𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

02 || Taken

Chase Atlantic - out the roof

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

Hangovers were only bearable because I woke up knowing that I'd consented to the god awful feeling in exchange for a night of getting completely shit faced.

This hangover however, was not something I'd consented to.

Perhaps it was the withdraws from whatever they'd drugged me with, but a bolt of movement causes the walls around me to shake. Walls that seem far too close for my liking, in a space that's far to dark for me to be sure.

Things continue to rattle, a hum similar to that of rubber skidding on asphalt filters through the walls.

I try to move my limbs only to realize my hands are tied, so are my ankles in the exact same way a roasted pig is, only instead of an apple shoved into my mouth, it's a dirty rag.

A muffled voice drifts into my ears, the sound staticky yet clear enough for me to recognize that it's coming from a radio. It's not long before the broadcasters voice reiterates the exact radio station and when I recognize it, I know we're not only driving, but we're in the city.

These assholes put me in a trunk.

And as if my day can't get any worse, I wiggle my toes only feeling the tight leather of the Louboutin on my left foot, my right missing.

I'd spent an entire week breaking in those pumps and they'd finally gotten comfortable.

God, this shit sucked.

With a new found sense of annoyance, I spit the rag out of my mouth, reach my tied hands up into my hair and grab my barrette.

Not only was it a made of gold with my initials carved in diamonds, but beneath the metallic clasp lied a spacing for a small Swiss knife.

It takes me a mere moment to maneuver my hands, pop open the blade and cut through the rope before I do the same to the rope tying my ankles.

I hadn't even landed in New York and this low life shit was already dragging me down into it.

A wave of homesickness hits me right in the stomach. I missed Oxford.

There I wasn't dealing with wannabe criminals stooping so low as to drug me into submission. I was dealing with self obsessed, back-stabbing narcissists.

They were all slimy and manipulative, my type of crazy.

These men were amateurs at best and I'm proven right when I lift the bottom mat of the trunk, reach into the spare tire compartment and pat my hand around the various tools, stopping when my hand comes in contact with a thick metal bar.

There's a reason my papá taught me about cars, and it had everything to do with learning all the ways in which I could find weapons if I was ever trapped in one. The car jack being the most obvious one of them all.

Like I said, amateurs.

It's not long before the car comes to a halt, and then the familiar sound of footfall is heard.