DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 8, AUTHOR'S NOTE - 2/5/15, 3:38pm

Okay. I can do this. I have to do this.

So, almost as quickly as the van reached what felt like highway cruising speed, it started to slow down. I felt it make a sharp turn, then we came to a sudden halt.

I heard the driver's side door open, and right away the cop banged on the side of the van. I remember what he said almost exactly.

"Here's what we're gonna do." He was speaking loud enough to be heard inside the van, but he was using the same calm, seemingly reasonable voice he'd used while writing me the ticket. "There are rails running along both sides of the storage area in there. I know it's dark, but if you feel around you'll find two pairs of handcuffs attached to them. Two on the right side of the van, two one the left. Kyle, you're gonna cuff yourself to this side of the van." He banged on the wall. "Both wrists." Now his footsteps paced around to the other side. "And Bailey, sweetheart, you're gonna use this side." He banged the wall again, this time just at my shoulder.

Oh my God. . . 

It only just occurred to me now that he used the names "Kyle" and "Bailey." I was too terrified to register it then, but I'm absolutely sure of it. He didn't use our real names. He used my pen name. And he'd even called out to "Kyle" with the name I use for him only here on Wattpad. . . What exactly is going on?

"Just do what he says." I clasped the cuffs over both of my wrists quickly, terrified of not following the cop's instructions. Kyle hesitated for only a moment, then he cuffed himself too.

What else could we do? He was a cop, and he definitely had a gun. He certainly wasn't arresting us, that was clear enough. He was kidnapping us. And no matter how calm and reasonable he sounded, this meant he could be capable of anything.

"We all good in there?" the cop called out. "Cause if we're not, well, I'm real sorry. But you're not gonna like the consequences."

"We're freaking cuffed!" I screamed.

The sliding door rumbled up. Behind the cop's silhouette, the pacific ocean's broad expanse glistened in the moonlight. He must have pulled over at one of the many empty beach-access turnoffs along the highway. I remember thinking how tantalizingly close to freedom I felt when I saw the ocean, as if there was no way that some thin metal cuffs could keep us from just fleeing out onto the beach and into the dark of night. But of course they could. And even if we'd slipped the cuffs, the cop was big, over six feet tall, and obviously in good shape. He'd be able to stop us easily, or shoot us.

I'm getting sick to my stomach thinking about what happened next, and I'm not sure if I can hold my hands still enough, but I'm just going to try to type it as fast as I can without thinking. . .

The cop pulled out the U-Haul's loading ramp and clambered up inside. He wheeled my bike out onto the turnout, extended the kickstand, and left it standing neatly in one of the sandy parking spaces.

He climbed back up into the U-Haul.

I couldn't see very well in the darkness, but suddenly I heard a dull, whacking pop. I could just make out by the moonlight that he'd shaken out a fresh plastic garbage bag.

He put it straight over Kyle's head.

"Stop!" I yelled, which was stupid. Because I knew that nothing I said was going to stop whatever he was about to do to us.

Kyle struggled under the bag while the cop unwound a length of duct tape. In a quick motion, he wrapped the tape all the way around Kyle's neck so that the bag's black plastic suddenly tightened over his head. He couldn't breathe. Kyle started thrashing around against the handcuffs, trying to get the bag off. But he couldn't.

I called out to him, again and again, my voice completely broken by panic and fear. My heart was shattering. The cop was killing him. I was about to lose the person who meant more to me than anyone in the world. And that would be it. There would be no point in going on living.

The cop stood over Kyle, yelling at him. "Breath in!" he kept shouting. "Breathe harder!"

Kyle desperately tried to pull air into his lungs. All I could do was watch the outline of my boyfriend's lips where the plastic pulled into a tight, circular indentation under the pressure if his furious attempt to inhale.

"Breathe in!" the cop demanded again.

The plastic tightened and drew further into Kyle's mouth like an inverted balloon as he sucked in harder and harder.

The plastic burst. A small hole appeared between Kyle's lips where the bag had finally weakened and broke. He breathed in deeply, coughed, then breathed in again.

The cop shook out another garbage bag.

Then he dropped it down over my head, and just like he did with Kyle, he wound duct tape tightly around my neck, securing the bag over my head.

I didn't think I could do this. Out of sheer panic, I was nearly incapable of breathing at all. I knew I wasn't strong enough to burst the plastic with just my lungs like Kyle had. I started hyperventilating inside the bag.

I felt the cop's hand on my shoulder.

"Open," he said.

I had no idea what he meant. His voice was calm.

"Open." He repeated the word just as he'd said it the first time, like a dentist about to examine someone's teeth.

I opened my mouth.

I felt the cop grab my chin. Suddenly the plastic around my lips and teeth tightened.

He was pushing something into my mouth through the bag.

The plastic stretched, and, finally, it burst. Something salty and rough grazed the surface of my tongue.

It was the cop's thumb. He'd punctured the bag himself so I could breathe.

He pulled his thumb from my mouth, then I heard him stand and step away.

I did my best to catch my breath. It wasn't easy to get enough fresh oxygen through the relatively small hole. The air inside the bag was already warm and moist. My hair was dampening with sweat and clinging to my eyes.

The U-Haul's sliding door rumbled down and slammed shut.

The engine started.

We drove away.

And we kept driving.

Hour, after hour, after hour.

Bailey