Ultimate Fear (Book 2 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series) (42 page)

Since her only concern had been about her next fix, and her menstrual cycle had always been irregular, she hadn’t even paid attention. Stupid. Although she rarely drank, she’d downed a crap-ton of whiskey the night she’d seen the plus sign on that pregnancy test. Then, she’d proceeded to chain smoke a pack of cigarettes, all the while injecting herself with heroin. Most women would have been thrilled to be pregnant, but not her. A pregnant whore was useless. She’d known if she didn’t have an abortion, Roman would kick her out of his shitty house.

The next day, still strung out, she’d gone to the clinic with Roman. That’s when the doctor had given her an ultrasound and she’d found out that she wasn’t just a month or two along, but closer to four and a half months. She hadn’t remembered much else from the ultrasound, which again still bothered her, but she did remember the doctor saying his clinic did not perform abortions after sixteen weeks. There were clinics in Illinois that would, but those were two-day surgical procedures and Roman had refused to pay the expensive cost—even if she was his best little whore.

Maybe God
had
intervened after all. Maybe there was a reason she was meant to have this baby. Did she think the reason had anything to do with Heather? Hell to the no. Even God had to know the woman was bat-shit crazy.

Her calf cramped again and her legs jerked with restlessness. Using the little strength she had, she stood, but a wave of dizziness knocked her back on her butt.

She wanted out of here, though, and tried standing again. Her vision blurred, and she swayed slightly, but her legs supported her. She took a step to see how far the cord attached to her back would stretch. She made it to the white bucket. Walking backward, she crept along until her butt hit the dresser. With her back to the furniture, she stretched her arms as far as she could and latched onto the metal securing the cord to the dresser. Her heart sank. There was no way to unfasten the metal without the proper tools. She blindly ran her fingers along it anyway and encountered a padlock.

Even if she could escape her restraints, Heather had locked the unit from the outside. Still, if she could free herself, she could hide behind boxes and attack the batty bitch, then run for it. Her heart raced as she pictured herself whacking Heather over the head, then locking her in the unit and calling the police. The cops would help her call her parents. She could go home, go to a baby doctor and finally be free—from the drugs, from living on the streets, from being a whore. She would—

Her breath caught and she held it. She thought she’d heard—

There it was again. Men?

She licked her dry lips and, with hope bursting from her chest, realized Heather had forgotten to gag her. Drawing air into her lungs she cried out, just as the L past again. “No,” she yelled, and called for help again anyway. Hoping and, yes, praying that there were men outside the unit and that they would hear her.

When the train passed, she stopped screaming and listened. Other than the pounding in her head, she heard nothing and began wondering if she’d imagined the voices. Minutes ticked by, how many, she couldn’t be sure, but she was sure of one thing. No one was outside the storage unit.

No one knew she’d been locked away.

No one cared enough to even worry.

Deep sadness suffocated her almost as much as the abysmal heat. Heather, no matter how naïve, stupid and crazy she was, might actually pull off this plan of hers. In a matter of weeks, while Heather played mommy, she could be dead.

There had been times during the three years she’d been in Chicago that she’d wished she were dead and out of her misery. Now that she was trapped, helpless and had more than just herself to consider, the will to live was strong. Like a potent dose of heroin, it rushed through her veins. But like a firefly stuck inside a sealed mason jar, there was little she could do.

She slumped on the mattress. The L thundered past again, cruelly reminding her that life was and would continue to go on, with or without her in it.

Metal clanked against metal, just before the garage door slid open. Heather emerged from the shadows outside the unit, carrying a large bag of ice and a couple of plastic grocery bags. She set down her purchases, then closed the door.

Frowning, and without a word or making eye contact, Heather removed the fan boxes setting on top of the cooler to the floor, then placed the ice inside the cooler. She opened the boxes, then began filling the fans with batteries. After she set them around the mattress, Chloe had to admit that the light breeze made a huge difference. Still silent, Heather proceeded to place ice in the plastic zipper sandwich bags she’d pulled from one of the grocery carriers. By the time the L sped by again, she’d filled ten bags and had set them in the cooler.

Heather’s cherub-like face remained screwed up in a harsh scowl as she began peeling an orange. “Eat this,” she said, breaking the silence.

Chloe opened her mouth and bit into the orange slice. A burst of citrus filled her mouth and she craved another taste. If she were totally honest with herself, she craved more than the orange or any other food. It had probably been close to twelve hours since she’d had a hit of H, and although she didn’t want to harm her baby with drugs, her body literally ached for one more rush. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off and take her back to her happy place.

Between bites of the orange, she eyed her backpack. Thanks to the cord attached to her back, she couldn’t reach it, and even if she could, she couldn’t inject herself. Knowing the answer to her cravings, to the itchiness, to the restlessness making her legs jump was only a few feet away but completely out of reach had her heart speeding up with a strange mixture of determination, relief and defeat. When she was selling herself, fucking disgusting strangers, the heroin had allowed her to forget, to momentarily dance under a beautiful, brightly colored rainbow and to feel the sun on her face. She’d love to go to that place now, to pretend that she wasn’t cuffed, or that a crazy woman planned to take her baby. But forced sobriety would hopefully give her baby a fighting chance and help clear her head. Only what good would a clear head do if she couldn’t find a way to escape?

“Here,” Heather said, unwrapping a sandwich. “It’s turkey and cheese.”

As she bit and chewed, she kept her focus on Heather. What could be going through the woman’s head? She swallowed. “You’re pissed off,” she said, and took another bite.

Heather met her gaze, but didn’t say a word.

She finished the sandwich, then drank from the water bottle Heather held against her lips. Her thirst quenched and her belly full, she let out a sigh. “I understand. It’s not every day you kidnap a pregnant heroin addict.”

“I’ve done some thinking and praying,” Heather began, tossing the sandwich wrapper and water bottle into an empty grocery bag, “and I don’t believe you.”

The nausea returned and she regretted drinking the water so quickly. “Then you really are stupid,” she said, shifting her body onto the mattress and curling on her side.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I think you’re desperate and will say anything to help yourself out here.” She picked up a water bottle and opened it. “You can’t afford food or a place to live. How could you afford drugs?” she asked with a triumphant, dimple-revealing smile, then drank from the bottle.

Oh, my God, the woman was beyond clueless. She started to laugh at Heather’s stupidity, but a cramp seized her stomach. She bit her lip. When the pain subsided, she said, “Open my backpack if you don’t believe me. Just be careful you don’t prick yourself on the needle.”

Heather’s eyes widened. She quickly set the water bottle down and grabbed the backpack. As she rummaged through it, Chloe wondered if she was digging her own grave. Yes, if Heather followed through with her plan, she’d likely die anyway, but at least her baby would live. But if Heather worried that her drug use had affected the baby to the point she no longer wanted him, the crazy bitch could leave her in the unit to die. She wanted her son to have a chance at life, but what kind of life would he lead with Heather as his mother?

Heather gasped and dropped the backpack. “How could you?” she asked, her voice full of accusation. “How could you do this to your baby? How could you even afford to?”

“Up until about a week ago I had a job.” As her stomach cramped again, and the urge to use the bucket grew strong, she decided to lay a huge dose of reality on the woman. “It’s amazing what men will pay to get laid.”

Sputtering incoherently, Heather kicked the backpack and began to pace. When she fisted her hands to her sides, Chloe realized what the woman was wearing. “It that a maternity shirt?” she asked, then snorted and laughed. “You’re so fucked up. You’re actually pretending to be pregnant?” In a way, this was good. If Heather was telling people she was pregnant, she wouldn’t let her and the baby die. How could she possibly find another pregnant woman on such short notice?

Heather stopped pacing and stalked toward her, wagging her finger. “What I’ve done is nothing compared to what you are, you filthy whore,” she said, her quiet tone contradicting the outrage contorting her face.

Chloe hardened her jaw. Screw this bitch. “At least I can change who I am.
You
on the other hand will always be a murderer.”

Tears began to stream down Heather’s pudgy cheeks. She blinked several times before her face crumpled with misery. “I’m not a murderer.”

“Bullshit. You killed a woman for her baby.”

She shook her head. “No. God took her.”

“Right. After you dissected her,” Chloe said, remembering the kit.

Heather swiped at her tears. “God gave me—never mind.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t owe a lowlife whore an explanation.”

“Yeah, well, this whore is carrying the baby you want.” She cocked her head and decided to really fuck with her. With no means of escape, she was screwed. But the more she thought about it, she’d rather have her baby die with her than live with Heather. What if one day the woman decided she didn’t want her baby anymore? What would she do then? Kill him? And what about Heather’s so-called husband? If he existed, what if he was abusive, or a sick pedophile?

“How many men have you lain with?” Heather asked.

“
Lain
with? Call it what it is. Fucking. Screwing. Fornication. Sex.”

Heather covered her ears. “Stop it and shut your filthy mouth.” She dropped her hands and, in a flash, she was in her face. “Who’s the baby’s father?”

Chloe caught the smell of the woman’s body odor, watched as her beads of sweat mingled with her tears. Her eyes bulged with hatred and her mouth was set in a snarl, her upper lip twitching. For the first time today, fear settled into the pit of her stomach. A sure sign that the heroin was working its way out of her system. Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed Heather. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut and waited. Bided her time until—until what? Until she killed her? God, Heather was treating her like a Thanksgiving turkey. Holding her in her pen, trying to fatten her up for the day she could carve into her.

She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want her baby to, either.

“Tell me, or I’m going to get the hammer and start smashing your toes,” Heather threatened.

“What was it you told me about lying lips?”

A slow smile curved Heather’s mouth. “‘Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are his delight.’” She shook her head. “You don’t want to lie to me, Chloe. Now tell me the truth.”

She winced when her stomach cramped again. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Heather kept her eyes narrowed. “After you tell me what I need to know, I’ll help you.”

“I mean it. I really have to go.” Bad. Something wasn’t right. If she didn’t make it to the bucket, she’d shit herself like a baby.

“I’m waiting.”

Hoping to ward off the inevitable, she moved her knees toward her stomach. Despite the sweat coating her skin, she shivered and goose bumps rose along her skin. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know how many men I’ve been with and I don’t know who the father is.” The acrid taste of bile invaded her mouth. Her throat muscles worked on their own accord. “I…I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Just thinking about how many men used your body makes me want to vomit, too.”

“I’m—the bucket. Hurry!”

The woman’s eyes widened, before she grabbed the bucket and held it in front of Chloe’s face. After she vomited the turkey sandwich, oranges and water, she rested her head against the mattress. “I don’t feel good,” she said, and closed her eyes. Her head swam and she knew what she needed to make it go away. The H in her backpack would do the trick. But she didn’t want that. She also didn’t want to feel like shit, either.

“I’m still waiting for an answer,” Heather reminded her.

“I told you the truth. I don’t know who the father is.”

“Then tell about the men you’ve…lain with. What color are they?”

Color?
A Bible-thumping racist. Classic. “Every color under the rainbow.”

Heather rubbed her forehead. “Be specific.”

“Look,” she said, wincing again as the urge to relieve herself came on strong. “My pimp didn’t discriminate. I’ve been with black guys, white guys, Asian and Hispanic.” There was an Indian guy, too, but that had been way before she could have become pregnant.