Shanice Wilson, born and raised in Harlem, moves to Atlanta for her new job. The company sets her up in a lovely cul-de-sac in an almost deserted part of the suburbs.
Nate Dylan is the president of the Dead-Eye Angels MC. He rides with his buddies...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Song: Mad World by Gary Jules
I wake up feeling all sorts of groggy, my head pounding like a sledgehammer's going off inside. The dim overhead light isn't doing my headache any favors. Struggling to gather my thoughts, I reach for the back of my head only to notice that they are tied up with a zip tie.
"What the hell!" The pain's sharp, throbbing. I reach back again, only to find my fingers sticky with blood. "What happened to me?"
The last thing I remember was sipping tamarind juice I got for free from the Dominican spot with my food.
"You're finally awake," a deep voice rumbles through the room. My eyes shift to the son of a bitch that nearly took my life at the alley. "Now tell me, what the hell are you doing here?"
Instead of answering, I nearly gag from the rancid stench in the place. My eyes snap open, and it dawns on me where I am. Despite the water damage, the turned-over tables, and the blackboard, I recognize I'm in a school. But before I can fully grasp my situation, the putrid odor hits me again.
Bryan gets up from the chair before me, and his expression turns menacing. He crouches down to get on my level and grabs my chin roughly. "I asked you what the hell you're doing here."
I pull my chin free from his grimy grip to avoid the terrible breath that he's spewing. He blushes deeply, averting his eyes.
"Did I hurt your feelings?" I taunt. " Teaches you from snatching me."
"Cut it out," he warns.
"Did I hurt your feelings, Soy Boy?" I challenge.
He lunges at me, holding a knife to my throat. "Not so chatty now, huh? It pays not to have a smart mouth when the other person's wielding a knife." He shoves me to the ground, and my back hits a filthy puddle.
Bryan stands up and stumbles over to a cod in the corner of the room. He tosses and turns on the cot, running his fingers through his messy blonde hair. Suddenly, Bryan sits up. Without hesitation, he takes out his gun, and my heart leaps into my throat. The image of tattooed fingers combing through dark, thick hair flashes in my mind. A single tear rolls down my cheek, tracing the fear etched on my face.
"P-Please don't," I plead. Without blinking an eye, the lights go out, and shards of glass rain down from the ceiling. In an involuntary release, warmth spreads through me, seeping into my clothing, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.
***
I've lost all sense of time in this hellhole. Each moment stretches into an agonizing eternity. I've tried to remain vigilant, searching for the slightest opportunity to break free. But every time I even twitch, Bryan's there, as if we're trapped in some sadistic game of 'Red Light, Green Light.' He's the puppet master, draped in a Dead-Eye Angels jacket, always standing tall, his eyes void of reason, especially when he's not completely wasted
