Page 67 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I swallow.

They drift a short distance away, maybe whispering or deciding what to do with me, or talking about the fucking weather. I don’t know. But then the driver goes to one of those mechanic toolboxes and pulls out a coil of rope.

He throws it to the big guy.

From far behind me, toward the back of the warehouse, comes a banging noise.

The driver points at the big guy and moves off in that direction.

“Just let me go,” I say to the remaining one.

He hasn’t spoken either. But I’m pretty sure every single television show about a kidnapped girl suggested getting on one of their good sides.

His hands flex on the rope.

My gaze goes down to it automatically, drawn by the slight motion. He unravels it and approaches.

I stand, but he shoves me down just as fast. I hit the chair hard. He ties my hands in front of me, the rope tightening every second.

His mask freaks me out the most.

Clowns… no, thank you.

But I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to stare at where I think his eyes are.

“I haven’t done anything to you,” I whisper. “Please. You don’t want to know about FSU. I don’t even know anything?—”

“Quiet,” he mutters.

“This is ridiculous. I won’t press charges or anything, I swear.”

He drops the rope over my head. It drapes across my shoulders.

It isn’t until he slowly pulls the end, holding my wrists with his other hand, that the rope tightens slowly around my throat. My eyes widen. I lean back with the pressure, but it doesn’t ease.

I jerk uselessly at my hands.

He keeps tightening until I can barely inhale—and even that hurts. My chest immediately aches for more air, but I can only manage to draw in the weakest of breaths. The rope digs into my windpipe.

And yet, there’s some part of me that’s convinced this is a terrible joke.

“Now that you’re goddamn quiet,” he says, “And he’s distracted…”

He wraps the rest of the rope around my torso, catching my arms. Everything is attached. I move my hands; the neck rope shifts.

When he shifts back to check his handiwork, he tilts his head. The clown mask is the worst, and I fight my shudder. I don’t want anything else to tighten.

“He gave you options,” he says. “But I think there should be an and instead of an or to his proposition.” He flicks out a knife. “First, I’m going to cut the scraps of clothes off you. Then, I’m going to fuck your ass so hard, you’ll be shitting my cum for a week.”

My eyes widen.

I don’t recognize his voice. That’s what scares me more than anything—and makes me believe him. It’s not Oliver or Penn pulling some sick prank. He seems to mean every word he just said.

He steps closer, dropping to his knees in front of me. It puts us practically at eye level.

He runs his hands up my thighs, spreading them with rough hands. “I like the idea of you choking for air while I violate you.”

From my thighs to my hips?—