Brown Eyes, Blue Eyes
It was dark.
Dark and stuffy, with the rough material of the sack over her head making her cottonmouth all the worse and driving a dry cough to rattle her frame with the dust it circulated into her breaths.
Her body felt heavy the way she was bound, the duct tape biting into her wrists. The warm, felt-lined, cramped space she was tossed into (the trunk of a car based on this, the sounds of the air whistling past, and the way the motion rocked her) was her bed for at least an hour. Past that, she wasn't certain. The duct tape over her mouth had made breathing a little difficult. Her head swam; dozing off had come only as a brief reprieve.
A cold wall of air hit her when the trunk finally opened. She was hoisted from the trunk and onto her feet like a sack of potatoes, the pinched grip of her captor steering her.
Correction -- captors.
She'd heard more than one voice when the bag had been thrown over her head.
With the first step forward, her knees buckled and the grip on her gave her a sharp shake as if to warn her body it could choose between dealing with the consequences of its own fatigue, or their impatience.
She stumbled as the terrain dipped unexpectedly before her, the hands at her shoulders catching her roughly to force her back onto her feet.
What a rotten day to have worn heels.
She could feel the thin material of her blouse strain as her captor's fingers pulled it taut in the process of steadying her.
A note of something she couldn't place dropped through her and gathered at her pelvic bone -- a warning, or maybe even just an acknowledgment of the issue she'd been refusing to address since she'd been snatched.
The screaming had stopped after a few moments, at a sharp slap and a warning of what would happen if she continued. Later, a sobering calm had taken hold of her. Whatever was to happen to her, was out of her control, at least for now.
The futility of her situation weighed on her like an anvil, slowing her erratic, frightened breaths, forcing her body to succumb to the sluggish surrender of it.
The grip on her tugged her to a stop and she heard keys. Emma imagined someone fiddling with a lock.
It was chilly; perhaps even night time by now since it got dark earlier these days. She hadn't worn a jacket seeing as the walk from her building to her car was a short one. Emma felt her nipples tighten inside her bra, aching.
The door opened and she was shoved inside. Emma tripped over the threshold and that same rough grasp yanked her up. She could feel a stitch pull from her blouse.
"Hey!" she snapped without thinking.
The tape tore her words apart so that a strange, misshapen bellow buzzed from it.
She heard someone scoff from a little ways in front of her. A sharp jab punched between her shoulder blades, making her stumble again.
"Shut up."
This voice came from behind her, a deep bass.
Her footsteps sounded sharper here; she'd guess that the floors were wood. That and based on how the door sounded -- no metal from what she could detect -- led her to wonder if she had been taken to someone's house.
Her stomach flipped.
"Where are we?"
No one answered.
"Where are you taking me?" She could hear the note of hysteria in her voice.
"Shut up."
The hand on her gave her a hard, rattling shake.
She was pulled to a stop before she could ask. There was silence and then a tugging at the bindings at her wrist. There was a tug and a dulled ripping sound. Then, the duct tape fell away.
Her freedom was short-lived as her arms were wrenched up over her head. Emma was acutely aware of how her breasts lifted with the motion of her arms. Something cold and metal closed around her wrists and she heard them click. Afterward, she was unable to bring her arms back down. A point of tension held her vulnerably, almost forcing her up onto her toes. She'd tire easily in this position.
Her breathing seemed to come harder now. She could feel the rise and fall of her chest like her lungs were wet paper bags inflating inside of her. So the fear hadn't melted away -- it had merely fallen asleep on the ride over here, much like her legs had.
The bag slid over her face as it was pulled from her head. Emma felt the staticky tickle of flyaway hairs cling to her face like a frizzy, fallen halo.
She was immediately horrified at the normalcy of the room; with a bit more furniture and without whatever ghastly device was used to suspend her from the ceiling, it could've been her childhood bedroom, with its sleepy yellow walls and quaint trim.
She blinked, first a little frantically, and then more measured, as her eyes adjusted to light once more. The privacy of being taken captive in someone's home gave off less of a 'ransom-kidnapping' feel and more of a 'dispose-of-the-body-in-the-bathtub' one. Her blood chilled.
A hand stroked through her hair, fingers catching at the snarls and tangles and she stiffened. She'd almost forgotten that she wasn't alone. She flinched at the sting at her scalp, which earned her a chuckle from the man who'd touched her.
Emma was facing the shut door and a table -- what from her vantage appeared to be the only piece of furniture in the room -- with its wood surface and steel legs.
Besides that, the only aspect specifically not-homely here, was the hook and chain hanging down from the ceiling, which her cuffs were caught on.
When she heard soft footsteps she looked sharply to her right but was unable to look far enough to see who made them as they disappeared behind her.
A few moments later, a man walked out from the blurred edges of her peripheral vision.
She watched him carefully, even though she'd have no way of preparing herself for whatever he chose to do next.
With the sandy blonde hair and disarmingly warm, brown eyes, Emma realized that if they had met on the street instead of like this, she might've thought he was cute, in a boy-next-door kind of way.
"Ms. Cobb," he started, in a friendly voice. "Or can I call you Emma?"
He finished what must've been a circle around her before moving to stand in front of the little table in the room. He perched at the edge, half-leaning, half-sitting on it.
He wasn't smiling, not quite, but still, there was something out of place there at his lips. She had no doubt his boss was compensating him well for this job in all of its...risks, but she got the sense that maybe, this man would've been doing it regardless, just because he could, maybe even because he was good at it.
When she didn't answer the man looked stricken suddenly.
The duct tape was still at her mouth. Her brow furrowed.
"My bad -- you can't answer me like that."
She stared at him for a few moments and when he said nothing else, she realized that his question had been an honest one. She knew it would be foolish to trust this man, who could talk polite enough but who'd still seemed to have very few reservations about throwing her into the trunk of a car.
Nevertheless, he pushed off from the table, sending it back slightly with a lurching squeak. She watched him as he reached up for the tape pressed flat against her mouth. The edge of his nail picked gently at one end until it wore away at his insistence into a sad, sticky dogear, which he pinched more substantially between two fingers.
Then, in one quick movement, he ripped it off.
A fierce burn seared across her face and so the first sound she made with her newfound freedom was a pained cry.
"That's--" she gave a weak little cough and cleared her through. "That's fine."
In reality, she had very little choice in this situation though she couldn't resist feeling like she did.
"Emma, then," the man offered like they were old friends meeting for the first time in years. "Do you know why you're here?"
Given how much she'd written on a long list of wealthy men, she could think of several reasons potentially, but she didn't know for certain which one. Truthfully, no one had stood out to her lately as being especially pissed off. Certainly not in a 'snatch-her-in-broad-daylight' way.
"Go on," he encouraged when she still hadn't spoken. "Why are you here?"
"I-" her throat tightened and her voice rasped. Emma cleared her throat and tried again. "I don't know, is it for something I wrote?"
Usually, it was a lawyer on her answering machine rather than two guys and a town car.
The man had since leaned back against the table again. At her response, he clucked his tongue and shook his head.
"Not quite. You're here because of something you said."
He paused and Emma stared blankly at him. The man seemed to be watching her eyes, looking for the split-second of recognition he could pounce on.
When he saw none, he slipped his hand into his back pocket. As soon as she could detect movement, her eyes went to his wrist, waiting for the glint of a knife or the glimpse of a gun to perhaps entice her into being more helpful.
Brown-Eyes paused, studying her reaction and how her wide eyes tracked his movement. His lips twitched; he looked like he was enjoying this.
Then with one cocked eyebrow, he revealed to her what he'd fished from his pocket.
Rather than a weapon, it was a small silver square -- a phone of some sort.
Brown-Eyes held it between his fingers and flipped it open to show her. She watched a grainy picture appear, stamped in the corner with a time that indicated it had been taken earlier that day. In it, Emma was standing next to a man outside what she could recognize as her office building, based on the glass walls and silver edges.
In the picture, the wind was whipping her hair around and her head was angled in towards the man as if trying to hear him better. One of her hands was folded by her chest, her index finger out like she was about to point somewhere.
Now, Brown-Eyes saw what he was looking for.
"Ah, now the gears are turning," his index finger tapped at the picture for emphasis. "So then, sweetheart, what exactly did you and this gentleman talk about?"
"I gave him directions or something. He was lost."
The corner of Brown-Eyes' mouth pulled back and he clucked his tongue in a negating sound again.
Soft in itself, Emma came to reconcile it as an ominous sound all the same; like she was watching him tally the things she did that displeased him. Perhaps this was just years of steeping in a culture with cheap baseball metaphors but she felt it unwise to let him get to three.
"What, you thought he was a tourist or something? He doesn't look the type."
"Well, no, not a tourist but...I don't know, he just stopped me to ask so I told him."
When she looked at Brown-Eyes' face next, any and all traces of playfulness had disappeared from him.
