and something over my mouth. I can’t see, can’t move, can’t hear anything over the roar of the tires. I tentatively stretch my legs out, first down, then side to side, then up. That and the scratchy carpet against my cheek confirm what I already suspected—I’m in a trunk.

For a moment, I’m almost amused. I’ve become one of those damsels in the legends that I teach about at Georgetown, one of those women in the stories who represents sex or virtue or deceit or any number of things to the gallant knight she’s entreating for help. To complain that these women are passive is to miss the point; they aren’t women at all. They’re symbols, defined by the meaning the knights make of them, recognizable only as the role they play in the knight’s adventure.

And right now, it’s hard not to feel a kinship with those cardboard characters. I’m in this trunk because of the meanings Melwas made about me, even because of the meanings the President and his Vice President have made about me. To Melwas, I’m a thing to be possessed; to Ash and Embry, I’m a living projection of their love and promises.

In other words, I’m being moved around in a story that isn’t my own, and I squeeze my eyes shut against my blindfold and vow that it will not continue. Not even if I have to kill Melwas myself.

I take a minute to calm my thoughts, to keep back the tears that might stop up my nose and keep me from breathing. I’m in a trunk. All modern trunks have trunk releases, right? If I release the trunk and we’re in heavy traffic, then someone will see me bound and gagged and surely I’ll be saved. But if I release the trunk and there’s no one around, then I’m screwed. He or they—whoever is in the front seat—will simply stop the car and shut the trunk again. And maybe hurt me for the trouble.

Which means I need my legs free at least, so I can run, no matter what the scenario.

The clean smell of the trunk carpet hints to me that this is a rental car, which means there’s a chance my captors haven’t been thorough in certain respects. I wriggle—quietly, trying to keep thumping to a minimum—so that my hands find the edge of the trunk carpet, and just as I hoped, it lifts up. Underneath, there will be a cavity where the spare tire and jack are stored, but I don’t care about that. I just want the tools. One tool in particular.

It takes a long time, or at least it feels long in the dark, having to move so slowly. But then I find it: a cheaply made vinyl bag resting in its own cavity under the carpet. I slowly work it open and extract the pry bar, thanking God that Grandpa Leo insisted I learn how to change a tire when I was a teenager, even though I had no reason to drive anywhere. It serves me now as I brace the bar against the side of the trunk and begin working the sharp points of it into the tape.

My wrists are stinging and aching after only a few moments of this; several times the sharp end misses the tape and digs into the soft skin of my inner arms. Luckily, the tape over my mouth stifles my yelps of pain, and after my hands go numb and my arms are bleeding and sore, it happens. The tape tears enough to free my hands. I wincingly peel the tape off my mouth and lose the blindfold, and then set to work on my feet, which takes much less time.

And without the blindfold, I see what I’m looking for, the only point of light in my dark world. A tab marked Pull.

I want to pull it now, right this instant, but I force myself to wait. Wait until the car slows, rolls almost to a stop. I bet we are at a stop sign or stoplight, and praying for daylight and lots of traffic, I yank the tab. The trunk lid pops open.

The light is blinding. Actually blinding—I can’t see, can’t even make out shapes and surfaces right in front of me. But I force myself to move anyway, climbing clumsily out of the trunk, forcing my half-asleep legs to run, run, run, even though I can’t see where I’m going and my bare feet struggle to find purchase on the wet asphalt beneath them. Even though I feel the hotel bathrobe I’m still dressed in begin to flap open, exposing my nakedness underneath. There’s a yell, a shout in Ukrainian, and I will my eyes to see more, see faster, as if I could shrink my pupils at will.

And sight is gradually creeping back in. I’m next to a large building, I think, stumbling on a narrow drive. It’s evening time; I must have been unconscious for a very long time. And there’s a smell, a familiar smell, something other than the rain…

My legs are pumping hard and I veer away from the drive and cut across the wet lawn, but it’s not enough, my stiff legs can’t move fast enough, my dark-weakened eyes can’t steer me to safety. I’m taken down only a moment later. I’m flipped over onto my back and the robe gapes open. I struggle to pull it closed underneath my abductor, and to his credit, after an assessing flicker of his eyes across my breasts, he lets me. I recognize the man who attacked me in the hallway of the hotel. He’s still wearing his janitor’s uniform, the one that says Daryl.

“You are too much trouble,” he hisses, and I wrestle with him, jamming my knee into his balls. He loosens his hold and I slip almost out of his grip, but then he seizes and flattens me, leaving his hands free to pin mine above my head.

Funny that some of the best moments of my life have been lying like this underneath Ash, and yet now, I’m all fury and fear. If I ever wondered if my sexual programming is messed up, here I know the truth—I only want my pain and humiliation from one man.

I think of last night and despite everything, I smile. Maybe two men, I amend.

“You think this is time for smiling, bitch?” Not-Daryl unleashes a slap so fierce I see stars. And then he hits me again, flat enough not to leave a mark, hard enough to draw tears.

Two other men join him and haul me to my feet, and as I’m struggling and crying out for help, I realize I know that familiar smell.

The sea.