Blackmailed Into Servitude Ch. 01-04

Hmm... All I saw before was 'State of Florida' at the top, his name beneath that, and the photo... I guess the 'Private Investigator' part was obscured by the leather bordering the wallet's ID window... You know what, he does look a little older in this picture... Maybe he showed me a different ID the first time then pulled out this one to convince me he wasn't impersonating a cop.

"Oh..." is all I mutter while looking back up at his eyes and taking a step back. "If you're a P.I., then why are you still carrying a Tallahassee Police Department Badge? And why did the calling card you left with my R.A. say that you were a detective and not that you're a private investigator or private detective or whatever? Was that even a real badge?" I take another step back.

"Yes, the badge is real. I was a beat cop for five years and a detective for twenty-two before I retired and became a P.I. In regards to the badge, I keep it on me as a show of legitimacy. As for the calling card, I must've given your R.A. one of the old cards I never removed from my wallet..." He scans my face and his expression softens at the sight of my obvious apprehension. "Listen, if you'd like to verify my employment history, we can walk on over to the police station around the corner right now and have them pull up my file," he says, gesturing in the direction of the FSU police department building that's a two-minute walk to the southwest of us. "But if we do that, they might ask why I'm investigating you, and then I'd be obligated to disclose the details of this case—"

"No, no!" I interrupt. "That's fine. I believe you."

"Well, good. So, does that mean you don't mind coming with me to my car so I can take you to my client?" he asks, gesturing toward the lot to my right—the lot by Azalea Hall that's right beside the friggin' FSU police station. "I've got other business to attend to in about an hour, so I'd like to wrap up here."

"Uh... I don't know if I feel comfortable getting in the car with you—not after you called me on the phone claiming that you were a detective instead of specifically disclosing that you're a private detective."

"Oh, that's just semantics. A private detective is a detective. I didn't lie."

"I mean, I guess... But you not being clear about that makes me feel like you purposefully neglected to disclose the whole P.I. thing to scare me into getting in the car with you. Like, I'm pretty sure that's considered impersonating a cop, and I'm pretty sure that's illegal even if you retired from the police force."

Jonathan sighs. "It is illegal. But it wasn't intentional. Referring to myself as a detective is just a force of habit after being one for over half my life, and I'm sorry for not being clear right off the bat. If you'd like to report me, by all means, feel free to do so," he says, once again gesturing toward the police station. "Should you do so, I'll have to disclose my case against you, and then it'd be the word of a thief against the word of a well-respected officer of the law with friends in Tallahassee P.D. and the courts."

My body tenses so badly from the threat that my booty clenches. "I'm not gonna say anything, sir. I promise. I was just letting you know why I felt uncomfortable getting in the car with you."

"Okay. I understand."

"So... can I just drive there myself? I have a car, so I can just follow you to Boudoir Plus."

"Unfortunately, my instructions were to make contact with you and then personally drive you to Boudoir Plus. And Mr. Bonham made it very clear that, if you refused to let me drive you there, I am to call him and then submit the evidence to Tallahassee P.D. on his behalf. So, essentially, your options right now are either a car ride with me or jail."

My heart jackhammers against the inside of my chest. "Okay, okay!" I plead, raising my hands in surrender. "I'll go with you."

"Excellent," he says, turning and gesturing toward the lot he pointed to earlier. "Right this way, Ms. Hartman."

Why does it feel like I'm about to get kidnapped? The moment that thought crosses my mind, I become dizzy with panic. I gotta text Taylor and let her know I'm about to get in a car with a random old guy, I think, pulling out my phone from the back pocket of my denim shorts.

"Good timing," Jonathan says in the middle of our walk, holding his hand out to me. "I was just about to ask you for your phone."

My brows furrow. "Wait, for real?"

"Yup. My client gave me strict orders to not let you contact anyone until you two have had a chance to talk. Something about keeping this whole thing hush-hush until you can sign an NDA about his hiring of a private detective to come and get you... So, unfortunately, I'm going to need to confiscate that from you."

My eyes go wide. "Seriously? Can't I just text my roommate real quick to let her know I'm about to get in the car with a stranger?"

He shakes his head. "Listen, if you text or call anyone, I'll have to tell Mr. Bonham, and then he's surely going to tell me to submit the evidence to the police because you didn't follow instructions." He makes a come here motion. "Don't worry, you'll get it back later. And I promise nothing is going to happen to you while you're in my custody or thereafter. Not only am I still a man of the law, but there are cameras right over there recording us," he says, pointing at the dome camera attached to the streetlight a few feet to my right, "so you can rest assured that there's evidence of us meeting. I wouldn't implicate myself if I thought something bad was going to happen to you."

"Ugh, alright... fine," I sigh out, handing him my iPhone with a shaky hand. "Umm... you said earlier that the owner wanted to give me a chance to remedy the losses before deciding whether or not he wants to turn me in, right?"

"That's right," the P.I. grumbles.

That doesn't make sense though... Taylor said her aunt and uncle paid off the store owner in full when they came to pick her up.

"But..." I start to say only for my words to trail off when it dawns on me that asking about that might get Taylor in trouble. "Did he say what he wanted? Like, do I have to work for him for free until I earn back the equivalent of what was taken?"

The private investigator shrugs. "I assume so... He didn't exactly say, and I didn't ask."

"Oh... Okay..."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it. I mean, I doubt he'd hire an ex-cop to bring you in if he planned on asking something inappropriate of you."

"That's true, I guess..."

In the corner of my eye, I see him turn to me. "As a former criminal investigator who's seen dozens of cases like these, can I offer you a bit of advice, Ms. Hartman?"

"Sure."

"Well, in my expert opinion, I recommend that you take whatever deal Scott offers you, no matter how shitty it is. If you don't, I can almost guarantee that you'll be getting at least a year in prison given the value of the property you stole and the evident premeditation that went into the robbery, even if this is your first offense."

"Oh... really?"

"Really," he says as he comes to a stop by a black Ford sedan that he just unlocked with his key fob. "I mean, half of you girls went in wearing a different sorority's clothes, the other half had on Jacksonville University attire, and all of you knew where to stand to keep the cameras from seeing you steal goods. Wearing disguises to make it harder to track you all down and standing in all the right spots to hide from cameras? That demonstrates blatant premeditation, so you definitely don't want this going to trial. That being said, if you don't work out a deal with Mr. Bonham, it won't just be you going down for this robbery, it'll also be your four accomplices and the getaway driver. You'll all go down to some degree, but Faith Hanson will surely receive the maximum penalty possible."

My eyes widen. "Wait, why's that?" I blurt out.

"Faith is on probation for a weed charge."

"Oh, that's right."

"The only reason she got probation instead of five years in prison for getting caught with 20 grams of marijuana is because the judge went easy on her after learning that she's her sick mother's sole caretaker."

To that, I simply nod. Faith's future and her mom's future depend on me making a deal with this Scott Bonham guy... The question is, why me? Why not Taylor? Why not all the girls for that matter?

"Also, I've done my research on Sigma Lambda Tau, so I know the sorority president's mother is an accomplished lawyer," the private investigator continues. "You may think that'll give you a good chance to fight the grand theft charges but, considering that you all were likely acting on Cindy Prescott's orders for some sort of sorority initiation challenge like the other hazing-related robberies that happened around Tallahassee in years past, you can bet that her mom will be too busy keeping her daughter out of prison after you girls start ratting on your president to shift fault away from yourselves. When that inevitably happens, Attorney Linda Prescott will undoubtedly make the case that you five were acting on your own accords. She'll convince the jury that you all were stealing goods to gift to Cindy and the Big sisters in exchange for buying your way into the sorority. Fun fact: That's happened in similar cases involving sorority and fraternity hazing a few years ago. In ninety-percent of those cases, the well-connected, often affluent presidents of the Greek organization walked away free and clear while the scapegoat pledges went to jail. But even if Attorney Linda Prescott or some other lawyer gets you out of doing time, there's no way you or your friends are walking away from this without at least getting probation and being expelled from FSU."

"I see..." I say through a sigh. "Well, thanks for the advice."

"You're welcome," he says while opening the rear driver's-side door for me.

After removing my backpack, I toss it in and then I start climbing into the back of the vehicle only to pause and turn back around a second later. "Before I get in this car with you, I have one more question."

"Ask away," the older man says.

"Do you know why this Scott Bonham guy sent you after me instead of one of the other girls?" I ask nervously.

The man shrugs, his face expressionless. "I haven't the slightest clue, young lady. Been wondering that myself, honestly. I suppose you can ask him that when you see him in about fifteen minutes."

I sigh while turning back around, staring worriedly at the back seat of the car like it's a coffin I'm about to be buried alive in. "That doesn't make me feel any better," I mutter.

"Sorry, but my job isn't to make criminals feel better, Ms. Hartman. My job is to deliver you to my client on time, so please hop on in the back so we can get a move on."

Pouting, I glance over my shoulder at him.

"Everything will be fine. I promise."

Nodding, I turn back around and hesitantly climb in. The instant I'm seated, he slams the door hard—so hard that my nervous-ass jumps like an abused dog with PTSD.

My phone got taken, I got into a car with a shady P.I., and now I'm legit about to be delivered to the man I robbed last week for who knows what reason.

As I watch the grunting older man climb behind the wheel, a pit forms in my stomach. Then, just like before, I jump when the P.I. slams his door shut. And then I jump again a beat later when the engine roars to life and the locks beside me clunk.

This doesn't feel right, I think as the vehicle pulls out of the parking spot. A guy with good intentions wouldn't have made a P.I. use incriminating evidence to blackmail me into giving up my phone before getting in the car with him... I mean, if that's what this Scott guy would do just to get me to meet with him without anyone knowing, I can't imagine what he'll ask of me when I get there... Oh God... What if this Scott guy drugs me, chains me up, and sells me to sex traffickers? As that thought leaves my mind, I'm suddenly overcome with this unnerving feeling—what can only be described as a sense of impending doom. My gut's telling me that getting in this car was a bad idea... The image of the road ahead blurs behind a wall of tears. This is it... This is how I get kidnapped... This is how I get killed... I gotta get out at the next red light, and I gotta run!

But if I run, I go to jail... I don't wanna go to jail!

But I also don't wanna be kidnapped...

I might not even get kidnapped though. It's possible that I'm just freaking myself out. Maybe I am really about to be given a legit chance to clear my name by working for free while the owner goes on vacation or something...

Or maybe I'm about to be kidnapped...

Fuck... What do I do?

Σ Λ Τ

For the last thirteen minutes, I've been sitting in the middle of the backseat staring at the private investigator's phone that's mounted to the windshield, watching as the blue icon representing this vehicle draws nearer to our Google Maps destination in Killearn Estates labeled Boudoir Plus: Premium Adult Superstore. Seeing that we're in fact heading to the address for the store I robbed and not some sketchy remote area calmed me down enough to not try jumping out in the middle of the street and running for my life.

That doesn't mean I've let my guard down though. A few minutes ago, I snuck a pen out of the small pocket of my backpack and slipped it into my shorts pocket for quick access. That way, if one of these guys comes at me with a syringe or someone tries to drag me to a kidnap van, I'm using this improvised weapon to stab them, and then I'm going to run to the nearest business. That's what my dad taught me to do back in high school if someone tried to kidnap me.

As the private investigator slows to a stop for the traffic halted at the redlight ahead, he reaches over to his phone, minimizes Google Maps with a tap of the screen, and then he hits the green phone icon to bring up his call log. After dialing up the top contact with a swipe, he removes the cellphone from the mount and then brings it to his ear.

"Hey. We're one light away," P.I. Brady says to the man on the phone as the traffic light turns green. A short pause follows. "Not really... Yes, as requested... Copy that. See you shortly."

The instant this vehicle lurches forward, my heart throttles harder and faster than it ever has before, which is concerning considering that it's already been racing at an alarmingly quick rate since we left campus. With each passing second—which each foot of road traversed, my heartbeat somehow ramps up to a higher BPM, making my vision pulse.

The intensifying panic has me nauseous, and my body's physiological response to it has me feeling dizzy.

A little less than a quarter-mile later, the sign for Boudoir Plus appears, barely jutting out from behind a wall of towering trees bordered by high bushes—a wall of greenery that conceals the building from view in an almost purposeful manner, acting as a botanical shroud to prevent it from tarnishing the upstanding businesses in proximity to it. Not that there are any businesses super close by. Boudoir Plus isn't connected to anything. It's a large standalone building that's maybe half the size of a Super Target, separated from the nearest establishment by a thick cluster of trees and brush that's wide enough to fit a Starbucks.

The entrance to the parking lot appears from behind some tall bushes as we approach the sign. Thankfully, there are no kidnap vans in sight, just a black Jeep Cherokee. Though this P.I. hits the turn signal and begins slowing down, he passes right by the entrance.

"Uhhh," I croak as we come to a stop in the left turning lane for the next turn—a turn leading to a tree-lined side street that goes uphill. I'm pretty sure this is the way the girls and I came during our escape. "Wait, why'd you pass the entrance?"

"Mr. Bonham has requested that I bring you in through the back," he grumbles, intensely staring at the lane running parallel to us in search of a gap in the oncoming traffic.

"Oh," I mutter, picturing the alley in my head.

On the opposite side of the alley from Boudoir Plus, there's just a tall wall separating that property and the backstreet from the tree-topped hill behind it. There are no houses or businesses with a view of the backstreet... Which means the only footage of me entering this place will be in the possession of the guy who paid a P.I. to bring me here... Not good. I scoot closer to the passenger's side door and grab the doorhandle. I need to be ready to jump out and run.

As soon as P.I. Brady steps on the gas and begins the high-speed turn to beat the next wave of cars racing toward us, I slowly pull on the handle, waiting for the lock to pop up with a clunk that's hopefully not too loud. But even after pulling it as far as it'll go, the lock doesn't pop up.

Oh shit... the child safety locks must be on, I think as the fake detective makes another left down the alley, driving downhill in the opposite direction that the girls and I fled from a week ago. Of course an ex-cop wouldn't put a 'prisoner' in the back without making it impossible for them to escape...

A few seconds later, we come to a stop right in front of the emergency exit and the small office window that I crawled out of to flee capture. In the next moment, Jonathan Brady shifts into park and then cuts off the engine while opening his door. Like the old man he is, he grunts and groans as he climbs out of the car. It's only after he slams his door shut that he uses his key fob to unlock mine. Unfortunately, he parked too close to the wall for me to open the passenger side door, so I have no choice but to get out where he's standing. I'm sure that was on purpose.

"Time to face justice, Ms. Hartman," he grumbles while opening my door. When I don't budge, he sighs and makes a 'come here' motion with his hand. "You made your bed, now it's time to sleep in it, so c'mon."

I stare blankly at him, not moving, not blinking.

"Listen, you've got nothing to worry about. Unless you choose to let Mr. Bonham send you to jail instead of coming to an arrangement, I promise that you'll be back safe in your dorm before sunset. If it makes you feel any better, I'll even call to check in on you tonight. And if I don't hear from you, you can rest assured that I'll send one of my old buddies from the precinct here to check in on your whereabouts, okay?"

Since that promise seemed kinda genuine, I nod and start climbing out of the car while dragging my backpack behind me.

Upon reaching the gray emergency door, P.I. Brady doesn't knock like I expect him to, he simply turns the handle and pulls it open. "After you," he says, gesturing to the red-neon-lit hallway. "Mr. Bonham is waiting for you in his office. You remember where that is, right?" A menacing smirk creeps across his face.

Without making eye contact, I walk past him with a nod. As I veer right to the partially opened white office door on my right, I tuck my thumb in my pocket, preparing myself to grab my pen in case I need to defend myself. When I'm a foot from the door, the sound of rapid knocking behind me startles me, and I twirl around all wide-eyed to find my captor rapping his knuckles against the wall.

"Come in!" a guy shouts from inside the office.

A beat later, P.I. Brady reaches past me and pushes the door open while also gently pushing me inside with the hand he has pressed against my backpack. The office ahead has a black ceiling like the rest of the store but, instead of sheetrock walls and red and black floors, it has brick walls that are painted white and a wooden floor. As soon as I step inside the office, my gaze snaps over to the right where there's an average-looking, early thirty-something-year-old with shaggy brown hair and a low-cut beard sitting behind the desk. The moment he lays eyes on me, he smiles in a fiendish way that makes me extremely uncomfortable.