excited and the other was about to vomit all over everything, it’d be kind of awkward.
“What do we do now?” I whisper.
“We need to stay calm.” He switches right into Lawyer Mode™ and puts his hands on my shoulders. Like I’m the one who needs to be soothed right now. “Do you remember what chapel it was?”
Before I can answer that, a white van pulls up directly in front of us, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air. We both blink at it, neither knowing what to do when the door slides open and three guys in black balaclavas jump out.
Yes. Three guys in balaclavas. I don’t believe it at first, either.
Between the face coverings and the all black clothing, for a second I think a ninja dance party is going to break out. Until one of them rolls across the sand, distracting us, and the other two grab us. One guy pins my arms to my sides, the other seems to put Nate in a headlock. I cry out in horror, kicking backwards, but it’s no use. They drag me toward the van. I start screaming, but a thick, beefy hand covers my mouth.
“What the fuck?” Nate shouts. One of the men walks up to us, his eyes—the only thing I can see of his face—narrowed and calculating.
“You’re coming with us, meester!” he hisses in a thick Russian accent. Then a bag goes over my head, and the sunlit desert gets turned out like a light.
In conclusion: Fuck Vegas. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Vegas in its glittery ass.
13
Nate
I need to stay calm .
Those five words keep repeating over and over in my mind. Julia isn’t shrieking about this any longer, so the quiet has helped me think. I had no idea what lung power she had. There was a good five minutes after they first put us into the van where she screamed something about sparkling ball sacks and dildos without Vaseline shoved into sensitive areas. While I’m not sure I appreciate the imagery, I know she has spirit. I admire that, but she should have realized when the fight became hopeless. As soon as they had us bound, I knew there was no way, in that moment, to fight back. Not without my hands free and my eyes uncovered.
This isn’t to say I’m giving up. Far from it. It just became very clear very quickly that I either wait until they pull the sacks off our heads—by which time it may be too late—or I manage to slip out of my bonds. And since my hands are tied with rope, not handcuffs or plastic zips, I think I have a solid chance.
While I test the knots, I keep asking myself: What did you do, asshole? What did you do last night to cause this?
Around me, the men keep speaking in very, very thick Russian accents.
Shit. If they’re working for the Russian mafia, the police will never find our bodies.
No, fuck asking what I did. What did Julia do last night? Steal their money? Crash their car? Punch one of them in the face? Because I know I would never be drunk enough to get into trouble with the goddamn Russian mob. Even I’m not that much of an idiot.
Julia, though? She’s spirited as hell, but that can be a serious problem sometimes.
“You, fancy man.” I think the goon is talking to me. “Take woman. She kick,” the asshole says, and sits Julia on my lap.
“I’ll kick like a mule, you Moscow piece of shit,” she snaps. After a minute, “Get it? Moscow mule?” She laughs; no one else does. “Christ I could use a drink about now.”
“Maybe shut up for a while,” I whisper in her ear. I can’t see her—that seems to be a continuing theme in our quasi relationship—but I can feel her. Her round, perfect ass is pressed up right against me, hardening my dick.
Fuck, I’m about to get my head blasted off by Russian mobsters, and it’s all I can do to keep my erection from—
“I just wanted to tell you,” Julia mutters. “You’ve either got the barrel of a gun clamped between your legs, or you’re very happy to see me.”
“Hilarious,” I say.
“Personally, I’d be very happy to see the barrel of a gun right now, at least
“What do we do now?” I whisper.
“We need to stay calm.” He switches right into Lawyer Mode™ and puts his hands on my shoulders. Like I’m the one who needs to be soothed right now. “Do you remember what chapel it was?”
Before I can answer that, a white van pulls up directly in front of us, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air. We both blink at it, neither knowing what to do when the door slides open and three guys in black balaclavas jump out.
Yes. Three guys in balaclavas. I don’t believe it at first, either.
Between the face coverings and the all black clothing, for a second I think a ninja dance party is going to break out. Until one of them rolls across the sand, distracting us, and the other two grab us. One guy pins my arms to my sides, the other seems to put Nate in a headlock. I cry out in horror, kicking backwards, but it’s no use. They drag me toward the van. I start screaming, but a thick, beefy hand covers my mouth.
“What the fuck?” Nate shouts. One of the men walks up to us, his eyes—the only thing I can see of his face—narrowed and calculating.
“You’re coming with us, meester!” he hisses in a thick Russian accent. Then a bag goes over my head, and the sunlit desert gets turned out like a light.
In conclusion: Fuck Vegas. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Vegas in its glittery ass.
13
Nate
I need to stay calm .
Those five words keep repeating over and over in my mind. Julia isn’t shrieking about this any longer, so the quiet has helped me think. I had no idea what lung power she had. There was a good five minutes after they first put us into the van where she screamed something about sparkling ball sacks and dildos without Vaseline shoved into sensitive areas. While I’m not sure I appreciate the imagery, I know she has spirit. I admire that, but she should have realized when the fight became hopeless. As soon as they had us bound, I knew there was no way, in that moment, to fight back. Not without my hands free and my eyes uncovered.
This isn’t to say I’m giving up. Far from it. It just became very clear very quickly that I either wait until they pull the sacks off our heads—by which time it may be too late—or I manage to slip out of my bonds. And since my hands are tied with rope, not handcuffs or plastic zips, I think I have a solid chance.
While I test the knots, I keep asking myself: What did you do, asshole? What did you do last night to cause this?
Around me, the men keep speaking in very, very thick Russian accents.
Shit. If they’re working for the Russian mafia, the police will never find our bodies.
No, fuck asking what I did. What did Julia do last night? Steal their money? Crash their car? Punch one of them in the face? Because I know I would never be drunk enough to get into trouble with the goddamn Russian mob. Even I’m not that much of an idiot.
Julia, though? She’s spirited as hell, but that can be a serious problem sometimes.
“You, fancy man.” I think the goon is talking to me. “Take woman. She kick,” the asshole says, and sits Julia on my lap.
“I’ll kick like a mule, you Moscow piece of shit,” she snaps. After a minute, “Get it? Moscow mule?” She laughs; no one else does. “Christ I could use a drink about now.”
“Maybe shut up for a while,” I whisper in her ear. I can’t see her—that seems to be a continuing theme in our quasi relationship—but I can feel her. Her round, perfect ass is pressed up right against me, hardening my dick.
Fuck, I’m about to get my head blasted off by Russian mobsters, and it’s all I can do to keep my erection from—
“I just wanted to tell you,” Julia mutters. “You’ve either got the barrel of a gun clamped between your legs, or you’re very happy to see me.”
“Hilarious,” I say.
“Personally, I’d be very happy to see the barrel of a gun right now, at least
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