Page 81 of Crossfire
“Hunter—”
“You’re coming,” he interrupted. “And you’re going to tell me everything.”
“I don’t know how long this will take to clear up.”
He raised his eyebrows and hitched a thumb toward the bedroom. “You think you might still be with her?”
Be with. What a kind phrase to describe holding a woman against her will.
“Taking this minute by minute at the moment.”
Hunter appeared to consider this, then stepped closer to me. “Figure this out. Fast. Because you’re coming to that dinner, and you and I are going to have a talk.”
When Hunter spoke like this, you’d think he was the older brother here, not two years younger than me. It was the way he carried himself, full of confidence, his voice firm and unwilling to bend to his demands.
The question was, assuming I did somehow make it to that dinner, what was I going to tell him?
36
IVY
My new escape plan was solidified. I was going to get out of here, even if it meant killing the man Grayson had left here to babysit me. My last plan—screaming through my duct tape—didn’t work, nor did my hopes that my babysitter might remove it so I could beg to be released. Thrashing my body around in hopes someone would hear the bangs hadn’t worked. That was the only time my mystery captor had come in, by the way—to give me a stern warning to cooperate “or else.”
Or else.
What I wouldn’t give to kick him in the dick for mumbling those two words. I swore I caught a hint of hesitation—dare I say conflict—in his tone, but I was probably hearing what I wanted to.
Had he let me go? No. Had he loosened my bindings? No. He had given me orders and then stomped off to the other side of this hellhole, leaving me alone in here to devise a new plan.
Oh, and by the way, how brazenly confident of him to presume Grayson’s restraints would hold, not feeling the need to check on me and ensure I didn’t slip out of them. When Grayson decided to tie me to the headboard, he’d replaced my flex cuffs—those didn’t wrap around the post like he wanted—with whatI was fairly certain were thick shoelaces. Tight ones, knotted several times over, but still, my babysitter hadn’t checked on them once.
Maybe they were buddies who’d done this many times together already. Who knew?
Point was, here I was, alone, and, yes, I’d taken this time to devise a new plan.
Since Asshole Number One—Grayson—had left because he apparently had better things to do than make sure his hostage didn’t escape and Asshole Number Two had left me in here to my own devices, I took advantage of this. I’d been working my wrist bindings for the last half hour or so, and, holy crap, they were actually loosening. Once I got the wrist bindings off, I could yank off my duct tape and easily unfasten my ankle restraint—a belt he’d found in my closet. Taking it off would be easy, however, once I got my wrists freed. And then…
Then, I could make a run for it.
Bonus if I could punch Asshole Number Two in the throat on the way out. Crushing his windpipe would be so satisfying.
I picked the knot again with my fingernail. It had taken what felt like an eternity, but the top of the knot had loosened, and now, I was working its second layer. If only my arms weren’t attached to this damn headboard. This would be so much easier if I had a better angle.
Suddenly, a noise made me freeze, my blood running cold. Not just any noise. Voices.
Shit. Grayson’s back.
Which meant my window to escape was closing.
I pulled at the knot more frantically, and then, to my horror, the sound of wood creaking grew louder until Grayson’s figure appeared in the doorway.
I hated that my heart raced, but what if he had gone to fetch murder supplies? A tarp, that sort of thing? I would not allowmyself to get killed today. Not when Grams depended on me. And not by a man whose affection still echoed in my heart.
Grayson’s voice cut through the silence, a dangerous mix of authority and anger that sent shivers down my spine.
“You and I are going to have a talk,” he declared.
I drew in sharp, uneven gulps of air through my nose to combat the panic winding through my ribs.