I twisted away when I felt the prick of the needle. A familiar feeling... like the night that he took me. This time, instead of falling into his arms, I fell back, onto the cardboard box, his face hovering above me before my world went black.

I was negotiating with all of the wrong things. He didn’t want anything more to do with me. He wanted a new slave.

It’s easy, with Brett, to forget. About the two drug mules who disappeared, about the false identity, about my suspicions. It’s easy to forget when his smile made my heart swoon. When he wrapped his arms around me and I couldn’t help but laugh. I should have stayed in Quincy. I didn’t realize that my resolve had no chance in his presence.

He hung an arm around my shoulders as we walked from the plane. I glanced around the airport, at the lines of planes hitched to the concrete, the lot’s lights illuminating the row against the black night sky. Tuesday, I had enlisted Jena. Didn’t give her details, just told her Brett’s real name and had her sit down with me, show me the sites she uses when she snoops. The woman can’t parallel park, but she’s lethal in investigation when given the proper tools. I didn’t want to give her the proper tools, didn’t want to share my suspicions with the largest mouth in Gadsden County. So she snooped, I watched, and within fifteen minutes, the Internet revealed that Betschart Yachts owned two planes. One, the Navajo Chieftain that we’d always used. The other? A Citation jet, one that could seat twelve and make the jaunt from Quincy to Puerto Vallarta in forty-five minutes. Our flight had taken almost two hours.

“So... maybe he’s cheap. It’s cheaper to fly the Chieftain, right?”

Jena slow-blinked at me in response across the kitchen table.

“Or...” I muttered defiantly, “maybe he just prefers it.”

She shrugged. “Sure. Except...” she spun the laptop towards me and tapped one acrylic nail on the top of the screen. “Here’s the last six months’ worth of flights that the Citation’s taken.”

“How’d you find this?” I scooted closer.

“FAA flight plans are public record. Notice anything interesting?”

I somehow heard the pop of her gum over the loud thud of my heart. I sat back, turning this information over in my head. “Yeah. It’s gone to all of the same places we went.”

“And on the same days,” Jena trumpeted. “Now,” she leaned back and crossed her arms, scrunching her face in textbook perplexity, “what the hell is up with that?”

I feigned confusion. Did a lot of shoulder shrugs and gasps of disbelief. Then all but pushed her out the door in an attempt to hide my poor acting. It doesn’t make sense to bring two planes. Not unless you wanted to bring back to the States something you didn’t want your girlfriend to find out about. Now, on Puerto Vallarta’s airstrip, I looked for the Citation, searched for its tail number among the line of vehicles.

“Wanting to swap planes?” Brett teased, his arm tightening around me, pulling my head to his mouth.

I shook my head. “No, just looking. I didn’t realize how many different types of planes there are. Have you ever thought about getting another?”

Awesome segue. Maybe I did have a future in stealth. I looked away from the planes and towards the customs office. I hadn’t seen it. Maybe Jena’s information was wrong.

“No, the Chieftain handles my needs just fine. Plus, it’ll land anywhere in anything. Bigger planes cause more problems.”

I searched for a hidden, drug-related meaning in his words, but came up blank.

I woke up, at some point, confined, the hum of a car putting me - most likely - in a trunk, tape obstructing my mouth and eyes from any further information gathering. There was something hard against my back, each bump in the road throwing me against it. I tried to roll, tried to bend, the metal cuffs around my wrists and ankles keeping me in place, the only result a jarring knock on the head when I tipped forward. I stayed still, tried to listen, tried to think.

It was hot in there. I wondered how long I had been unconscious, my T-shirt stuck to my back, the sweatpants claustrophobic in their heavy nape.

A line of sweat trailed down my back. I listened hard, but heard nothing.

Brett won’t fuck up. He’s being perfect, attentive at dinner, thoughtful at dessert, his typical dominant sex-god-self when we shut the door and are alone in the room. And at 1 AM, when I couldn’t sleep - he rolled over and began rubbing my back. A slow trail of fingers across the bare skin, feather light, the scrape of occasional nails just enough to keep the skin from getting itchy.

I swallowed. “I have got to get to that work tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, just let me know when you want to work on it.”

I kicked a foot out from underneath the covers. Let the cool air hit it. “It doesn’t really matter. Do you have meetings tomorrow?”

His hand never paused in its delicate journey over my skin. “I don’t need to go, we can do whatever you want.”

Don’t need to go? I frowned. Not that I wanted to encourage drug-running, but didn’t the main guy have to be present at these things? And this was my weekend to figure this out, to step closer to this man or break everything off. A decision I couldn’t make if he changed his entire MO this trip.

“No, please.” I forced a playful lilt into my words. “Please get out of my hair for a few hours and let me knock this stuff out. I can get room service for dinner and call you when I’m done.”