Trapped in Kismet [KinnPorsche] [Kinn x Porsche]

Part 12: Where Will We Go?

The blaring horns of ships in the harbor reached Porsche's ears.

The boat he was on would be admirable, romantic if he was not the victim of a kidnapping.

Slow, steady rocking, the wooden chair he had been wrestled into (two guys with broken noses and black eyes could vouch he fought) rocked with every jerking motion, and Porsche sighed.

"This is unbelievably annoying."

His head throbbing painfully, a cold trail of dry blood against his neck, thankfully not his own, Porsche took to looking out the nearby window. His eyes narrowing to see the outline of the bridge in the distance.

Hands flexing beneath the rope bindings that held back his arms, they were laced around the legs of his chair so if he attempted to break away, he'd fall on his face first. Eyes closing once more to block the awful lighting.

"Ugh – head hurts."

He would rate the whole hostage experience negative 10 out of 100.

Recollecting the moment the car parked, Porsche felt himself dragged forcefully by the hair, fingers nearly yanked out clumps and then tossed to the ground like a rag doll. Knees hitting solid pebble, broken pieces of trash that littered the area digging in, a wince escaped him as he knew they would be scrapped.

Damn the thin fabric of the pants. Even the leather would have held out better.

Hands bound in front of him, eyes blind, he had to depend on his hearing, his fighting discipline. The car door closed behind him, a voice directly in front of him that was unrecognizable, Porsche took a chance.

With a quick snap of his legs, the hop back to his feet like a pinned opponent caused a gasp to escape the man in front of him, Porsche bent forward, and barreled his head (despite the discomfort) into his captor; smirking when a grunt could be heard, body toppled to the ground and his hands scrambled to remove the covering.

"The ... pier?"

A groan shifted his attention downward, the man laid there in agony, a smirk settled onto Porsche's lips. He was a hard head, took pride in it, even if the attack also gave him pain.

Now glancing left, then right, the search for a workable exit came to a halt at the end of a gun pressed right to his face shifted his expression downward. What was this guy's problem? Didn't he tell Damrong or whatever his name was to just grab Kinn and leave him alone?

"Porsche, you don't play nicely. I should punish you."

"Read my lips. Fuck – off."

"Brave for a guy who is ten seconds away from trying my patience and getting shot in the head."

"Do it then," Porsche growled in return.

"Seeing your face just make that raspy 'oh' sound before you die, that would be so fun."

Showing fear, anguish, would give happiness to the bully and he refused to concede.

In truth, he was terrified. He would be foolish to be otherwise. If something happened to him, right now, the lingering memory of leaving Porchay alone – an orphan – hurt him.

The only thing keeping him strong was picturing Kinn. That perfect face he wanted to punch for getting him into shit. This was his fault somehow. He knew it, he felt it, and he would kill him if he got out of this.

"You have some serious problems."

"You're lucky someone likes you. I was paid to keep you alive, so I will."