The pan he’s warming the soup in is a decent size. I fantasize about picking it up by the short handles and flinging the hot liquid in his face.
Of course, if I miss, I risk burning myself as well as pissing him off.
While he’s been cordial so far, the threat of violence looms in the air.
Weakness permeates my limbs. I haven’t fully shaken off the drugging, and my extended nap in the trunk, yet. Every part of my body aches. My mind won’t stop screaming about my grotesque predicament. In an instant, I’ve gone from Shelby, a woman who gave the best performance of her tour and couldn’t wait to hug her boyfriend, to the prisoner of a crazy person.
It’s a huge adjustment.
“What’s your name?” My voice barely comes out above a whisper. I can’t force it any louder.
“It is about time we get to know each other better, isn’t it, darling?” He smiles at me over his shoulder.
I can’t decide which endearment I hate more—little rabbit or darling.
When I don’t answer, he scowls, and returns to stirring the pot on the stove. Round and round. I’m dizzy from watching him.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks.
“Sprite?”
“Coming right up.”
Well, ain’t that sweet. A glimpse inside the fridge reveals he’s also stocked up on my favorite soda. He pulls a can from one of several six-packs in the fridge, grabs a plastic cup off the counter, and sets both on the table in front of me. After a quick pat on my head that makes my vision blur, he returns to the stove.
I pop the tab on the soda and suck half of it down, not bothering with the cup. The cool, crisp bubbles soothe my raw throat but the sugary drink leaves me thirstier. “Could I have some water too?”
This time he frowns. Gee, so sorry if I’m asking for too much.
He sets a glass of tap water in front of me and I whisper a “thank you” before taking a few long swallows.
His stare lingers and my gaze roams the kitchen. Anywhere to avoid him. No knife block, rolling pin, glassware—not even a heavy cutting board. Nothing useful.
While I’ve been happily on tour singing my heart out every night on stage, this person’s been planning my abduction and imprisonment. How could I not know this cosmic shift in my life was coming for me?
“I’m so happy you’re here.” He clasps his hands under his chin and flashes an angelic smile.
The dead-eyed look I give him in return wipes it clean off his face.
I’m too mad and scared to play along like I’d planned. Time to work on keeping my attitude in check.
“This will make you feel better.” He sets a heavy bowl of what looks like pink mush in front of me.
I pick up the plastic soup spoon and poke at the steaming goo. “I’m allergic to tomatoes,” I say quietly.
“What? No, you’re not.”
I push the bowl away. “Yes. I am. My tongue swells up and I break out in hives. My doctor has warned me that I could go into anaphylactic shock if I consume them one too many times.” I slowly glance around the kitchen. “And since I’m guessing you don’t have an EpiPen around here, I’d rather not take the risk.” I sit back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.
Anger blazes in his droopy brown eyes. Carefully, he removes the bowl and sets it on the counter. “You need to watch your attitude,” he says without turning around.
I say nothing.
He returns to the stove and pulls out a fresh pot, and another can of soup from the cabinet. “Are you allergic to chicken noodle?” His tone can’t be called anything other than snide.
“Read me the ingredients.”
He grits his teeth and lists them one by one.
“It should be okay.”
I use the extra time to examine the hallway. A few closed doors. Bedrooms, probably. A long stretch into darkness. I’m guessing the front door lies somewhere that way.
Finally, he sets the bowl of soup in front of me and hands me another plastic spoon.
“All this plastic is bad for the environment, you know.” I dip the spoon in my bowl.
“I can’t risk you trying to fashion a weapon out of metal utensils.”
“Ahhh.” I blow on the soup and take a tentative taste. “So you’re not a complete nutter. You know what you’re doing is wrong.”
He sets his bowl of tomato soup across from me and plops into his chair. “We belong together.” His matter-of-fact statement seems to be the only response I’ll get to calling him a nutter.
“That right?” I sip my chicken broth slowly, grateful for the warm liquid. “I’ve finally come face-to-face with Mr. Creepy Letters, I take it?”
If I gave a damn about his feelings, I’d worry I’d hurt them. His pinched expression doesn’t pull on my pity strings one lick.
“My letters were not creepy,” he insists.
“Sure, okay.” I flick my gaze up at him. “You’re the guy who gave me the fan at one of the shows, right?”
He lifts his chin, almost preening that I remembered his kind gesture. Hate to break it to him, but I only remember because he gave me the willies.
“I almost had you that day.” His mouth screws into a frustrated wrinkle. “If Trent hadn’t interrupted us.”
“Really?” I adopt the same tone I’d use with a toddler who’d just told me he’d learned to pee in the potty. But inside, I’m shaking.
I take another sip of my soup to hide my shock. If I survive this ordeal, I need to re-evaluate my desire to talk to any and every one of my fans. There’s a fine line between being polite and being downright stupid, apparently.
“Then you had that…brutish beast in our way,” he continues.
I assume he’s talking about Rooster.
“My source said my next best chance to rescue you would be at the Virginia shows. Which worked out well for me since I know the area.”
Coldness cracks through my chest. “What source? Who told you that?”
“Never mind. If the stars had not aligned on this venture, I was going to try again in North Carolina or Georgia. Although those wouldn’t have been ideal since I’d have to travel longer.”
Does that mean we’re still in Virginia? It must. Not that it matters.
His cold features screw into something more terrifying. “And if that filthy, unkempt dog who’d been trotting after you had gotten in my way, I would’ve taken care of him.”
A firestorm of anger lights up my chest. How dare he talk about Rooster that way.
A cold smile spreads over his face. “But the security at that arena was comically easy to distract, and they kept your guard dogs busy.”
So that’s why Rooster didn’t make it back to my dressing room in time.
“Although. . .” He laughs, the sound more creepy than humorous. “He came this close to catching up to us outside.” He holds his hands a few millimeters apart. “He held on to the back of my van for quite a while. Too bad I didn’t back up over him when I finally shook him loose.”
Oh. My. God.
Tears prick my eyes. Rooster came close to saving me. I can’t even imagine how furious he must be right now. But if he got that close, he must have seen the license plate? Or gained some other helpful details?