"Kim... I don't care if they're getting the queen of fucking England, they're not canceling on us. Mike's had that slot for three months and we're not giving it up. Call them back and deal with this, cause believe me... you don't want me to do it." I toss my phone into my bag as I enter the diner, and can't help but roll my eyes when I run into a man, much taller than myself.    

"Sorry." I mutter as I scan the building, immediately spotting my best friend. The taller man grunts at me and exits the restaurant.     

Everyday for the last five years, without fail, we've met at this same diner, sat at the same table and even ordered the same meal.    

What can I say? We're like two little old ladies and very set in our ways. Atleast when it comes to food, anyway.     

"You know, you're probably going to give yourself an aneurysm one day."      

"Yeah well... we can cross that bridge when we come to it."      

"Point taken." Curtis chuckles and shakes his head. "So... what's new?"    

"Same shit, different day." I mutter irritably as I browse my menu, knowing damn well that I'm going to order the same thing I order every day.     

Caesar salad and a slice of garlic bread.     

"We've got this huge appearance lined up for a client... the guy I told you about, with the crime novel that just came out. Anyway... we've had him booked for Letterman for three months. Today, they call and want to re-schedule because they can get some hot shit actor and that air head Kim was going to let them."    

"Is the world really going to implode if this guy doesn't do Letterman this week?"    

"It just might. So, shut your trap." I giggle and roll my eyes.    

I think the oddest thing about my friendship with Curtis (which is completely platonic by the way, so don't go getting ideas in your twisted little head) is that while we're here having lunch, we sit and talk like we haven't seen each other for months. We've always shared every single detail of our lives with each other.    

It sounds weird, but sometimes it almost feels like we're the same person. Ya know... minus that whole opposite gender thing.     

Our lunch continues the same way it does everyday... we bitch about work, talk about our family and friends, plans for the weekend (he has a date, I'll be at home, going over manuscripts.)    

"Alright, so... I'll see you Monday." He grins as we step out into the heat.    

Let it be known that New York in the summer is not pleasant.    

"Yeah... Let me know how the date goes." I smirk as he rolls his eyes.    

Curtis may be a lot of things, but a romantic isn't one of them. The fact that he's even classifying his weekend plans as an actual date is kind of mind boggling.    

Not that I've got much room to talk. I haven't been on a date in god knows how long. But, I have my reasons and they're all perfectly understandable, if you ask me. Time, interest, and then of course, there's the fact that 90 percent of the male population are idiots.     

"Yeah El, I'll spill all the details while we eat ice cream, braid each other's hair and watch chick flicks." He snorts. "Take it easy." He gives me a small wave before he turns to head down the street, toward his office.    

I head in the opposite direction, my mind running over the millions of things I'll have to do when I get back to work.     

If there is a god, Kim will have straightened out the Letterman mess, but I seriously doubt it. I can almost guarantee that she didn't even bother to call them back. Just goes to show that if you want something done, you've gotta do it yourself.    

I turn the corner and before I can make a single sound, I'm being dragged into the dark space between two very large buildings. A thick piece of fabric covers my eyes and is knotted at the back of my head while a hand covers my mouth.    

Even if I could, I think I'm entirely too shocked and terrified to scream. Sure, I've read the countless horror stories about muggings and murders on these streets, but never in a million years could I have dreamed that I'd become one of those statistics.    

My feet are lifted off the ground and I struggle against my attacker with as much force as I can manage.    

As crazy as it sounds, you've gotta give the guy some credit. If for some reason I was able to escape, I'd never be able to pick him out of a line up. I haven't seen his face or even heard his voice.    

And something tells me I probably never will.     

I'm being carried, that much I'm sure of. I just haven't got the slightest fucking clue to where, or by who.     

A door creaks open and I'm gently placed into a small, confined area that I'm assuming is the backseat of a car.     

Shit.. this is definitely not a good sign. If this crazy fuck gets me across the state line, or worse... into Canada... there's no hope for me.    

 Hell, they'll probably find this car on the side of the road on some remote highway, and when they open the trunk, they'll find my lifeless, mutilated body.    

I'm sure that'll be a real barrel of monkey's for everyone involved.     

The really odd thing is, even with my mouth uncovered, I don't seem to have the ability to scream. I'm trying like hell, but there's just no sound.     

Another door opens and shuts quickly, the engine roars to life a second later, followed by screeching tires.     

"Look, crazy man, I don't know who you are, or why the fuck you're doing this. And my best friend may be tall and scrawny, but he's a scrappy bastard and he's so gonna kick your ass when I manage to get out of here. Then of course, you'll end up in jail, where I'm sure a very large man, ironically named Tiny will have all kinds of fun with you. So... ya know... feel free to let me go, and I swear, I won't press charges of any kind. We can both just go back to our normal lives."    

"Shut up and drink this." His smooth voice seems to echo throughout the car and even though I should be scared shitless, I can't help but laugh.    

Shut up and drink this? Is this jackass for real?    

"Umm... no. I learned not to take candy from strangers when I was about two. Nice try though."    

You know what's funny? All my life, I've heard how my smart ass mouth would get me into trouble some day. I never really believed that until now, because I'm almost certain this guy will kill me, just to shut me the hell up.     

"Don't make me force you. Just do it."    

Alright... common sense tells me not to drink it. But, self preservation tells me it may be a good idea. But really, what's the point? I'm probably going to die anyway.    

I raise my hand and a Styrofoam cup is placed into it. I lift the cup to my mouth and take a large swig, wincing as it burns my throat.     

"What the fuck is this? Straight vodka?"    

I'm beginning to think my brain has shut off all logical reasoning. Why am I drinking this shit? Why am I listening to this nutjob? He hasn't made any threats or caused me any physical pain yet.     

"Drink it and keep your mouth shut. Don't make me hurt you."    

Alrighty then... there's the threat. As much as I hate to admit it, listening just might save my life.    

I gulp down the remaining contents of the cup and it's a matter of minutes before my mind goes fuzzy and my eyes become heavy.     

Before I can even count to ten, everything goes black.