Page 13 of Targeted By Love

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

I clenched my fingers tightly, digging my nails into the delicate skin under my chin. The sharp pain shot through me, grounding me in the harsh reality I desperately wanted to escape. How I wished this could all just be a cruel nightmare that I could wake up from. But as I lay there, feeling the weight of my situation pressing down on me, I knew it was all too real. The taste of bile rose in my throat, a bitter reminder of the nightmare I was living.

It all happened so fast. One minute I was coming to find the one that got away, hoping for a chance to try again, and then everything went to shit. First, I saw the wolf, then I discovered Maynard, who looked nothing like he did last night, might’ve passed on spending the night with me because he was being controlled by others, and now—now I was locked in a room.

My gut told me to scream, to scream like there was no tomorrow. Scream, fight, run. But the rational side of me, the one that wasn’t currently wanting to piss myself, that side of me knew better. Screaming would get me killed or worse. I’d seen enough true crime shows to know that. I needed to be smart about this.

Being smart meant I had to calm myself enough to put all the pieces together, beginning with who were these people? And why did they have me locked up? And what part did Maynard play in all of this? He for sure hadn’t been all in on the locking-me-up thing, but he also didn’t seem to have a heck of a lot of autonomy when it came to anything that had happened since I arrived.

After playing the entire situation over again a few times, I came to the conclusion that I’d stumbled upon a cult. There was no other explanation for their weird code-talking and control methods. The thing was, they weren’t pretending not to be. Cults lured you in and then showed their true selves. If they were being like this in front of Maynard, he wasn’t new. He was a full-on member. But then again, all of my cult information came from the same source as my “how to get out of captivity” info: true crime documentaries and television cop shows. Neither of those were what I’d call reliable, but they were what I had.

I reached into my pocket to grab my phone and quickly remembered it was taken from me. Shit, I needed to focus. Forgetting important points like that was begging for things to end badly. I could not afford one single mistake.

Not. One.

I had to get out of here alive.

Quietly as I could, I went over to the window and looked out. Even if the window opened—which I was guessing it wouldn’t; they wouldn’t throw me in here and just leave an easy way out—I’d never survive the fall. Even if I did, I’d be too injured to run. Then there was the whole there’s a huge-ass wolf outside. I’d be dinner long before I managed to get away.

So what was next?

“Finding a weapon.” They wouldn’t leave a gun lying around, but there were lots of things that could be turned into makeshift protection. And once again, I was relying on years of watching TV, in this case, MacGyver reruns. I needed to get a better hobby.

I scanned the room. By all accounts, it was a typical guest bedroom, nothing at all like the prison cell it had become. But there were two extra doors instead of one, so maybe there was a back way out. There was only one way to find out.

The one closest to me was slightly smaller than the main door I’d been tossed in through. I opened the first, assuming it wasn’t an exit, but hoping it might be filled with something—anything I might need. Sure enough, it was a closet. Unfortunately, it was a storage closet. There weren’t even any hangers I could fashion into a spear or something. There were pillows, pillows, more pillows, and some towels.

Who has that many pillows?

Nothing in there was of any use. It wasn’t like I could just flick a towel like in the high school locker room and have them jump back in fear. This wasn’t some Indiana Jones shit. And pillow fights were never anything more than youthful fun.

“There has to be something else.”

The second door was more promising, but not in the way I’d hoped. Instead of a secondary staircase they forgot about that would lead me to safety, it was a bathroom. But a bathroom held potential. Lots and lots of potential.

If there was bleach—maybe I could do something with that. Or a razor. A razor would work. Metal nail files, dental floss, or scissors could all be in there too. Bathrooms were, by nature, dangerous places. The odds were in my favor.

Except that didn’t mean I hit the jackpot.

The shower had some fancy shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Great for company. Shitty for trying to make an escape.

Under the sink wasn’t any better. No one erased their captor with melamine sponges. Spare toilet paper and replacements for the hand soap on the counter wouldn’t fare any better. That left only the drawer, where I found a few spare toothbrushes, toothpaste, cotton swabs, and some pimple patches.

“Fuck.”

Slowly, I turned around in a circle, hoping I’d missed something. I didn’t and ended up staring in the mirror. My eyes were sagging something fierce. But then an idea hit me: Maybe I could break the mirror and use the shards of glass as the weapon.

I quickly thought of all the reasons that was a bad idea, starting with it being loud. Given how nice this place was, they probably spent the extra dime to make it tempered glass, too. There would be no shards for me, if that was the case. And if I managed to break it without being heard and it broke in weapon-shaped pieces, I was no better off. The chances of me hurting myself more than them were too high.

What was I even thinking?

Let’s say I did get out of here, wouldn’t I also have to gethimout? Those were two different feats and neither seemed doable. Would he even come with me? Probably not. Chances were, he thought this was the best group ever. That’s how cults worked.

I needed to getmyselfout first. Then I’d figure out how to help Maynard.