Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
No cameras. No hero music. No statement. Just me, a door, and the woman I’ve fallen completely in love with.
16
Vanessa
Pine cleaner and gasoline. That’s what the room smells like—someone’s idea of clean poured over something that will always be dirty. The turquoise roll-up door is half closed, slivering a stripe of hot daylight onto poured concrete. A box fan clicks every third turn, blades wobbling like they’re negotiating. Above me, a cheap rosary dangles from a nail and taps the cinderblock with a tiny wooden heartbeat.
I’m on the floor against a column, wrists zip-tied to a length of nylon rope looped around the post. The gag he shoved in my mouth tastes like mint and metal and old cologne. My shoulder throbs from the van; every breath snags on the handkerchief. I do it anyway. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. Riggs’s voice in my head makes the counts sound normal.
Kellan paces, hands carving the air like he’s storyboarding. He ditched the cap. His hair is longer than when I knew him, and the eyes I once thought were soulful now just look…shiny. The messenger bag sits open on a folding chair: spare zip ties, a cheap camera, the craft-store glue I’ve learned to hate.
“Okay,” he says, pulling his phone, the camera already open. “We’re going to do a little reset. You’ll thank me later when you see the edit. We lost you for a minute, but now we’re back to real. Audience wants real, V. Fear. Relief. Reunion. Lost and found. Classic.”
I work my tongue against the gag and glare. The driver leans against a wall and pretends to check his nails. He keeps the radio low enough to swallow the noise from the street. He looks bored.
Kellan squats in front of me, phone raised, the screen filling with my bruised mouth, my messed hair, the fury I can’t blink away. “There she is,” he murmurs. “God, I missed your light. Remember when we used to make magic on rooftops? Before handlers. Before your… wall.”
“His name is Riggs,” I try. It comes out muffled, ugly. My wrists burn where the zip ties bite. I work them against the plastic, not to escape—yet—but to mark my skin. Blood is a breadcrumb. He taught me that without saying it.
Kellan tips his head. “He’s a prop. Props come and go. We’re the story. We always were. You and me.”
I let my gaze wander, committing details to memory again in case I live on memory alone. But everything about this situation has my mind rolling in place. Like a hamster in a wheel. I try to remember details, but none of them are useful.
Kellan reaches out like he’s allowed and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. I flinch so hard it hurts. He sighs, aggrieved. “Don’t be dramatic. We’re going to talk. I’ll post a teaser so they know it’s romantic and then we’ll—”
I bark a laugh against the gag. Romantic. I want to spit. I want to bite. I want him to understand this isn’t right.
The door to the office cubby clacks and I jerk. He’s strung a backdrop in there—cream muslin, a ring light plugged into a janky power strip, a stool like a confessional. There’s a script on the desk. It starts, I forgot who I was without you, Kellan, in block letters cut from printer paper and glued to a card. My stomach turns.
“Brice said—” I start, uselessly, then stop. I don’t want to give Kellan any more names to swing at.
“Brice is soft,” he says, contempt sliding in where charm used to live. “He wanted an incident. I’m giving you an arc. He’ll thank me when he’s trending.”
He lifts the phone again. The lens stares. I stare back, full of hate, and refuse to cry. If he posts anything, he’ll post my anger. Not my fear. My fear belongs to me and to no one else. I keep breathing. In. Hold. Out. Hold.
A tiny change sweeps the room—a pressure shift, a silence that thickens. It’s almost like time stands still. The driver flicks his eyes to Kellan and straightens without meaning to.
“Time,” Kellan mutters, standing. “Let’s begin. Say what I wrote, and I’ll—”
A voice cuts through the room, calm as a straight line. “Mr. Stevens,” it calls, bored and official. “APD. Let’s talk before this gets ugly.”
My heart slams once, hard. The police. Heat rushes up the back of my neck, a solvent for fear. I don’t blink. I’m afraid if I blink I’ll miss it.
Kellan’s smile cracks, and the shine in his eyes turns brittle. He grabs the rope, yanks it higher on the column like he can somehow hide me better by making me smaller. “They don’t know we’re here,” he hisses to the driver. “It’s a bluff.”
Another voice—steady, low—threads in from under the roll-up. “Vanessa,” it says, just for me. “I’m here.”