Annabel's Abduction Pt. 01

(INTERIOR CLUB - Darkness illuminated by strobe lights. Loud music plays.)

Jesus Christ, what is she wearing?

“Stupid.” I mentally chastise myself for taking the Lord’s name in vain. My eyes roam beyond the bar, following the woman with the chain-link blouse.

“Excuse me?”

Shit. I guess it wasn’t mentally after all. “Er...nothing.”

“Right.” The guy sitting next to me, who I thought had previously been eyeing my décolletage (as Miranda called it--I think it’s a fancy word for cleavage), angles himself away from me little.

Don’t stick your dick in crazy, right? I unintentionally giggle at the thought. He turns some more. Smart guy. A little too smart, now that I look at his shoes. Church girls aren’t supposed to have gaydar, but if we did...

“What are you still doing over here?” Miranda nearly falls into me, saving herself with a well-placed hand on my shoulder.

“Waiting for my drink.”

“You don’t wait for drinks. You wait for a man to buy a drink for you.” She enunciates slowly, waving her arm towards the crowd when she reaches the word “man.”

The bartender places a mint julep on the counter in front of me.

“I don’t want to use a man just to get alcohol. Plus, this one was free. The bartender told me it was on the house.”

She squints at me suspiciously. “The only time a bartender gives you a drink on the house is if you look like a big tipper or they want to jump your bones. I don’t think she’s a lesbian, and you don’t scream big bucks. That is weird.”

I give her a playful shove, nearly sending her tumbling into Mr. Smart Shoes, who is still sitting next to me. One incendiary glare later, he picks up his drink and begins to stalk the periphery of the dance floor.

“I don’t think he likes you much.”

“I tend to have that effect on people.” I woefully sip my drink. “Jason is my latest victim.”

“Jason? The dog groomer?”

“Yep. He asked me to go out tonight.” I take a big gulp from my glass to block out the shame I feel for brushing him off.

“And I take it you said no.”

“He’s not my type.”

“Mm hmm. Well, let’s find your type, shall we?” She takes the glass out of my hands, places it on the bar, and grabs me by the wrist. As we approach the dance floor, she yells into my ear. “This DJ is from Prague. He only plays on the most exclusive nights.”

I know nothing about music, so who am I to argue? With a courageous straightening of my spine, I follow her into the throng of bouncing bodies and gyrating hips. Maybe, I think, the magic she promised me is only a mint julep and a dark handsome stranger away.

Like the universe can read my mind, an enormous shadowy figure appears out of the corner of my eye. In the flash of strobe light I see olive skin, sharp cheekbones, dark, unruly hair. Then I see nothing. Where did he go? I turn my head and gaze hard at the spot where he just was.

Miranda is still pulling us forward, but the crowd is unyielding. She begins to pull in a different direction.

I look around again. He’s left my field of vision. But I know he’s there, unseen and looming, in the mass of people behind me. There’s no way to explain how I know it, but his purpose is clear: me. Like an animal that knows it is being hunted, the fine hairs along my arms raise in anticipation and my breath catches.

Without warning, a strong hand runs from the base of my spine all the way up to the top. It lingers there, rough and heavy on my suddenly sensitive skin. That’s him. I try to crane my head backwards, hoping for a glimpse. Instead, unyielding fingers surround the base of my neck, removing my ability to do anything except look straight ahead.

I’m forced to pause, and in that moment Miranda’s grip on my wrist is gone.

I’m alone. Well, nearly alone, except for the hulking dark shape that wanes and waxes in my peripheral vision as the crowd moves to the beat.

Surrounded by their bodies, it’s almost impossible to move. If not for the quick glimpse earlier, I wouldn’t have even known whose hands were now roaming my body with possessive familiarity.

Would that have made a difference? Would I have stopped the hands if they had seemed less familiar, more unknown? A glimpse of a man the obscurity of a dance club is hardly enough to shape your judgment of him. And yet, those few seconds where I saw the beauty of his profile were enough to stop me from stopping him.

They say that predators are beautiful. But that’s only the half of it. His beauty was a facade. Behind the mask, brutality reigned.

I didn’t know that then. What I knew was a man wanted me, and it felt good to be wanted. A small part of me wanted to chastise him for being so forward, but the more modern, more adventurous (and, let’s face it, more tipsy) side of me wanted to continue our mysterious tete-a-tete without the burden of words.

I settle for wiggling forward into the crowd, only to find his grip on my neck is not letting up. Instead of finding the rhythm of the music and moving us with it, his hand keeps me motionless, and I realize he is oblivious to anything except my body’s acquiescence to his demands.

Alarm bells, albeit dull and fuzzy ones, are beginning to ring. They slowly disperse the lust from my brain. Something is not right here.

As I’m waging this internal war of the wills, his other arm finds its way around my waist. The ball of his thumb squeezes against the dimple behind my hip, perilously close to where my back ends and my ass begins. He strokes my naked skin rhythmically, elongating the path of his touch with each iteration. It’s tantalizing and holds a promise of things I never agreed to.

With a hiccup of breath, I push myself away from him, tense from this intrusion. Too much, too fast. He shifts, sensing my hesitation.

I can’t imagine that he doesn’t know why I’ve become resistant; I can only imagine that he doesn’t care.

Like an affirmation, he squeezes harder, and moves his vice-like grip from my neck to my other hip. How big is he? I wonder, feeling caged in between his wide, brutish shoulders. The languid caress of his thumb against the swell of my ass becomes two-fold. It’s rapidly creating a coil of tension in my belly, and lower. I push myself outward again, to no avail.

Idiotically, I contemplate the backless dress the saleswoman at Lilli’s Boutique sold me, wondering if that’s the catalyst for this encounter.

He seizes upon my moment of distraction. There’s a sudden, harsh brush against the skin beneath of my ear. Stubble. His jaw presses against me, harder than necessary.

The way he’s shoved his chin into the junction of my shoulder and neck is masterful; I can’t turn to see him, nor can I turn away. Warm breath against my sensitive skin raises goosebumps on my chest, and the ringlets of hair I left hanging down swing gently forward as he exhales against me.

Exhales, my ass. That’s a growl if I ever heard one.

I close my eyes, uncertain if I should savor this moment or end it. Can I end it? No, a tiny voice tells me. The honesty of the answer is terrifying.

I tremble, and a new hardness begins to form, snug against my ass. Not quite between my cheeks, he pushes forward, demanding to be closer.

Scaring me makes him hard. I’m incredulous. God, what do I do?

We exist like this, unmoving, for what seems like an eternity.

Suddenly I feel him bristle. He tenses, then rears up--no longer a man, but an animal on the defensive.

I open my eyes. Miranda is a few yards in front of us, mouth open, bewildered, frantically pushing her way upstream against the crowd.

Without a word, his fingers dig harder into the soft skin around my waist. Sharp teeth nip my ear, then pull back. I involuntarily yelp, surprised by the pain he’s caused me.

Before I can think, or do, anything, his warmth and weight recede back into the crowded room. My body is alone again. Emptiness becomes his palpable and disappointing replacement.

If I had known what he had planned for me, I’d have run away and never looked back.