Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 4
“Cookie monster”
Victoria’s POV
Have you ever been in a private jet, sipping
vintage wine and dining on lamb steak, while
Mozart played softly in the background?
No? Me neither.
I was in a private jet. Only I was tied to my
seat, choking on a rag with a gun aimed at
me.
My whole body hurt. The cut on my left leg
burned like a bîtch. I felt tired and queasy with
motion sickness.
None of that, however, pissed me off.
If the lights had gone off five minutes later, I’d
have ten million dollars in my bank account, a
good night’s sleep and takeout from Wang’s
Kitchen instead.
That didn’t piss me off, either.
I’d been knocked out cold with a lamp, drugged
and kidnapped.
Nope. Did not piss me off.
Not one fücking bit.
No, there was only one reason for my misery.
And he was lounging by the window like a lazy
cat, eating his steak and sipping his wine.
All the while aiming my own gun at me.
(Reloaded, of course).
And to think I’d felt ‘kinda’ bad for putting the
tracker on him.
When I woke up five hours back, the first thing
I saw was Daniel’s blonde friend, munching on
an Oreo. I didn’t know his name, so I came up
with Biscuit.
I soon realised Biscuit was on a one man
mission to exhaust the plane’s food supply.
The guy went at it like he hadn’t seen food in
days. No judgement here, but he didn’t have to
eat his own weight in front of me. A.k.a the
starving hostage.
On the bright side, it could mean he was the
only one on board who could use a gun.
Or he just wanted to annoy me. In which case,
he was doing an excellent job.
I watched him slice the steak one handed,
practically drooling. Keep it together . This is
exactly what he wants-
My stomach growled. Traitor.
“You want some, shortcake?”
I groaned internally, shaking my head. Dessert
themed nicknames. How original.
“Either you’re hungry or you’ve got a motor
shoved up your äss.”
I glared at him. Biscuit shrugged, chewing his
meat nice and slow.
“That was a cheap shot.” He agreed, cutting a
large piece. “But in retrospect, you trying to kill
me wasn’t real classy either.”
He put down the knife, picked up the piece
with a fork and stood up, the gun in his left
hand perfectly steady.
Biscuit cleaned up nice. He was pretty tall, at
least 6 3′, wearing a form fitting white shirt
and black slacks, which hugged his hard
muscled frame.
“Like what you see, shortcake?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. I was merely
angry that he’d caught me staring. My cheeks
always got red when I was angry.
Biscuit put the fork between his teeth and
ripped off the duct tape over my mouth. I
coughed as he pulled out the rag.
“Eat.” He said, holding out the fork.
I pursed my lips.
“For heaven’s sake, what are you five? Eat.”
I shook my head.
“This isn’t a fücking union strike. Eat this or
die starving.”
I laughed at his melodrama. He gave me one
look and I stopped.
“What are you, a drill sergeant?” I’d wanted to
sound sarcastic. I sounded like an asthmatic
frog. Totally nailed it. “I’m not eating your
food, and I’m certainly not dying from
starvation.”
“Fortunately, there are other ways you can die.”
He said, pushing the gun into my cheek.
I glared at him. “Save that cräp for when your
brats don’t eat veggies. You’ll make a terrific
father.”
“We can always try and see if you’re right,
shortcake.”
“Yeah, you wish.” Before he could answer, and
I could think too deeply about that, I blurted
out. “Why the hell do you call me that anyway?”
“Shortcake?” He smiled. “Wasn’t it obvious?”
“Because I’m edible!? ” I wouldn’t put it past
him.
“Because you have Strawberry hair and you’re
short.” He lit up a cigarette, rolling his eyes.
“Edible? Yeah, not so much. You aren’t my
type.”
“A) I am not short.” I was 5 8′. He just
happened to be freakishly tall.
“B) This coming
from the guy with baby talk literally five
seconds back.” Why did we keep going back
to that. “And
C) Not that I care, but how the
hell would you know what type I am? You don’t
even know my name.”
Biscuit smiled slowly. A bad feeling settled in
my gut.
“Oh god.” It finally dawned on me. “You know
everything, don’t you? My name, how old I am,
where I live?”
“Right down to the butterfly tattoo you got on
your thigh in high school.” He cocked his
head. “I’d very much like to see that, by the
way. You don’t strike me as a butterfly
person.”
It was such a simple statement but it chilled
me to the bone. Everything. He knew every
single thing about my life and I didn’t even
know his name.
He also happened to be right. I hated
butterflies and got that tattoo on a dare.
I had to get out of here. Right now.
“On second thought, I will have some of that
steak.” I said, trying to act pale and shaken. I
didn’t have to pretend much.
“Good.” He held the fork until I ate.
I looked up at him and met his light green
eyes. I knew they were contacts and they didn’t
really suit him. I wondered what the real color
was.
“Can I have some more, Biscuit?”
“Biscuit?” He laughed. “You really are hungry.”
He turned around and went to his seat where
the food was. I had about ten seconds to undo
the ropes. They were done well, but I knew
how to untie knots better than most people. I’d
just been waiting for the gun to face away
from me.
I stood up, quietly. My legs felt sore from
being tied up so long and I needed more time.
I looked around.
There was a silver ashtray next to my seat. It
was heavy and I had to struggle to pick it up.
I threw it straight at Biscuit’s head.
I expected him to pass out or at the very least
drop the gun. No such luck.
“Big mistake, shortcake.”
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