Brandon used the threat of a syringe full of whatever they drugged me with to keep me in line during the drive to wherever they were taking me. The trip seemed to be a normal jaunt through the confines of Los Angeles, from what I could tell, anyway. My instructions were clear; keep my head down. Don't look up. If I look up, I get the needle. It felt like about twenty minutes for us to get from the office building to wherever we are now as the car slides to a stop.
"Alright, kitten. You can look now," Brandon says with a tone that conveys a certain tenderness that I wouldn't expect from anyone in this situation. Still, I understand the reference, and the bile rises in my throat at the pet name he's taken to. My memories flash to the predatory looks he flashed me in the speakeasy when I was kneeling at Lexington's feet.
