Hunter's Alpha (gxg) ✓

5. Disappear

My bucket list has nineteen things on it.

Here are five:

19. Vandalize the Statue of Liberty

18. Run away from the FBI

17. Rob a French bank and get away with it

16. Spend the night in jail

15. Fuck someone in a Venice gondola

Probably not what you were expecting. I mean, if I had to assume what some crazy bitch's bucket list looked like, it would probably be along the lines of skydiving, bungee jumping and jet-skiing. Not that I have anything against those things.

It's just that my bucket list is a little different.

For one, I made it when I was twelve. I had just started writing my first book when I stopped mid-sentence and realized that, if I wanted to write―really write―then I had to live first.

So I resolved to do all the crazy shit my characters would. I made myself a bucket list so wild and crazy that when my mother found it―and yes, she did see number 15―she lost it.

Well and truly lost it. As in, she took my computer and all the unsaved drafts of my stories, and she threw it against the wall.

I forgave her. I think.

What I didn't mention on my bucket list is number 6―but of course, you already know what that is. Get kidnapped. I don't know what on earth was going through my twelve-year-old brain, but I thought for certain that was one thing I'd never end up doing.

And yet, twice in two days, I have been kidnapped.

I wish I could say it felt good to cross it off my list.

When I wake up, it's in the hazy bliss of a high.

I'm half-conscious. But I can still hear the voices that talk in low tones somewhere nearby. My eyes won't open.

A man's voice. The bartender―Derek. I recognize that voice. The one who slipped something in my drink. "I took her for your sake! She was asking around!"

"Is it a crime to have questions?" A warm, furious, female voice.

"When it's about us, about what we stand for, yes!" I wish I could say I have excellent hearing, to be eavesdropping on all this, but the man is loud. Roaringly loud.

A temper. He must have a temper.

I hear the sound of a fist crashing into a wall.

The female doesn't sound happy. "I don't want her."

"She knows we kidnapped her! I can't just let her go!"

"Sure you can. Who will believe her?"

Her voice echoes, and it's almost familiar. Who will believe her? Who will believe her?

The grip of my unconsciousness tugs at me. Nobody, I think. Nobody will believe me. And then I sink back down into sleep.