She crossed her arms now. Of course, the one good-looking man who ever paid her attention was just trying to peddle his faith. She didn’t say it out loud, but she thought it. Who came into a wine studio after hours, with a young woman, and began speaking to them about the afterlife?
She pushed away from the table, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, softly, “I’m not interested. Whatever church you’re a part of, sorry. I really do need you to leave now.”
The man looked up at her, and his eyes were still twinkling with mirth. If anything in her countenance threw him off, he didn’t show it. He dipped his head in quiet acquiescence. Then he reached into his physician’s bag and withdrew his two black gloves. He pulled them on delicately, like a jockey before a horse race. Once they were on his hands, he retrieved the glass he had been drinking from, his fingers pressed against it, and then he tossed the contents of the wine off to the side.
She nearly shouted, watching the splatter against the grain wood of the floor.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she snapped, angry now. It didn’t matter how good-looking someone was, there was no sense in wasting wine, nor in staining the floor.
He didn’t reply right away, but instead placed the glass in his small bag.
“Hang on,” she protested, “you can’t take that.”
“Oh,” he said, “how about if I just buy it from you?” He tried to zip the bag, but it didn’t fully close over the stem of the glass. Now, the physician’s bag was open, wider, and she stared in at the contents. Her heart nearly escaped her chest. A cold, freezing sensation spread over her spine and up toward the base of her skull.
There was rope, and duct tape, and an assortment of small knives seemingly bound together by a thin strap. She spotted other instruments she had no name for, some with small hooks and others with probing needles. She spotted an IV bag and rubber hosing.
She felt a flicker of fear, and then it came flooding into her chest all at once, dropping to her stomach like the sudden hot swish of whiskey, spinning toward her belly. She quickly looked away, hoping the man hadn’t spotted her attention.
She dipped her head in what she hoped would be perceived as a polite nod, rather than a terrified adjustment.
“Apologies,” she said. “I must powder my nose.”
The man just looked at her and gestured gallantly toward the back. “Do what you must,” he said. “I’ll be leaving soon as it is. I don’t want to intrude.”
Trying to hide her trembling hands, she began to move away quickly.
Fingerprints, she thought to herself. Such a strange thought. An odd thought, but one that struck her as true. He didn’t want to leave the glass behind, because it had his fingerprints on it. This thought only further propelled her into another bout of terror.
She needed to get out. But where could she go? Her car was parked in the same lot as his gray sedan. She would have to exit the back, circle the building, and he would see her through the glass. She would have to cross in front of the dumpsters to reach her car. He might be fast enough to reach her before she could. Especially with her twinged back. She would barely make it.
She needed help. Was Andre here? No, she hadn’t seen his car. She needed to call the police.
She walked stiffly, straight-backed, no longer caring about the sweat blotches against her uniform. She moved hastily toward one of the side rooms in the back of the wine-tasting studio. The room here was cold, where they would often chill some of the older vintages before serving them to richer clients. She pushed under the stray, dangling plastic barrier of rectangular strips, like the spinning rags at a car wash. She pushed at the cold plastic and stepped deeper into the cooling room.
With scrambling fingers, she groped for her pocket, hastily pulling out her phone. It took her a couple of tries to remember her own pass-code, as fearful as she was. Adrenaline was coursing through her, pulsing up and down her body.
“Come on,” she muttered darkly. “Come on.”
Then she heard a quiet click. A tap on the side of her neck. A patient, even tap from a gloved finger, the sensation of smooth leather.
A blossom of absolute horror pulsed through her.
She whirled around, and was struck in the side of the head, hard, with an open hand. A second blow followed, but not a wild, untrained punch. A strange shooting motion, straight into her throat.
She gurgled, gasping, and heard a quiet, soothing voice, as more pressure was applied to her neck. “It will all be over soon, dear Amelia. Don’t struggle, it might break your windpipe. I wouldn’t want that.”
Then she blacked out.
***
Twisting pain, pulsing needles in her eyes, her head.
She felt weak, sluggish, and her headache only increased. It was like a headache she’d once gotten when her nose had been congested, and she had breathed through a thin blanket at night. Not enough oxygen.
Her eyes fluttered sluggishly, and her eyelids felt heavy, weighted with lead. The insides of her eyeballs were scratchy, and hurt, and she blinked against a sudden glare.
She tried to look around, and found that though her head could move, her body was restrained. This filled her with an even greater terror. But the fear also moved like a steady prickle up her body, through her like seeping molasses across a floor.
She tried to rise, but found that her back was pressed against something cool. A second later, she realized she wasn’t wearing her shirt. For some reason, this sent an even greater bolt of fear through her.
Glancing down, she realized her bra straps had been lowered past her shoulders, and there were metal clamps against her arms, holding them in place. Her legs couldn’t move either; she tried to kick them. She glanced down, fearing the worst, but saw she was still wearing her pants; there was at least that.
Exposed like this, she looked around and realized she was in an unfamiliar room. Bright glows, like movie theater lights, were blazing down on her. She looked at her arm suddenly, and nearly screamed. A needle was gouged into her wrist, leading to an IV and a bag with rubber hosing.
For a moment, she wondered if they were pumping something into her body. But it became clear enough, after a moment of disoriented staring, that they were pumping something out.
Someone was taking her blood.
“Help,” she croaked in a weakened voice. The words barely managed to escape her lips before dying from their own frailty.
How much blood had she already lost?
She tried to look one way and then the other, but the blinding light still pulsed ahead of her. The cool metal pressed against the back of her half naked torso. And then, a blurring shadow.
It took her a moment to adjust, but she realized the shadow was that of the man.
He was still as handsome as she remembered. Still, not a single hair out of place. Still wearing the same black gloves: riding gloves? Driving gloves?
He was whistling softly to himself, tapping against a needle. He flicked the tip of the needle a couple of times, and she realized it was at the end of an injection. He held the shot up, examining it against the light, and then moved toward her.
A second later, though, he paused. “Ah, dear Amelia, you’re awake. A pity. I had hoped you might stay out a bit longer. This isn’t a pleasant process. I didn’t want to put you out.”
She groaned, trying to speak. “Fuck you,” she managed to say.