Free Crow’s Row by Julie Hockley

tip from one of those crime shows: make the attacker see that you’re a real person, not just a nameless witness to a murder, or something like that.
    “My name is Emily,” I announced.
    He looked at me like I was crazy.
    Right. I’d forgotten that Cameron had already mentioned my name.
    “What’s your name?” I asked, my full stomach lurching as the Audi sped into a curve.
    He considered this while I gulped the takeout back down my throat. “You can call me Sexy Bull.”
    My head was buzzing, and a bead of sweat lined my forehead. We were going to bond whether or not he wanted to.
    “My mom’s name is Isabelle and my dad’s name is Burt; it’s short for Bernard. And I had a teddy bear called Booger when I was a kid—he lost an eye after I tried to flat-iron his fur. And my middle toe on my left foot is longer than my big toe. And when I was four—”
    “Jesus, what’s wrong with you? Are you still high?” There was incredulity mixed with an edge of worry in his voice.
    “And when I was four—” I continued, but the Audi was rushing through curves and up and down hills. The shadowed landscape was flashing by. Suddenly, as the car aggressively looped around a cliff, I felt a knot in my throat; my heart started racing, and my body temperature went up a thousand degrees.
    “Oh God!” I yelled.
    “What now?” he sighed, annoyed.
    “You need to stop! I’m going to be sick!”
    “Stop? We’re in the middle of the mountains! There’s nowhere to stop!”
    I started heaving, my hand in front of my mouth.
    “Hold on! Keep it in!” He swore and, in flailing panic, blindly fiddled in the backseat with his free hand, his eyes never leaving the road. He pulled out a plastic bag, emptying its contents before throwing it at me.
    I pulled the bag open and I threw up immediately, repeatedly.
    “That’s so gross!” he gasped, opening his window and sticking his head out. “It still smells like chow mein.”
    The fresh air rushing in from his opened window made me feel better—and I had nothing left in my stomach to puke up anyway. After a few minutes, I pulled my face away from the bag and glanced up.
    He was glaring at me, holding his nose and wincing. His face had gone from rosy-cheeked to pale and sickly.
    “Throw the bag out the window,” he ordered.
    “I can’t do that!” I said. “It’s a plastic bag. It will take over a hundred years to disintegrate. I don’t want to pollute.”
    “Emily,” he said, carefully enunciating every syllable, “if you don’t throw that bag out the window in the next second, I’m going to be sick too.”
    I sighed and reluctantly threw the bag out my window. But I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty as I watched him breathe through his nausea.
    “Sorry,” I said, trying to not mock him, “I guess my bruised head’s still not quite right.”
    He looked at me with revulsion. “That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Now I’m kinda glad we didn’t take my car. Who knew one girl could be such a pain …” His voice trailed back into his head.
    “Ugh!” he groaned dramatically a few seconds later, “It really stinks in here.” And he stuck his head out his window again.
    I’ve never had an iron stomach. Once a guy on his bike crashed next to me, and a broken bone in his right calf pierced through his skin. As any Good Samaritan would do, I insisted on waiting with him until the paramedics showed up. He spent the next twenty minutes holding my hair back while I puked on the side of the road. I couldn’t remember if he ever thanked me for waiting with him.
    I thought about telling Kid about this life event to further solidify our kidnapper-hostage bond, but I was worn out. I let my head fall back into the seat and closed my eyes.
     

 Chapter Five:
 The Farm
    I was awakened by the sound of gravel crushing against the Audi’s tires.
    Kid glimpsed at me from behind the steering wheel.
    “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he