Old Soul

Chapter Thirteen: The Stalker

TW: Violence and blood

Damn, my head hurts. The thought breaks through the blossoming pain behind my eyelids. I start to tense up, remembering, before forcing my body to relax. It won't do me any good if he realizes I'm awake before I can even start to plot in my mind. I realize my arms are bare—he took my, well, Will's, jacket. Thinking his name brings my brother's face into my mind. What I wouldn't give for Will to be here right now. He'd have a plan in ten minutes and be executing it in fifteen. The thought sends an ache through my chest. If for no other reason, I am getting out of this alive for him.

And Emmett. The traitorous voice in my head adds. I mentally roll my eyes before surveying my current damage, desire to survive stronger than ever. My mouth feels dry and like I tried to shove as many cotton balls as possible into it. My head hurts, I feel dizzy. Probably a concussion, then? I travel southwards mentally. My arms are tied tightly behind my back, and my left arm is screaming in protest. I'm pretty sure it's broken, or at least a nasty sprain. My legs are sore, my right ankle feels kind of hot and swollen. Probably a sprain. I strain to hear past the ringing in my ears, but I get no audio feedback. I try to slowly open my eyes, but only my left one cooperates. A black eye. Great. I scan the floor, looking for shoes before raising my head.

I'm in a dimly lit motel room. The walls are a chintzy olive green, and the carpet is—or was—a light blue, but years of stains of God knows what have made it a sickly beige color. I'm sandwiched between two beds with scratch navy blue covers. I'm facing an ancient TV, and there's some kind of nightstand behind me. I feel around as quietly as I can, to see if I can figure out if there's anything I can use to undo my bindings. I can't tell what's tying me up, my hands are numb. I look to my left. The windows have the heavy drapes pulled over them, the only light is coming from a small sliver of exposed window above the curtains. On my right, there's a small bathroom. Linoleum floors, almost too-white walls.

Great. I'm going to die in a cheap motel. I force myself to shake the thought out, though it makes me even dizzier. I hear the sound of a card being slid into a slot and the lock on the door clicks. I quickly drop my head and close my eyes.

He comes in whistling. I want to see what's going on, but I'm not going to chance any sudden movements. His footsteps make their way across the room, stopping to study me for a moment before entering the bathroom. The sink turns on, and I hear a glass being filled. He comes back into the main room. I have no warning when the icy water splashes onto me and I sit up and gasp.

"Had a feeling you'd be awake by now." He smirks.

"Y'know what they say, a girl needs her beauty sleep." I croak out. He laughs.

"Lindsay always said you had a sense of humor." I glare up at him.

"How's she doing?" I ask, hoping to distract him.

"Not sure. I left her as soon as you left." Bradley pulls out a chair from the table in the corner and sits on it backwards.

"So you never liked her?"

"There's never been anyone other than you." His eyes are so intense it hurts to look at.

"NP?" I ask. Keep him talking, Raquel.

"Ah, I should've explained." He rubs his hand over his face, eyebrows furrowed. "Bradley's my middle name. Nathan Bradley Peters. NP."

"Why go by your middle name at all?"

"I couldn't end the game early! Where's the fun in having a secret admirer when you can figure out who it is so easily?"

"Maybe it's when you don't terrorize the object of your... affection." Disgust colors my tone. His face turns red, and he stomps over to me, picking my chin up in his hand so I'm forced to look at him.