UNORTHODOX | KAI PARKER

II .DEALS.

Chapter 2

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"And then, y'know, I obviously ended up attempting to scale the Eiffel Tower. Fuck safety ropes and shit, and I almost did it too! But, y'know, I fell because of course I did, and I woke up two days later surrounded in my own brain matter! It was like, super awesome and hardcore."

I am awoken by the uncontrolled ramblings. My brows furrow at the unfamiliar voice, my still deteriorated brain not fully comprehending the situation.

I let out a loud groggy groan, the bright artificial lights shining through my eyelids. I attempt to bring my hands up to ball my fists against my eyes, only for them to be stuck to what feels like wood, by my sides. A bile of panic rises up my throat as the realisation sets in, the feeling of thick rope wrapped securely around my wrists, chafing the soft skin and bounding me in place. The hard, uncomfortable feeling of sleek wood under my ass and against my back

I'm tied to a fucking chair.

The memories of the previous day, or what I assume to be the previous day, flood my brain and my eyes snap open, body jolting up right. This only earns another hoarse groan, my bones cracking from the lack of movement and my eyes blinded by the light hanging above and shining through the open windows. I wince and squint my eyes, the blazing luminance burning my retinas.

"Oh goodie, you're awake. I've been talking to you for the past two hours. Not very talkative when you're unconscious, are you?"

I weakly pull at the bondage securing my arms, but to no avail, before sulking back into the chair. My eyes finally begin to open fully, slowly but surely, and I take in the blurry surroundings. With my vision still hazy and my brain still muddled, my eyes flit down to where my wrists and ankles are tightly wrapped in an itchy rope. Only one word capable of leaving my mouth, and I inwardly groan at my current lack of filter. Brain delirious.

"Kinky."

The room is silent for what feels like hours, but in actuality only a few beats of seconds, before an amused chuckle is filling the quiet space.

"You started it. You spat on me!" he exclaims, but voice light and void of any venom. I blink blearily at where he's reclined comfortably on the couch across from me, and my breath hitches as I notice him carelessly spinning a knife around in his hands as if simply playing with a ball. "Wasn't kidding by the way," he adds, eyes breaking contact from the knife and catching mine. "Real hot."

I scoff, throat scratchy, and shake my head in disbelief. "Were asking for it," I mutter harshly, voice slightly slurred as if drugged. He pouts in feign hurt, swinging his legs around the couch and sitting up to face me head on.

"Ouch," he frowns. "I'm the one the blame now? I'm the victim here, you spat on me, remember?" he rolls his eyes, as if scolding a naive child. I bite back my scowl. God, this guy is fucking unbelievable.

"You had me in a fuckin' chokehold?" I gasp out in incredulity, and he rolls his eyes. "You always had a victim complex or something?" I add, rhetorically. "That why I'm the one tied up when you're the one who threatened to kill me?"

He looks as if he ponders this for a second, a sly grin creeping onto his face as he leans his elbows onto his spread knees.

"No victim complex here," he assures, tapping his index finger against his temple. "Just good ol' fashioned American honesty," he giggles with a childish smile, and I hold my hard gaze in attempt to seem intimidating, but I don't have to see myself to know I'm failing miserably.