8. Jared

EIGHT

The room isdark and empty when I come to again.

The second I open my eyes my stomach decides to empty what little contents it's been holding on to. Acid burns my throat. The stink of vomit fills my nose, mixing with the coppery tang of blood—my blood.

Fuck. Alonzo really went to town on me. My entire face burns with pain. Every breath sends fire shooting through my ribs. My head feels like it's going to explode.

I wish I could claim that my provoking Alonzo was deliberate or strategic somehow. But I wasn't nearly as calm or in control enough for that. No, I was enraged with him—and with myself.

The look of betrayal on Logan's face gutted me more than all the injuries I've sustained on the job combined. Even now, the memory of it, the hurt and disappointment, it cuts me deeper than the beating Alonzo gave me.

Logan shouldn't have found out this way. I should've been the one to tell him, and I should've done it ages ago. It's my fault he's here. It's my fault he's been abducted and beaten up. If I had told him… if I had explained myself and protected him…

Forget a deep, dark hole. I'm going to murder Alonzo Adams with my bare hands and I won't even feel guilty about it.

"Arggghhh!" I shout, letting out my fury as loudly as I can manage while half-dead. I thrash against my bindings, desperate to break free of them. I need to find Logan. I need to make this right.

Breathe.

The reminder comes to me from my subconscious and I resist it. I don't have time to fucking breathe. I need to get to Logan. Who knows what they're doing to him by now.

Breathe.

Fucking, fuckity, fuck.

Breathe.

I fucking breathe, getting only a fraction of a lungful before I'm cut off by the pain. I take another, slower this time, gently expanding my chest until that twinge of pain hits again.

I'm no good to Logan if I'm a raging mess. I'll sooner get both of us killed than anything else. I need to center myself and regain my calm and control. The only way we're getting out of here is by being smart, focused, and prepared.

It takes much too long, but eventually, the frantic agitation vibrating inside me starts to ease. The fog of anger clears as my mind takes charge again. Evaluate the situation. Make a plan. Take the first step.

The room is pitch black. No light spilling in through windows, nothing seeping in through a gap at the bottom of the door. I'll have to do everything through touch. I close my eyes and concentrate.

The chair I'm sitting in is made of metal. My hands are bound to the backrest on either side of the seat, and my feet are bound to the legs of the chair. I wriggle my wrists and the tie on the left catches on something—a break in the metal, a crack, or a splinter. It's a sharp edge that I can work the plastic zip tie against.

Good. That's step one. Get myself out of this chair.

I work quickly, but diligently. There's no time to waste, but rushing can lead to fatal mistakes. The zip tie is made of thick, sturdy plastic, and it won't be easy to cut through. But I bid my time, working it back and forth, back and forth until my wrist is rubbed raw.

The plastic snaps free. I shake my hand out, rotating my wrist and flexing my fingers. Nothing's broken, but the cuts from the zip tie are deep. I reach around to my right hand. The tie is secure and there's no way for me to free it.

I gingerly lean forward to feel around my ankles. There are no feet on the legs of the chair, which means I might be able to slide the zip tie right off the end. It'll require a lot of maneuvering though, and even bending forward like this is making the nausea rise again.

I breathe through it, waiting for my stomach to settle before continuing.

With my free hand outstretched to catch myself, I throw my weight forward, tipping the chair over. I land much less gracefully than I would like. My wrist hurts like a motherfucker as it absorbs most of the impact. It takes a moment for the pain to subside.

The ties on my ankles are tight—almost too tight. But if I pull my pant leg up to give myself that extra little bit of wiggle room… it's not easy and I have to stop several times to catch my breath. But gradually, I curse my way through freeing my right leg, then my left.

Three down, one to go.

Except standing is a lot more difficult than I expected. My knees give out on my first attempt. My head spins and I stumble on my second. The darkness is fucking with my equilibrium, and the chair still tied to my wrist is throwing me off balance.

The third time is sort of a charm. I use the chair as a makeshift crutch and shuffle myself in the direction of the light. There were two of them, about seven to ten feet away. One off to the right and one off to the left. They're most likely mounted on industrial-sized tripods, which means metal and potentially sharp edges.

A chair leg hits the tripod first. I pause, leaning heavily on the chair as I get my bearings. My stomach isn't happy with all this moving and I feel like I'm being spun around in circles. But I can't stop now. I need to press forward.

I feel blindly for the tripod and end up smacking it with the back of my hand, right on the corner of the square vertical bar. I hiss at the sting and shake it out before reaching for the tripod again. Slowly, I glide my hand along the metal shaft until I bump into something. It's round and when I twist it, it turns. It must be the knob that secures the tripod at various heights.

I loosen it, wincing when the top of the tripod slides down with a sudden crash. I hold my breath, waiting to see if the sound attracts any attention from outside. When the door doesn't fly open, I unscrew the knob all the way and test the threads with the pad of my thumb. They're not super sharp, but they might do.

I slump into the chair, leaning against the backrest. I need to pull my shit together, get my head on straight. Or else I might not even make it out of the fucking room. Logan's depending on me. I can't let him down.

Breathe. Stay methodical. Stay steady. Don't stop. Finish this step, then move on to the next.

I get to work on the last zip tie, using the raised edges of the screw's threads to eat away at the plastic. It doesn't seem to work at first, but I'm not about to give up. I can't afford to. Logan needs me.

By the time I'm completely free of the chair, I'm this close to passing out again. But Alonzo and his men could be back at any second—I don't know how long it took me to wake up before they left. I need to move. Now.

In the dark, I feel my way around the partially disassembled tripod and come up with one long length of metal to use as a weapon. Then I stumble my way toward where I think the door is. I walk the length of one entire wall before I find it on the second.

My hand curls around the door handle and I take another slow, centering breath. I need to be on my game the moment I step outside. There's no room for feeling nauseous or dizzy, no time to pause and rest. I need to be sharp, decisive, on the ball.

I open my eyes and focus on the doorknob in my hand. Ready. One, two, three. The adrenaline kicks in.

I twist the handle and it turns. Thank fucking god. Then I pull and the door lets out a creaking groan. Shit. I freeze. If Alonzo's men are anywhere nearby, they'll definitely have heard that. But there's no motion on the other side of the door. No shouts or pounding of feet.

I risk pulling the door open another inch. Another loud screech, but now the crack is wide enough for me to peek through. The lighting is dim, but given the absolute darkness of the room, it takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust.

When they do, I realize I'm staring into a hallway. There's still no sound, no indication that anyone's heard me or that anyone's on their way.

I pull the door open and wedge my shoulder through. The hallway is long—a dead end on one side and a set of double doors on the other. On both sides of the hallway are more doors like the one I'm propping open. If I'm lucky, Logan will be behind one of them. If I'm really lucky, his door will be unlocked too.

I ease the door shut behind me and adjust my grip on the metal bar. Creeping along the wall toward the dead end, I test each door I pass. The first one is locked. So is the second one. They all are, all the way down to the end of the hall. With each unsuccessful door, my stomach churns a little more.

Maybe Logan's not here? Could they have taken him somewhere else? What are they doing to him?

I turn at the end of the hall and work my way back toward the double doors. Locked. Locked. Locked.

Fuck. Where is he? He has to be here somewhere. Fuck.

Breathe. There are still three more doors to go.

At first, I don't realize the handle has given way under my hand. I'm almost about to move on before my brain clues in. This door is unlocked.

Wait. It's unlocked.

I shove my shoulder against it and it inches open with a scraping sound.

A gasp is the first thing I hear.

"Logan?" A look reveals Logan sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall on the far side of the room. Relief floods through me at the sight, like a cool, soothing balm that erases all the pain in my body. He's alive. I've found him. Thank fucking god.

Another gasp, louder this time. "Jay? Is that you?!"

"Shh!" I slip inside and nudge the door shut behind me. With it closed, the room plunges back into darkness, but I make a beeline toward the direction of Logan's sobs.

"Jay, oh my god. I thought you were dead. I thought they killed you."

I fall to my knees next to Logan, ignoring the bursts of pain as my ribs protest the movement. The metal bar clatters to the floor. I pull Logan into my arms and his tears soak through the collar of my shirt as he buries his face into the crook of my neck.

"I've got you. I'm here. Everything's going to be okay."

"I thought you were gone and I was alone and they were going to kill me."

His sobs break my heart and tears start prickling my eyes too. "That's not going to happen. I won't let it. We'll get out of this. I promise."

Logan curls into me. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

The words give me pause. They should be coming out of my mouth, not Logan's. What does he have to be sorry for?

I card my fingers through his hair. There's a patch by his temple that's sticky with blood. "No, no, don't be sorry, babe. You have nothing to be sorry for. I'm the one who lied to you. I'm the one who's sorry."

He shakes his head against my shoulder and pulls back as if to look at me, even though it's too dark for either of us to see anything. I keep my hands on either side of his face, leaning in close enough to feel the puff of his breath.

"I didn't trust you," he says with a hiccup.

That's blatantly not true. If anything, he's been way too trusting and I've taken advantage of that time and time again. But there's something in his voice that tells me he's talking about something else. "What do you mean?"

"I followed you." The sob that accompanies his answer distorts the words so much I'm not sure I caught them.

"You what?"

"I followed you. With Sawyer and Everest. Yesterday. When I said I was going to work."

Yesterday. Was it only yesterday when I woke up with Logan in my arms and he told me someone called in sick? Was it only yesterday when Victoria dragged in to work and Isaac told us that Alonzo Adams had escaped? It feels like a lifetime ago.

"What do you mean, you followed me?"

"I put an AirTag in your bag. Sawyer drove us into Manhattan after your Uber. And then Everest and I followed you to the subway. You met with a woman."

I sit back on my heels, hands falling into my lap. "You tailed me all the way to Victoria?"

Fuck, I must really be losing my touch if I hadn't noticed two civilians following me all the way from Brooklyn to Midtown. No wonder I didn't notice Logan was upset when I first saw him outside the restaurant. No wonder Alonzo got the jump on us. I've let my guard down. I've been getting soft.

"Jay? Jay?" Logan stretches his legs out until he makes contact with me again. He shuffles forward, like he's frantic to get back into my arms.

I lift my hands to his shoulders again and he leans into the touch.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I hadn't followed you, none of this would've happened."

"No." I squeeze Logan firmly. "This has nothing to do with you. This is entirely my fault. I should've protected you and kept you safe. I'm sorry." Guilt and shame and regret stab at me, sharper than the stings of my injuries. I have to get Logan out of here. I have to make sure he's okay. I'll never forgive myself otherwise.

"I want to go home," Logan sobs.

"I know. I do too. I'm going to get us out of here." Slowly, I ease Logan away from me. "Let me see your hands."

Logan sucks in a shaky breath and lets me turn him around. I run my hands down his arms to where his wrists are tied together with a zip tie. With the tripod knob I stuffed into my pocket, I get to work on the plastic. It's much easier using it on someone else, but even then, it takes long, never-ending minutes before I'm through.

The second Logan's arms are free, he launches himself at me again, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist. I hiss at the impact and he immediately pulls away.

"Oh my god, you're hurt. Where are you hurt? Are you okay?" His hands glide over me like he's checking me for injuries. He makes it up to my face and he tenderly cups my cheeks. "Oh my god, Jay."

"Shh. I'm okay. I'm fine." But I'm not, not really.

I take his hands and plant kisses on his palms. There's so much I need to tell him, so much we need to talk about. I don't know if he'll be able to forgive me. I don't know if I deserve it even if he can. But we don't have time for any of that now. It'll all have to wait until we're out of danger and I'm determined to get us to safety.

"Babe, we need to leave. Right now. Can you stand? Can you walk?"

"I… I think so?"

I feel around for the metal bar, gripping it tight in one hand. The other one holds onto Logan's. "Use the wall to steady yourself."

Slowly, we both climb to our feet.

"Fuck, it's so dark in here," Logan says as he leans heavily against the wall. "I can't see anything. I don't know where the floor is."

"I know. It's disorienting. It'll be better outside. Come on, let's get out of here."

We follow the wall, hand-in-hand, until we reach the door again. I reluctantly let go of Logan's hand so I can open the door. Holding the handle, I pause.

Breathe.

"Ready?" I ask Logan quietly.

"Y-yeah, I think so."

Calm. Control. Focus.

"Let's go."