Coffee {Jaya AU}

Chapter 19

***So if you couldn't tell, before I got into YA romance, I was into romantic suspense. I got bored of it after a while - most of the plots were unoriginal, at best. The girl is being tracked by some serial killer, a hot guy is assigned to protect her, she gets kidnapped because he's horrible at his job, and she ends up being saved by him just before the killer follows through with his plans.

I mean, SERIOUSLY?! If I were kidnapped, I seriously hope I wouldn't bank on my boyfriend to save me. I would be banking on Jesus, the police, and myself. Like, am I the only one who thinks of ways to protect myself with car keys when I'm in a parking lot alone at night? Apparently, female protagonists in romantic suspense novels don't.

Okay, rant over. YA romance is MUCH better than most romantic suspense these days, just saying.***

***(Nya's POV)***

"Get out." Cool air wafts into my face.

Yep. I guess the chief here must not have knocked me unconscious. I've been awake for the duration of the car ride here – not that it took more than a few minutes to get to this place. I did feel a wave of nausea at one point, though, so I'm diagnosing myself with a mild concussion.

He presses his gun right up against my ribs, and I squirm. Back when he threatened to shoot Jay, I pretty much was forced to listen to whatever Sanders said. Now? I guess if he's going to frame me for Cole's murder anyway, I'd better make sure he doesn't get away with it easily.

He jabs me in the ribs with the gun's barrel, his cold eyes ruthless in the light of the moon. "Get out."

"No," I swallow. "Shoot me now." I know he can't risk getting my blood all over the passenger side of this vehicle. He'd have to create some elaborate story to convince the world that I wasn't kidnapped by him and murdered in my own vehicle.

He grunts, jerking on my arm and tugging me out of the vehicle. I grab onto the dash, but he drags me out of the vehicle, taking advantage of my weakened strength due to his earlier blows.

He manages to pull me out of the vehicle, and I notice now that he's dressed in a CSI jumpsuit and hairnet to avoid leaving traces of his DNA on me. Pressing the gun into my spine and pressing an arm around my shoulders, he guides me toward...

His cabin.

I wrestle against his grip, about to scream into the night air. When he hears my inhale before I shriek, he curses and slaps a sweaty hand over my mouth.

"Don't make a sound," he growls. "I don't intend to kill you."

I open my mouth and bite down on one of his clammy fingers, causing him to yelp in pain. He tears his hand away from my mouth before shoving me toward the door of the cabin. I trip on the steps – purposefully, but also because I'm a little unsteady on my feet – and fall onto the wooden stoop. The police chief lands on top of me. All the air leaves my lungs at once.

He swears. "Stop struggling!"

I spit all over the doorstep, trying to get my saliva there to indicate DNA signs of a struggle. However, given that it's currently a struggle to draw breath, I'm doing well to get much spit on my shirt collar.

I'm also doing well not to barf. The nausea, combined with this struggle to survive, has my senses on overload.

Sanders hoists me upward, dragging me toward the door. I force out a weak cry for help.

It's barely the volume of a conversational tone.

The chief pulls out a keyring with one hand and fiddles with it. Meanwhile, I pull up my coat sleeve, tear off one of the bandages Jay administered to me earlier, and pick at a scab until it bleeds. Gross, but useful.