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Bree woke up cold, naked and alone. No one should ever feel this way. No one could ever be ready for this, certainly not a sixteen-year old girl.
God forbid, it should be Bree.
She’s Miss Independent, gives her parents lip without thinking twice, the rebel in school, first to get inked, last to give in or put out with nothing in return, the master manipulator.
Bree learned at a very early age how to use her sex, her magnetism, whatever it is, charisma, to get boys and girls, men and women, to do what she wanted, how she wanted, when she wanted. And they were damn glad to do it. She was a dominatrix without a crop, although she had considered that, too.
A middle-aged man in the park had asked her, and Bree thought, well, why not?
And now guys on the internet who want it so bad are sending me money through Pay Pal, Bree thought.
But now I am..where? What the fuck is going on here? This can’t be happening to me.
Bree was scared. More than scared. She was petrified. She was pee your pants, shivering, afraid for her life, scared. This time she might have gone too far. This time she might have overplayed her hand.
This time she might have lost control.
For the first time, Bree was scared. Really scared. Bree was thinking just one word. Just one word. The only word that could possibly make this better.
Escape.
But first Bree had to get back in control. A dark bag had replaced the plastic over her head. It smelled terrible. Even scared to death, Bree registered that.
Her wrists were tied behind her back, her ankles in front of her as she sat on the dirt. Was she outside? Inside?
Where the fuck am I? It’s like a dirt pit. Good, God. This is not Bree land.
What was I thinking when I agreed to this wacko’s fantasy? True, it was close to mine, but still...is this going to be worth it?
Losing consciousness when her head hit the bumper had not been part of the plan.
Bree was afraid she had a concussion. Her memory was fogging. She was having trouble putting her thoughts together.
It might be time to give up. It might be time, for the first time to admit defeat.
And if he had gone so far that she couldn’t be rescued, it was time to plan an escape.
Bree remembered being at the Stop ’N Go. She remembered sharing cigarettes in the parking lot, letting the older guys cop a feel because it felt good to her to. And she remember being grabbed from behind when she was walking to the Red Run River, the plastic bag, the trunk, and then nothing but waking up in this dark, cold, place.
Being grabbed was part of the plan. Fighting back was part of the plan. Being held in the basement was part of the plan. It was her plan. It was a wicked plan. It had to happen.
But this wasn’t nearly as much fun as she thought it would be. This was not a fantasy come true, at least not for her.
But it had to be done. It was her wicked plan.
Bree’s teeth were chattering and the gears in her mind were running at one-hundred miles an hour.
If there was one class Bree was good at in school it was algebra. She loved the logic of it.
That was working for her now.
She heard footsteps above her.
She blinked her eyes and discovered she could see through the burlap bag over her head. Bree was in something that looked like a basement without the cement floor and wood paneled walls that were part of the basement under her home.
Cold, dark, and drafty, with cobwebs in the corners, dust on everything, dirt on the floor. It’s what they called a cellar in St. Isidore, if she was still in St. Izzy. If she was, this had to be the old part of town. Nobody made houses like this anymore.There were only a couple of them with cellars in her neighborhood.
Bree could figure that out later. Now it was time to get ready for battle. Time to fight. Time to find a weapon. Time to escape.
She needed some kind of weapon, yet Bree saw nothing but junk and dust and cobwebs and who knew what?
In the piles of junk, she might find a weapon of convenience or opportunity. Something that was not designed to be a weapon or a fighting tool, but something that could be used to stun, injure, or even kill an opponent. A hammer, a crowbar, some kind of a cutting tool, even a child’s toy with a sharp edge or a point that could be driven into an eye. Bree had read about the concept in a survival manual.
This is one time reading would pay off.
Something has to be down here, to help me get more out there, to escape, Bree thought.
There were footsteps overhead coming closer. Bree turned her head to the noise, heard the rusty hinges of a door and then saw light coming through the bag over her head. A white light. Whoever belonged to those feet — and it had better be Tim not that loser friend of his Paul — making that noise was coming her way. It sounded like he was walking down wooden stairs.
Bree felt more naked, more cold, more alone and more scared than she ever thought she could possibly feel. The closer the steps got, the worse she felt, the more naked she felt.
It didn’t matter if it was Tim or Paul. Neither one of them had ever seen her naked in real life. And it had to be now? Bree could not help wondering self-consciously if her nipples were getting hard in the cold. She was conscious of the feeling of sitting on her bare ass on the cold, wet dirt, even her cold toes. She could feel the dried blood hard and stiff on her face, in her ears and on the back of her neck.
She had to admit it. This was exciting. The idea of being naked like this was a thrill. But, what if she had gotten herself into something that she couldn’t get out of?
Bree was in bad shape and she knew it. She might only have one chance.
Survive. Fight. Escape.