In Love by Design (The Adventures of Anabel Axelrod) by Tracy Ellen Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracy Ellen
arm. I had no strength to fight, other than to try a futile tug. My arm stayed easily imprisoned within the hand that had me in a tight grip for a few seconds more. The pressure eased up and the hand released my arm.
I heard that same high voice whisper an out of breath, ‘There, lass. All sorted now.”
The bag was pulled down to below my knees, so that I am once again bundled tight with no give to move my arms or the ability to spread my legs. I heard a door roll and slam shut, and I started squirming to get loose. An engine revved and then we were moving.
Frightened out of my wits at knowing I’d just been injected with God only knows what, on a burst of adrenaline, I tried to wiggle back and forth to reach my purse. I got my wish when the van or whatever I was in, took a sudden sharp left turn. My purse was dislodged from under me while I was pitched helplessly around. My fingers could touch the smooth pleather.
An immeasurable time later, I felt a surreal sense of surprise to realize that I had forgotten what I was trying to do. My gun and cell phone were inside the purse not one inch from my hand, but I wasn’t moving. A hazy, tingly feeling had invaded my entire body like a million, tiny little pinpricks. Not painful, not even uncomfortable, but definitely a strange feeling.
Closing my eyes, I was positive it would feel amazingly wonderful to stretch my arms languorously high over my head and point my toes far, far in the other direction. I imagined being racked in the old dungeons of the Tower of London like the Protestant martyr Anne Askew and it actually sounded like a good idea at this moment. I wouldn’t want the rest of her punishment, as poor Anne has the painful distinction of being the only woman on historical record to be both racked and burned at the stake.
Instead, I lie there in unmoving lassitude, lazily floating adrift in the dark confines of the stinky bag. I was thinking that while life sometimes sucks these days, it has nothing on the crapola women endured at the hands of evil men back in the day.
It ’s not that I was unaware of being trussed up on the floor of a moving vehicle after being nabbed out of my parking lot and shot up with a drug; I just didn’t seem to give a damn.
Chapter III
“Smooth Criminal” by Michael Jackson
Thursday 12/06/12
11:0 4 PM
Unless I have a spare four hours to do it right, I’ve learned the hard way not to take naps during the day because it’s almost guaranteed I’ll wake up crankier than your worst toddler nightmare.
Groggily swimming out of the depths of whatever drug I’d been put out with, I found myself alone and very uncomfortable. I was bound to a wooden straight chair, stripped down to my new jade green teddy, and freezing cold. You can imagine my mood.
T he fat candles burning in old pickle jars on the floor surrounding the rickety chair where I sat provided little illumination, but enough to tell I’m in a decrepit kitchen. If the candles are meant to coax me into a more romantic frame of mind, it wasn’t working.
My arms are hanging down past the seat of the chair on the outside. From the wrists up, a length of thick rope is wrapped around me like a mummy and held my arms and torso tightly against the chair. Each ankle was tied to the front leg of the wood chair. Stretching, I could just feel the sticky, cold floor with the tips of my big toes.
I should be scared, but I was fucking furious.
Mainly, my fury is aimed at myself for not being more careful and aware of my surroundings, but I’m incensed enough to spread it around to include the Brit who stuck me with a needle.
Struggling to escape the rope s, my sluggish brain tried to evaluate the list of people wanting me hurt or worse. It could be a buddy of the imprisoned Ron Hansen or the dead Hammer. It could be my cousin Candy, although I reluctantly give her credit for more smarts. She knows something painfully bad will happen to her if she retaliates against
I heard that same high voice whisper an out of breath, ‘There, lass. All sorted now.”
The bag was pulled down to below my knees, so that I am once again bundled tight with no give to move my arms or the ability to spread my legs. I heard a door roll and slam shut, and I started squirming to get loose. An engine revved and then we were moving.
Frightened out of my wits at knowing I’d just been injected with God only knows what, on a burst of adrenaline, I tried to wiggle back and forth to reach my purse. I got my wish when the van or whatever I was in, took a sudden sharp left turn. My purse was dislodged from under me while I was pitched helplessly around. My fingers could touch the smooth pleather.
An immeasurable time later, I felt a surreal sense of surprise to realize that I had forgotten what I was trying to do. My gun and cell phone were inside the purse not one inch from my hand, but I wasn’t moving. A hazy, tingly feeling had invaded my entire body like a million, tiny little pinpricks. Not painful, not even uncomfortable, but definitely a strange feeling.
Closing my eyes, I was positive it would feel amazingly wonderful to stretch my arms languorously high over my head and point my toes far, far in the other direction. I imagined being racked in the old dungeons of the Tower of London like the Protestant martyr Anne Askew and it actually sounded like a good idea at this moment. I wouldn’t want the rest of her punishment, as poor Anne has the painful distinction of being the only woman on historical record to be both racked and burned at the stake.
Instead, I lie there in unmoving lassitude, lazily floating adrift in the dark confines of the stinky bag. I was thinking that while life sometimes sucks these days, it has nothing on the crapola women endured at the hands of evil men back in the day.
It ’s not that I was unaware of being trussed up on the floor of a moving vehicle after being nabbed out of my parking lot and shot up with a drug; I just didn’t seem to give a damn.
Chapter III
“Smooth Criminal” by Michael Jackson
Thursday 12/06/12
11:0 4 PM
Unless I have a spare four hours to do it right, I’ve learned the hard way not to take naps during the day because it’s almost guaranteed I’ll wake up crankier than your worst toddler nightmare.
Groggily swimming out of the depths of whatever drug I’d been put out with, I found myself alone and very uncomfortable. I was bound to a wooden straight chair, stripped down to my new jade green teddy, and freezing cold. You can imagine my mood.
T he fat candles burning in old pickle jars on the floor surrounding the rickety chair where I sat provided little illumination, but enough to tell I’m in a decrepit kitchen. If the candles are meant to coax me into a more romantic frame of mind, it wasn’t working.
My arms are hanging down past the seat of the chair on the outside. From the wrists up, a length of thick rope is wrapped around me like a mummy and held my arms and torso tightly against the chair. Each ankle was tied to the front leg of the wood chair. Stretching, I could just feel the sticky, cold floor with the tips of my big toes.
I should be scared, but I was fucking furious.
Mainly, my fury is aimed at myself for not being more careful and aware of my surroundings, but I’m incensed enough to spread it around to include the Brit who stuck me with a needle.
Struggling to escape the rope s, my sluggish brain tried to evaluate the list of people wanting me hurt or worse. It could be a buddy of the imprisoned Ron Hansen or the dead Hammer. It could be my cousin Candy, although I reluctantly give her credit for more smarts. She knows something painfully bad will happen to her if she retaliates against
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