Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

I n a desperate last-ditch effort to save myself, I tried to scramble across the hood of the mustang and flee to the passenger side. But before I could clear the metal expanse, a vice grip on my ankles wrenched me upward.

My body spun about and, now on my back, I was pulled toward the killer crouched on the bottom of the windshield.

Bracing a leg on each side of him, I stomped my feet on the glass incline and pushed up, propelling us both toward the front of the hood, threatening to tumble both off us off the hood and to our deaths.

The killer pushed me down and put his knife to my throat.

I froze, both my hands wrapped around his thick wrist, holding back the hand grasping the handle of the blade under my chin.

We were so close to falling that I could feel the lake breeze ruffling my hair. Another inch or two, and we would both slide off the Mustang and plummet forth, dropping into Crystal Lake.

I looked up into the dark helmet of a crazed killer. He studied me from between my spread legs. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, but I was strangely composed for the position I found myself in. It was eerily intimate, him looming over me, his pelvis pressed to my core, my calves over his hips. I panted in exertion.

The killer used his free hand to remove his helmet and toss it aside, revealing nothing but a black, faceless mask underneath. Though the material was thin, allowing the motorcyclist to see out, it concealed any details that would allow me to place his face.

“Take a deep breath and relax, Samara,” he growled.

Shocked that he knew my name, I lamely obeyed his order. Breathing through my nose, as much as I could, I held it for a moment then strangled out an exhalation. He smelled familiar. A scent from long ago. It teased at my memories, but my fear-saturated brain couldn’t seem to pull them out.

“Now be a good girl and reach over your head and grab the edge of the grill with both hands.”

“Why?” I panted weakly.

The knife pinched my skin. “Because I told you to.”

Unsure why I even felt the need to ask, I warily released my hold on his wrist and complied. I risked slicing my own throat by tipping my head all the way back so I could see the drop below. The dark depths beckoned me.

“I am going to remove the knife,” he said slowly. “Do not do anything to make me shove you away. I would hate for you to die on your birthday.”

Swallowing hard, I looked at him and asked, “How do you know it’s my birthday?”

I screamed when he lifted the knife high and stabbed it into the hood of the car, right above my head. The knife pierced the sheet of metal with ease. I cut short my echoing shriek by falling into hysterics.

“What do you want from me?” I strained, hyperventilating. “Why did you kill everybody?”

“Stay still.”

Like a statue, I stayed while he tugged the edge of my cheer top up over my head and up my arms. He then twisted the material and hooked it over the anchored knife. I let go of the hood’s edge and found my wrists pinned into the fabric.

The killer tsk’d. “I didn’t say you can let go of the grill, Samara.”

A distressed squeak escaped my throat, and I automatically returned my grip to the metal, but swallowed the instinctual apology that wanted to tumble out my mouth.

The faceless psycho trailed a lazy finger down my throat and between my cleavage. “Samara, Samara. You are too good a person to be hanging out with these fuckers. You know that?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I wanted to ask him to release me, but words failed me, and I simply started sobbing again.

“Don’t cry,” he cooed, wiping my tears. “You’re too beautiful for that.”

The killer reached into his back pocket and pulled out a switch blade. I jumped when he flicked it open. He placed the blade under my bra and pulled up, severing the undergarment. It spilled open, exposing my breasts to the cool air.

“So beautiful,” he repeated.

“Please,” I hiccupped. “I’m a virgin.”

“Yeah, I know.” The killer chuckled lightly. “The whole school knows. Your shit boyfriend told everyone his plans for tonight, sharing to any who’d listen.”

The masked man then leaned back, flipped up my pleated cheer skirt, and cut away my spanks.

“No, no—” I let go of the hood’s edge again and began pulling hard, trying to free my hands from the fabric.

The killer grabbed my chin roughly, nearly perforating my cheeks with his grip. “Stop.”

With an anguished cry of frustration, I ceased struggling and returned my gaze to the masked face. The killer gentled his hold and rubbed the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip, making hushing sounds while I composed myself.

“I want to make this pleasant for you, Samara, but I need you to be a good girl for me. Can you do that?”

Make this pleasant? What did he mean? My violation? My death? Did such a state of pleasantness exist?

“I need an answer, Samara.”

Unsure what else to do, I swallowed hard, closed my eyes, and nodded.

“Okay,” he murmured, releasing my jaw. “I’m trusting you.”

I hid in the darkness of my closed eyes and tried to focus on anything but him. They way my heart thumped erratically. How my blood rushed in my ears. The feel of the cool air pulling at the tendrils of my hair.

Cold metal pressed flat against my stomach, and the tension on the pleated skirt gave as the waistband was severed. Seconds later, the cloth was pulled away, leaving me as naked as the motorcyclist was clothed.

Truly, I wanted to check out, but my petrified psyche insisted on categorizing every sensation, from the feel of his jeans between my naked thighs to the smooth metal beneath my bare back.

I held my breath and waited for my rapist to paw at me. I barely tolerated Jeremy’s clumsy attentions on a good day. Men were aggressive, everything rough and hard. I mentally prepared myself for the pain I knew was coming. I had let Jeremy finger me once, and he made me bleed. It was awful.

When the motorcyclist laid upon me, I realized he had removed his bloody shirts. Hard warmth blanketed me. Should I be grateful? Should I be relieved that he did not soil me with my dead boyfriend’s blood?

“You deserve to be worshipped, Samara,” the killer rumbled in my ear before nuzzling my hair. “Every inch of your amazing body.”