Page 6 of Wraith

“June,” I say. “June, don’t do it.”

She gags me with the underwear and seals it in place with three strips of Scotch tape pulled from a dispenser.

She sits back on her heels and surveys her work.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she actually sounds as if she means it. “I know it’s going to come out in like fifteen minutes. The tape’s not strong enough, but I don’t have duct tape.”

I stare at her over the cotton gag.

She stares back. “What the hell did I just apologize for? You’re a fucking asshole who broke into my apartment. You don’t deserve an apology.” She grabs her phone and hits a button, which makes a beep as the phone’s assistant comes on. “Make a note to talk to my therapist about my people-pleasing tendencies. Also, buy some fucking duct tape.”

I try to speak through the gag, but all that comes out is a muffled, incoherent sound that’s more animal than human. The cotton is dry against my tongue, and the tape pulls at the corners of my mouth with every attempt to form words.

This is not how this was supposed to go.

I was supposed to come here, talk to her, and make her understand. Make her see that I’m on her side now, that I’m trying to help, that everything I’ve done — everything I’m doing — is to keep her safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To keep her safe. Even if she doesn’t understand that. Even if she’s too fucking stubborn to see it.

I work my wrists against the dish towel. The knot is tight, but it’s amateur work. There’s give in it if I twist the right way, if I can just get my thumb folded in and create some slack…

“Stop moving,” June says without looking at me. She’s gone back to her phone, scrolling through something with her thumb.

I keep working on the knot. I need to get out of this. I need to make her listen. This isn’t a game. The Sons don’t fuck around, and they are looking for her.

“I said stop moving.”

On the television, the frosted-hair man is losing his mind over clam chowder. “This bread bowl is the size of a BATHTUB!” he screams at the camera.

I can’t help but look.

It is the size of a bathtub. A bathtub full of cream and potatoes and seafood.

He takes a spoonful and moans. Sweat drips from his forehead.

I twist my wrists harder. The dish towel gives a fraction of an inch. Not enough, but it’s something. I lean forward as much as the radiator will allow and try to speak again through the gag.

“Mmmph — June — mmmph.”

She doesn’t even glance up from her phone.

The anger starts as a slow burn in my chest, spreading outward like someone’s poured gasoline on a pilot light. This is ridiculous. I came here to help her. To warn her. To do the one thing that might actually keep her alive, and she’s got me tied to a fucking radiator.

I am not the bad guy here.

The Sons are coming. They’re already looking. And she’s sitting there scrolling through her phone like this is all some kind of joke, like I broke into her apartment at two in the morning for fun, like I don’t have a concussion and balls that feel like they’ve been put through a meat grinder because I was trying to save her ungrateful ass.

I pull harder at the dish towel. The knot shifts. Another quarter-inch of give.

“Stop it,” June says, still not looking at me.

I don’t stop. I can’t stop. She needs to understand. She needs to listen. If I can just get my hands free, I can pull the gag out. I can make her see the truth. She’ll stop being such a fucking unreasonable bitch.

On the TV, Guy Fieri is now massaging a slab of pork belly. Alone. There’s no one else except him and the cameraman. He’s not even talking. There’s no music, no voice-over. It’s just silence while he stares at the camera while stroking the pork. He glistens with sweat. His pupils are dilated. Then, he smiles.

I have to get out of here.

Grunting, I strain with everything I have and feel a slow rip begin in the towel that’s binding my wrists.

The dish towel gives another fraction of an inch and I feel the first real looseness in it, the kind that means it’s only a matter of time now, and I pull harder, my shoulders straining against the radiator pipe, the bath towel connecting me to it creaking with the effort.