Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 86

Chapter 86: Breaking News #3

There’s something strange about Jim.

The man’s weird as it is, but he also—apparently—doesn’t eat. In fact, he grimaces every time he hands me a meal.

Over the course of the next three days, we settle into a strange, amicable silence. I know. It’s weird.

I watch TV and play with my cat, and he pretends to be asleep in his armchair, pretty much only getting up to pick up whatever food’s been delivered to the door.

It’s usually a burger and fries, but sometimes they bring fried chicken. In the morning, it’s usually a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich.

It’s the only coffee I get over the course of the day.

There’s nothing to snack on and nothing to do. I’ve taken to showering three times a day, just to break up the monotony. And I sleep a lot. freēwebnovel.com

"Hey, why didn’t you try to escape?" That’s the question I’m sure I’ll be asked when this is over. But it’s pointless. I don’t have any way to defend myself, much less fight off a captor who’s clearly in better physical shape, as well as armed.

Anyway.

The news is pretty silent on Logan’s trial, driving me half-mad. I want to know what’s going on, but I don’t have access to a cell phone or anything else to search the internet. Instead, I religiously tune into the news, keeping it on all hours of day, waiting for even a snippet of information regarding Logan.

Of course, that means I also have to listen to a lot of news about me. I’m the news media darling, their little soundbite that brings in viewers.

Everyone wants to talk about the cold-hearted cop killer, the woman who murdered a pregnant officer, the villain who’s escaped into thin air.

Reporters are apparently camping outside my apartment, which means I’m definitely going to have to move. They’ve tried to harass Penelope for interviews, but all they got was a clip of her throwing a microphone at a reporter and telling all of them to, and I quote, "Fuck off, you miserable vultures." I’m honestly surprised there hasn’t been a piece about her being charged with assault.

There’s a lot of speculation about my past, but that’s a dead end for most of them. I guess real journalism is dead. It isn’t impossible to find out the truth, but it isn’t easy, either. Instead, I hear what I’ve always told people: Born in Louisiana, Mom was a schoolteacher and Dad was a preacher, died in a car accident when I was fifteen, and I spent the rest of my childhood in and out of foster homes.

The real truth is much darker, but of course nobody wanted to hear about it back then. And no one knows about it now.

Maybe bad luck has followed me from birth.

It would kind of make sense, honestly.

I run my fingers through my hair for the umpteenth time, wincing as they catch on tangles. Frustration bubbles up inside me as I attempt yet another French braid. My arms ache from holding them up so long, and I can feel the strands slipping through my fingers. With a sigh, I give up, letting the half-formed braid unravel.

"Screw it," I mutter, flopping back onto the bed.

The sheets are cool against my skin as I burrow beneath them, seeking comfort in their softness. My mind wanders, pondering how long this bizarre captivity will last. Days? Weeks? The uncertainty gnaws at me, but the boredom right now is what’s killing me.

Never thought being a kidnapping victim would be so tedious.

Terrifying, yes. But never boring.

I’ve already checked every inch of this place. There isn’t a single knife. Not even a fork. Nothing that can be used as a weapon. Even most of the drawers seem to be screwed shut. The best I can find is the plastic thingy that holds the toilet paper on the roll, and I’m pretty sure that’s not going to win against someone like Jim. The remote would be a better option, actually.

No, wait. There’s an ironing board in the closet. Of course, that’s so big and unwieldy I’m pretty sure I’d fall over trying to hit it on someone’s head. Even the one and only desk chair in the room is actually bolted to the floor, rendering it almost useless, if I had anything to do at the desk.

No lamps. No Bible in the nightstand. No pens or anything else.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. Maybe if I nap, time will pass more quickly. But my thoughts race, refusing to quiet down.

Suddenly, there’s a telltale jingle on the TV. "We interrupt this broadcast for breaking news."

My eyes snap open. I peek out from under the blanket, curiosity overriding my desire for sleep.

My heart nearly stops.

There, on the screen, is Logan. Next to him is Marcus Ashby. They’re emerging from the courthouse, already mobbed by the press. I bolt upright, blankets tangling around my legs as I scramble closer to the TV, frantically pushing the volume up button on the remote.

The news anchor’s voice fills the room. "In a surprising turn of events, all charges against Sergeant Logan Everett have been dropped. Details are scarce, as the proceedings took place in a closed courtroom."

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