Page 65 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
They toss me into the trunk without preamble. I curl, protecting my head, and the door slams down a second later. I’m encased in pitch-black, blinking rapidly as I try to adjust to the darkness.
Shit.
I lie unmoving, shock more than anything holding me hostage.
What the fuck do I do? Two doors close, and the engine revs. The car takes off, and I slide headfirst into the side of the trunk. I yank the cloth out of my mouth.
“Let me go!” I pound on the roof and yell as loud as I can.
Music starts up a second later, something awful—a thumping bass that easily disguises my attempts to signal anyone.
What the fuck?
I brace myself in the trunk and feel around for something—anything—I can use as a weapon or means of escape. But it’s completely empty. It’s no better than a freaking rental car.
My backpack didn’t make it in with me, but my phone is in my pocket. I yank it out and scroll my contacts, but I don’t have Penn’s or Oliver’s numbers. Which fucking sucks, because I’m pretty sure one of them is driving.
And I would have words for them.
I won’t call my dad. This will either worry him or infuriate him, and either way, I don’t want to be held responsible for his reaction. I would, too. If I told him what’s going on, he would react and it would be my fault. The school would go back to hating me, with or without Penn’s sweatshirt’s protection.
There’s only one real viable option—Carter. I can barely scroll to his name, my hands are shaking so badly. Once I get to him, it takes a second to click.
It goes straight to voicemail.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
It feels fucking terrible to be out of options. Is this my karmic retribution? I never should’ve snuck into Oliver Ruiz’s house. Never should’ve sent those pictures of the playbook to Carter.
Me
I know we don’t do the whole calling thing, or face-to-face thing, but if I said I was in the trunk of a car…
L.
What?
Two guys threw me in the back of the trunk. I don’t suppose you’re one of them? That would be a real laugh.
Not really. Kind of traumatizing, actually…
The car stops so suddenly, I slide forward and slam into the front of the trunk. I rub my shoulder, which takes the brunt of the impact. The music cuts off. I shove my phone into the waistband of my pants, hurrying to tug my shirt and Penn’s sweatshirt down over it. I don’t trust them not to search for it, wherever we are. But maybe they won’t feel… there.
I don’t know if I can trust L., but I’m really hoping he comes through.
The trunk pops open, and a bright light sears my eyes. I squint up at the two figures, their silhouettes dark behind the light.
“Get out of the trunk.” The voice isn’t human, though. It’s robotic, like read through a computer program.
The flashlight moves away from my face, and I sit up slowly. I peek around.
We’re in some sort of mechanical shop. They drove all the way into it, parked in one of the bays. To my left and right are empty bays for more cars, and a warehouse spreads out behind my abductors.
I climb out slowly. They drove for maybe twenty minutes, I think, but my limbs are stiff from tensing at every turn.
The two of them look even worse in the overhead fluorescent lighting giving their masks pits of shadows. They stand back, waiting for me to emerge. The huge guy is within grabbing distance, and the one who drove stands a few yards away with a phone in his hand. He presses another button, and the voice comes out of the phone.
“Sit in that chair.”