California Schemin' - Kate George [28]
Something heavy and warm was beside me on the bed. It kept bumping me, making my neck hurt. The cat pawed me on the arm, nicking me with her claw.
“Go away, Annabelle, that hurts.”
“I’m not Annabelle.” The voice was deep and unfamiliar.
I struggled to open my eyes but could not. I felt him lift me off the bed and wanted to call out, fight, anything. But all I did was slip back into oblivion, my mind filled with panic.
Chapter Four
My neck hurt. I was sitting, reclined in a chair; the room was vibrating, and a low-pitched humming masked voices nearby. I kept my eyes closed knowing I was in trouble, trying to figure out just how bad it was. I couldn’t move my head at all, not because of the pain, but because I was being restrained somehow. I couldn’t figure it out. If I tried to feel things out with my hand, I’d tip them off to my consciousness.
“Sir, are you sure she’s OK?” Concern was audible in the voice.
Who are you? I thought. I do need help. Please help me.
“She’s fine. It’s just the Dramamine. The stuff knocks her out cold. I told her not to take so much of it, but will she listen to me? No.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
I heard her move off. Shit. My brain was clearer now. I remembered thinking Annabelle had scratched me. That was no cat scratch. Somebody’s been drugging me. The noises began to make sense to me. An airplane. I cracked my eyes and confirmed my suspicions. I was in the window seat of the first row, a bulkhead in front of me. Obviously, I’d been drugged.
I opened my eyes wide and looked at the thug that stood between me and my freedom. He was a tall, muscular man with a close-shaved head of light brown hair and hazel eyes. My first thought was that he hadn’t shaved in at least a week, and then I realized he had carefully cultivated the look. His beard and mustache were too long to be sloppy living but too short to be considered a true beard. He wore a blue button-down shirt, open at the neck, and blue jeans. The smile he gave the flight attendant as she passed seemed calculated to disarm: charming and deadly.
I shifted in my chair and addressed him quietly.
“I have to pee. If you stick me with that needle again, I’ll wet my pants. That will leave you to explain to everyone within smelling distance why the airplane stinks like urine.” My hands explored the restraint around my neck as I talked. It was hard plastic with foam around the edges. No wonder I couldn’t move my head. Now I knew why the emergency doc didn’t give one to me, it didn’t help the pain.
He looked at me and rubbed the furrow between his brows.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would. You need to let me go pee.”
“I wheeled you down the ramp in a wheel chair. They think you can’t walk.”
“I couldn’t walk then because I was unconscious. Now that I’m conscious again, I can walk. I have to pee.” I raised my voice, hoping the noise would make him nervous.
“Fine. Go pee, but I’m putting you out again as soon as you come back. I hate flying; I don’t want to have to deal with you too.”
I unbuckled and got unsteadily to my feet. A wave of nausea washed over me, and I put my hand to the bulkhead, breathing deeply.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, closing my eyes and swallowing hard. “I just have to get my air legs.”
“What the heck are air legs?”
“Air legs. You know, like sea legs but in the air.”
“God.” He shut his mouth and looked at me sourly as I stepped around his feet and legs.
We were only about three feet from the front toilet. I managed to shut the door before I started puking. Damn drugs. I ripped off the collar. It was impossible to puke properly with it on, and I was making a mess. I managed to empty my stomach and felt much better except for the huge mess I’d made. I cleaned up as best