Page 83 of Take Me Back
I try to stretch out my shower as long as I can until April bangs on the glass enclosure and throws a towel halfway over it.
“Wrap it up. Food is here.”
Until the moment she saidfood, I would have sworn that there was no way I could choke down a single bite of anything. But as soon as April steps out of the bathroom, the aroma of something amazing wafts into the room and my stomach growls.
“Really?” I say it out loud as I shut off the water and reach for the towel.
Apparently kidnapping doesn’t slow down my appetite. I’ll be led like the fatted calf to the sacrificial altar. At this point, I know my brain can’t really comprehend what’s happening, because all I can think about is stuffing myself until I can’t eat another bite.
And pray that somewhere out there, Dane is still breathing, and maybe, if there’s any kind of divine guidance, attempting another rescue.
I secure the towel around myself after drying off and step back into the bedroom where my bare feet sink into the plush white carpet. Well, white except for the bloodstains I left on it. Maybe they’ll be evidence for some CSI unit if this yacht is ever searched.
How are you going to explain that, Vander?
A tray is set up on a small table with two chairs on the opposite side of the room where I was tied up, and April nods at the chair, going back to wordless communication. I sit and unwrap a linen napkin from around a knife and fork.A knife ...It’s not much, but it’s something.
I pick up the fork as a tremor grips my hand. When the fork lands on the silver tray with a metallic clatter, I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat and suck in a breath to calm myself.
I think this is the longest I’ve gone since my mother’s diagnosis without worrying about whether I have ALS. Probably because I might not live long enough to find out.
Pushing the thought out of my head, I pick up the fork again and dig into a steaming mound of scrambled eggs with what looks like grilled vegetables, crusty French bread, and jam.
In my peripheral vision, I see April watching me from her cross-armed position at the door.
I shovel in bite after bite, testing the limits of my stomach, not stopping until only a few bread crumbs remain.
Another knock comes at the door, and I turn to see April open it.
“Clothes and first aid kit, as requested.”
She grunts in response to the female voice, and takes an armful of fabric and a red bag through the small opening before shutting the door again.
I close my fingers around the butter knife and slip my hand under the table to hide it in the folds of my towel, then pretend to pick up crumbs with my fingers to get every morsel.
April walks toward me but pauses to toss the clothes on the bed before reaching the table. She shoves aside my breakfast tray and drops the red bag on the table.
“Give me your wrists.”
I hold out both hands, although with some apprehension. With that wicked knife at her hip and the angry expression on her face, she looks like she could just as easily slice a vein and leave me here to bleed out as administer first aid.
She unzips the bag, ignoring my compliance, and pulls out a bottle of peroxide, some antibiotic ointment, and bandages. She grabs my hands, flips open the cap on the peroxide, and douses the cuts.
“Shit!” The curse escapes my lips, and my instinct is to jerk away.
She holds fast, not letting me move as she dumps more on them. “That’s for thinking I wouldn’t notice the butter knife was gone.” She releases one hand. “Put it back on the table, or I’ll make this hurt a hell of a lot more.”
My small victory crushed, I do what she tells me. What the hell did I think I was going to accomplish with the knife? Spread butter on her toast?
Pathetic, Kat.
I return the knife to the tray, and she flips my hand over and liberally applies the peroxide to the rest of the raw marks. They don’t burn as badly, but I’m surely not looking forward to more ministrations from Nurse Hatchetface.
The rest of her movements are quick and efficient as she smears antibiotic ointment on all my wounds and wraps them up. Her expression never changes, not even when she tosses the first aid supplies back in the bag.
“Get dressed. Don’t do anything stupid. Try to stab me with a fork, and I’ll blind you in one eye. They’ll never even notice. I’ll give you five minutes.”
With that threat leveled, she picks up the tray and heads out the door.
