“Where—where am I?”
I circled the woman as she stirred in the office chair and became aware of her bonds (heavy-duty bungee cords which had been stretched taut and wrapped tight), at which she struggled violently (but briefly) and seemed to surrender—looking up at me smolderingly, begrudgingly, seeming to take my measure.
“You’re going to regret this,” she said—blowing the hair out of her eyes, “You know that, don’t you?”
I knelt in front of her and c****d my head. “I’m sure. But in the meantime why don’t you start by telling me your name. Can you do that for me, you think?”
She snorted through her nose. “How about you go f**k yourself?” Then she laughed. “Pamela Des Barres. How about that?”
I looked her up and down, studying her. The patchwork denim and groupie chic; the colorful fur
