i. bitches get stitches
The worst thing in the world is showering - since my dorm’s water is colder than Antarctica. I prefer my water to be searing hot; just like the pits of hell I came from.
Huffing, I do it anyway. I’m supposed to be soothing my tight muscles, yet this Alaska-cold water prevents that. It's already cold as it is; being October in Brooklyn and all. This shower is just making it worse - both my mood and my shivering.
Why did I choose to use the dorms instead of buying an apartment? Oh, that’s right - to get that college experience. If I could go back in time, I would beat up my stupid freshman self.
In two songs tops, I finish my cold shower and dress in my Brooklyn College sweatshirt and leggings. Singing to Dangerous Woman and dirty dancing, I put my hair in two french braids before dancing back into the room.
“Who the fuck are you and what do you want?” I growl at the stranger sitting on my bed, cuddled in my fifty or so blankets. I turn my radio down so I could hear him.
“The name’s Axel Blakemore and your father sent me to retrieve you,” he replies with a dimpled smirk.
What, does he find my anger amusing? I sure hope not. My temper’s not one to mess with - especially since I get it from my mother. Make her mad and - bye, bye, you’re no longer alive.
“And why should I believe you?” I cross my arms across my chest. “A total stranger who I’ve never seen in my entire life.”
“C’mon Puddin, I’m a trustworthy person.” He stands up and starts to approach me, while I step out of the way. No thank you.
“I don’t think so. Now please, escort yourself out,” I say in my friendliest voice. Kinda ironic, since I’m not trying to be friendly.
I open the dorm door and point out. Where I want him to be. So I can continue my The Office marathon in my now-tainted blankets with a few snacks strewn around me, and mom sending me pics of Tobias, my toddler-brother. Aka, my favorite brother.
“I don’t think so,” he mocks. I narrow my eyes. “You see, I’ve been sent on a mission, and frankly, I don’t exactly want to disappoint my boss so if you would. . . come quietly and I won't hurt you,” he beckons me towards him.
Who does this guy think he is? A secret agent?
“Hell no. I never go down without a fight,” I glare and crack my knuckles. If he thought I would willingly go with him, then he’s wrong.
He rolls his eyes and mutters profanities under his breath before lunging at me. I slam the door before he could get a hold of him, causing him to groan in pain and rub his forehead soothingly. Take that, asshole.
“Bitches get stitches, you know that? If that didn’t hurt then this might,” I kick my foot upwards, aiming for his crotch.
His reflexes are faster than I hoped for. He quickly catches my foot and yanks me forward, causing me to fall to the ground. I yelp, knowing full well there’s going to be a bruise. I mean, I bruise like a peach.
He hauls me over his shoulder easily and approaches my window. Was he going to throw me out of it? Stupid question, but it could be a possibility. Anything goes - in this world, at least.
I start to squirm in his grip, intent on trying to get the fuck out of here. I don’t exactly like the idea of being kidnapped or thrown out a window. Specifically my own.
“Stay still unless you want to be dropped,” he threatens, climbing out of the now-open window. Rude-ass dickhead.
“I don’t think my father would like that, seeing as I’m his only daughter out of six children,” I say, yet lay still. It’s no use fighting him; he obviously has more experience and he's stronger.
A spicy, yet sweet fragrance fills my nose. I figure it's this Axel guy, so I take a whiff of his hoodie. Cinnamon and vanilla. Enticing and exhilarating is all I picture him to be - all action, no boring moments. His scent says it all.
He climbs to the bottom of the building, and, might I say, I’m impressed. My dorm’s on the twenty-second floor and not once had he stopped to take a break. He has more stamina than me. Surprising, since I dance. Not ballet - hip hop. Twirling around in the air and standing on my tip-toes isn't in my area of profession.
A black Mercedes-Benz with tinted windows pulls up beside us and Axel shoves me mercilessly into the backseat. He ties my wrists to the passenger seat headrest tightly, then gags me with a nearby tie. God, I hope that's clean.
He smirks at me, pulling out a simple perfume bottle. What’s he going to do to me this time? Coat me in his cologne so I have to smell like cinnamon and vanilla the rest of the ride? Jokes on him; I like the smell.
“Sorry, Puddin,” he says before spraying me in the face.
Black dots dance around my vision and before I could glare at him, I slip into unconsciousness.
I peel open my eyes, thankful that instead of the lights around me being blinding white like, they’re a calming blue. Whoever thought of waking up to dim, blue lights is a genius. In normal circumstances, I would prefer red, since it’s my favorite color. It so. . . me - fierce, seductive, and passionate. But that's not the case here.
It smells like a hospital room in here. Familiar, yet still makes me want to puke. I had too many visits to the emergency room since I just love to break my bones.
The only sound in here was the faint buzzing of the lights, my steadied breathing, and the air vents seeping cold air into the room. Suddenly grateful I'm wearing a sweatshirt, I shudder.
I realize that the tie was taken out of my mouth. It left a bitter taste - almost like pure cocoa. I scrunch up my face and smack my mouth, trying to get the taste out. I try to wipe my tongue on my sweatshirt but handcuffs around my wrists restrict my movement. Damn it.
“Finally. You’re awake,” an annoyingly familiar voice says behind me.
“I hate you,” I grumble, recalling previous events.
“The feeling’s mutual, Puddin.”
He circles around me, now standing in front of me. The only thing that separates us is a white table, looking accusingly similar to an interrogation room table.
“What is it with you and calling me Puddin? Should I start calling you Pumpkin Pie to even it out? You know; Joker and Harley Quinn?” I mock sarcastically.
“If by Pumpkin Pie you mean hot, steamy, and delicious, then yes, you may call me Pumpkin Pie,” he flashes a grin at me, his blue eyes sparkling with playfulness. His strong body reflects the blue light, but I could tell he has olive skin and dark brown hair. He's attractive, but I'm not going to get Stockholm Syndrome anytime soon.
The door bursts open behind me, and an all-too-familiar presence enters the tense room: my dear papá.