Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best romance books of all time txt) 📗

fucking butterfly! I force myself to go limp even though every instinct is screaming to do the opposite because I think they might want me to struggle. For me to writhe and wriggle in their hands. For my leotard to ride up my backside. For them to get to feel my bare thighs, arms and the thin silkiness of my costume, which only just covers the rest of my body. They are talking to each other. Foreign voices, speaking a language I don’t recognize, which makes it harder for me to work out how many there are. There are two carrying me and there’s another man who has the tone of someone speaking on a phone. Sometimes he seems to bark out orders at the two carrying me. The boss. The worst one. They are going to kill me.

They throw me into the back of a van. I land on my shoulder. I’m winded and sore everywhere, but the pain I’m feeling doesn’t frighten me as much as the pain I’m anticipating. The metal doors slam behind me. Then I hear them climb into the front. They set off at speed.

Because I’m tied up and there are no seats, let alone seat belts, I roll around the floor of the van every time it goes around a corner. I bang my head, my back, my knee. Eventually I orientate myself enough to sit up, I crawl backward on my bottom, shuffle into a corner. Then I consider a van’s layout. By pushing myself into a corner, I am either moving closer to the seats they must be in, or the door. I think of leaning against the door and somehow opening it, it swinging open and me falling onto the road. Would that be better? Probably not at this speed but I don’t know. I might die but there are fates worse than death, aren’t there? Mum would say not. She always says you can come back from everything but that. So I lie flat again and get thrown from one side of the van to the other.

I imagine the men looking at me, smirking at my struggle, my lack of direction or coordination. The thought of them looking at me makes me want to heave again. I smell of my own vomit from earlier. I don’t feel drunk anymore. I wish I did because maybe that would numb the fear, but my terror has punched the alcohol out of my system. I wish I was wearing more than I am. The thought of the leotard, which leaves little to the imagination, horrifies me. What are they going to do to me? I wish I had changed into the clothes Mum made me bring to the party. I think of the trainers, the trackies behind the bar. I want to cry. I think of my mum and I do cry. I sob for the whole journey, panting for breath. And although my nose isn’t obstructed, I feel certain I am going to suffocate. I can’t get enough air. My gasps are shallow, strained.

After some time the van comes to a sudden stop. The back is opened again, and I am pulled out. This time just one man carries me. He throws me over his shoulder. I can tell he is taller than my dad, broader. It’s raining. I can smell trees and wet grass but it doesn’t smell fresh and spring-like. The ground smells of decay. Dirt.

Death.

CHAPTER 37

Lexi

I freeze for a moment. Never, ever so completely destroyed with fear. I vainly try to find the number from where the message just came from, but of course it’s withheld—kidnappers are hardly likely to give out their contact details. I look at Jake and see if he can make any sense of this. If he can do anything about this. But what? I feel I’ve just been thrown off a high-speed train. What’s going on? Jake’s face mirrors my own: confusion, terror. I start to hit the numbers 999 on my phone. Before I manage to touch the nine for a third time, Jake snatches the phone out of my hand. “What are you doing?” he demands angrily.

“I’m calling the police.”

“We can’t, don’t be a fool.”

I lunge to retrieve my phone, but he holds it above my head. As I stretch to reach it, he calmly passes it to Jennifer. She takes it from him and then passes it to Fred. Fred shakes his head at me and puts my phone in his trouser pocket, keeping his hand on it. I stare at him, disgusted. Fred, too? Ganging up on me? Siding with these two? I sense that he’s not going to budge and have no time to argue with him. I turn my attention back to Jake, Emily’s father. Surely, he’ll see sense. “We have to, Jake. This isn’t a matter of choice.”

“You saw the message, they told us not to.”

“Well, they are bound to tell us not to, aren’t they? They are criminals. Kidnappers!” The word strikes me as disconcertingly inadequate, almost comical. They may be rapists, torturers, murderers. I can only bring myself to say kidnappers. “The police will help us. That’s what the police are for.”

“We can’t afford to have them sniffing around when the kidnappers specifically told us not to call them.”

“Sniffing around? Jake, they’ll find her. That’s their job. We need them.”

Jake’s face curls into a snarl. “And what if they don’t find her? Crimes do go unsolved, you know, Lexi. The police aren’t infallible. What if we call them, but they can’t retrieve her and yet the kidnappers know we’ve called them. Then they’ll hurt her. Is that what you want?”

“No, but—”

“Don’t. Call. The police.” His instruction is icy, fearsome. I stare at him. I have known this man for so long and he is a stranger. I see the same dark brown almost black hair, feathered with a breath of gray around his ears. I recognize the strong, square jawline that is cloaked