Page 15

One thousand percent positive I ended up in hell.

Cracking one eye open, ready to face the flicking flames and little red people with pointy tails, I peel the other eye open in disbelief.

“The fuck?” I rasp, my throat so parched the words feel like broken slivers of glass. “I’m not dead.”

“Your low IQ is rather astounding, Trailer.”

“Or maybe this is hell and you’re Satan himself,” I huff, licking my dry lips to ease the sting of them splitting open. Another long line of sweat slips down my spine, the sensation alerting me to the fact that I’m not only sitting up but in a different area of the warehouse I was held in before—or a different location altogether. Zero windows line the upper walls; hell, there isn’t even an upper wall to speak of. In the middle of the low ceiling, a single cage-looking fixture houses a sole yellowed bulb, the only source of light.

Small, windowless, and fucking hot as hell.

My stomach rolls with unease. This new location is not a good sign for my life expectancy.

In a smooth fluid motion, Shawn stands from the small chair he was perched on and leans a shoulder against the cinder block wall, dressed in a pair of light gray slacks and an untucked white dress shirt. It’s as casual as he gets, I guess. If I ever saw him in shorts and a T-shirt, I’d probably die of shock.

I snort. Little did he know all he had to do was buy the entire Banana Republic summer section to kill me.

“And what is funny about your situation, Trailer?” he asks, a small frown dipping his full lips.

His question sobers me. “Nothing, but do you even own a pair of shorts? It’s a thousand degrees in here.”

Disgust slips over his features. “And you’re the one leading this fucking country.”

I attempt to shrug but can’t move my shoulders with the way my hands are tied behind me. Rotating one wrist and then the other, I determine he’s used damn zip ties again. I try to test my feet but find their restraints too tight to move.

I wiggle to sit up straighter in the metal chair, causing the hard plastic ties to slice into the delicate skin of both wrists. I wince.

“What do you want, Shawn?” Between the pounding of my head and the pain in my wrists, coupled with the heat, I’m done playing games. Exhaustion has swept in, draining what little fight I had left and slowing my thoughts. “Just get it over with so I can move on and you can find a new person to torment.”

“But it’s been so fun.”

“Not the word I would choose.” I cough, though it’s more of a wheeze, shoving dry air up my already scratchy throat. “Just tell me what the hell is going on.”

Peering up through my lashes, I find him studying me. Brows dipped, he seems to be considering my words.

“Might as well,” he says, shoving off the wall and returning to his seat. “We can’t start until that sociopath gets here.”

“Pot, kettle,” I huff.

A small smile spreads up his thin lips. Ever so casually—not like he’s holding the president captive waiting for the right moment to kill her—he withdraws a white handkerchief from his pocket and blots his forehead.

“From the start, this was about you. All of it. Making you realize you’re nothing in this town and don’t belong here. That VP spot should’ve been mine. Then the president’s seat when Birmingham died unexpectedly—”

“He was your friend,” I snap. “You were plotting your friend’s death so you could do what… sit at the big desk?”

“Power is a motivator it seems you haven’t the character or drive to appreciate. That’s what was mine. That’s what you took from me. For years I put up with that shithead Birmingham and his family, always staying a step back so they didn’t know I was a threat to their little dynasty.”

“You’re sick,” I whisper.

Fuck, I have to get out of here.

Twisting my wrists again, I attempt to slide a hand through the tight noose, resulting in slashing my wrists even further. Warm, thick liquid slips into my curled hands, pooling in my palm.

“It was a damn perfect plan until those dumbass advisors told him we couldn’t win the election without gaining sympathy votes. Fucking Americans, basing the future of this country on their damn hearts and social agendas rather than their heads. We were the best match for the ticket, not you and Birmingham.” Shawn’s face flushes a deeper red than it already was from the heat. “After you won, he had a plan to get rid of you, and I would step in after you were gone. I wanted to put a bullet through your head, but unfortunately, I was overruled.”

“Ah, yes, unfortunately.” Each word burns in my throat, drying my already parched mouth and tongue further. “Was it you? Were you behind the attacks in Saudi Arabia and Egypt?” I have to know, even if I’m about to die and can’t do anything with the information.

“You’re jumping ahead,” he snaps, like he’s relishing the retelling of his story.