Jasmine

by Bene, Jennifer

  Jasmine

  Jennifer Bene

  Shane Starrett

  Contents

  1. Her

  2. Her

  3. Her

  4. Her

  5. Mason

  6. Her

  7. Him

  8. Her

  9. Him

  10. Mason

  11. Her

  12. Him

  13. Her

  14. Him

  15. Mason

  16. Mason

  17. Her

  18. Mason

  19. Clint

  20. Her

  21. Him

  22. Mason

  23. Mason

  Epilogue

  About Jennifer Bene

  About Shane Starrett

  Also by Jennifer Bene

  Also by Shane Starrett

  Text copyright © 2019 Jennifer Bene & Shane Starrett

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN (e-book): 978-1-946722-51-5

  ISBN (paperback): 978-1-946722-52-2

  Cover design by Laura Hidalgo at Spellbinding Design. https://www.spellbindingdesign.com/

  Created with Vellum

  About Jasmine

  I am his obsession. His property. His Jasmine.

  And he will never let me go.

  Trapped in the middle of nowhere, taken by a madman, I'm forced to be his wife. Obedient, meek, righteous in the eyes of God.

  But I am none of these things, and I can't give in. No matter what he does to me, no matter how much he hurts me, I have to get out of here.

  I have to escape... before I forget who I was before him.

  * * *

  One

  Her

  My knees hit the dirt. Hard. I must have tripped over something, or just my own panicked feet, but it doesn’t matter. I’m bleeding, knees stinging as I brush them off with dirty hands, but that doesn’t matter either because I can’t stop.

  Not here.

  The road stretches out before me in the hazy half-light of evening, and if I give in to the urge to sit down and cry I’ll be lost. I have maybe twenty minutes of light left, and at my current pace I’ll still be in the middle of nowhere by the time the last rays of the sun wink out on the horizon. It will be a few hours after that before the moon is high enough to be of any real help. I know I’ll be out here in the dark, but I don’t care. Even when the light fades I’ll still be twenty minutes farther from him as long as I keep moving.

  I don’t even try to catch my breath. It would be pointless with my heart racing and the cold fear-sweat trickling down my spine, so I just run. These shoes are at least a size too small, and my toes pinch at the corners, my heels rubbing raw and there will be blisters when I eventually stop. I know that tomorrow I won’t be able to run like this — so I run harder.

  The narrow dirt road winds ahead of me. Curving around trees, dipping and rising with the shape of the land, making my thighs burn on a steeper hill where even at the top I can’t see anything. No lights from a main road or a town, no fence to mark the edge of his property — just more road. More dirt carved out of the endless sea of grass. I’m soaked in sweat even though the air is cooler, the first bite of evening chill that will only get worse tonight. But, for now, it feels nice. I drag my arm across my forehead to keep the salt sting out of my eyes, but I don’t bother with the rest of it. The sweat is matting my hair to my neck and sticking the thin shirt to my skin, and if I think too long about my body, I’ll focus on the sharp pain under my ribs where my lungs are demanding I stop.

  Using the slope of the hill, I pick up speed, half-stumbling on the way down, but it’s more like a controlled fall. As long as I never actually hit the ground, again, I can use the momentum to force my burning leg muscles to keep going. Before this I could run a seven-minute mile on a good day, but I haven’t had a good day in too long. So it’s probably eight minutes, or more likely nine. Maybe ten because the few breaths I’m getting are high-pitched wheezes and my form is closer to shambling zombie than marathon runner.

  At least I tried.

  I tried… I try to remind myself of that, but as the edge of the horizon finally goes dull and monochromatic — I know I’m done. Every muscle is shaking as I slow on a long flat stretch of the road and finally stop. Still no lights, no fence, nothing but endless grass that I can see less and less of as night descends. If my math is anywhere close, that’s only three miles if I’m lucky, and he has a truck, which demonstrates once again just how unlucky I am. Cursed, damned… whatever you want to call it, this moment is just one more in a lifetime of shit.

  I stare out into the darkness and force air into my lungs, but it’s pointless. My legs wobble, and my shoes squelch as I stagger. Left, right, left, and right off the road. I fall into the grass as my knees give out, and everything hurts so I can’t even pick out what might be a new injury. Crawling is just as shaky, but I force every painful movement until I’m deeper into the grass. There’s no shelter, just a scrawny tree with spiky bushes at the base, but I nestle into them like there’s a chance they can keep me safe. It’s an easy lie to tell myself, and what are a few more scratches anyway?

  Sleep doesn’t come, and I don’t expect it. I’m not tired, not mentally. My muscles are jello, my bones feel soft, and my lungs bruised — but I’m wide awake. I couldn’t fall asleep even if I wanted to. Instead, I watch the waxing crescent of the moon inch its way across the sky. The crickets and katydids are chirping out their music, and somewhere in the distance I can hear coyotes. A primal part of my brain wants me to seek shelter, but anything the coyotes might do would be so much better than what’s waiting for me.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when I hear the dull rumble of an engine growing closer. The bright headlights make the grass seem thinner, shorter, and I’m sure he will see me… but the truck passes without a pause. He’s driving slowly though, he’s looking, and even though I try to rally the strength to crawl deeper into the grass, my muscles don’t answer.

  The moon moves, clouds drift across the stars, and my eyes are just starting to droop when I hear the truck again. This time the light is brighter, so much brighter. It’s angled into the grass, sweeping closer, and I hold my breath and close my eyes against it like I did when I was little and noises in the house made me think of monsters.

  As if not looking would have saved me.

  It wouldn’t have, not if monsters had really lurked under the bed, but the sound of the brakes squeaking and the truck shifting into park are noises that promise a real monster. I’m shivering, but it’s not from the autumn chill in the air; it’s from the fear that makes me keep my eyes clenched tight. The futile panic that makes my chest hurt and offers me enough of an adrenaline spike to clench my fists and contemplate running.

  But then the truck door opens. Shuts.

  Once again, I’m nothing but a limp husk. Waiting. Uselessly lying halfway under a tiny bush with sharp, pointy leaves. I open my eyes and the spotlight from his truck lights the trunk of the tree. I know he’s found me before his boots scratch over the dirt, before I hear the whisper of the grass against his clothes.

  Each step is worse than a death knell, because I know he won’t kill me. He’s never even threatened to kill me. No, he says so
much worse than that.

  Sometimes he tells me he loves me.

  “Hello, Jasmine.” He’s standing over me, blocking the spotlight, backlit by a vibrant white glow, and I wish I had the strength to kick him.

  But I don’t.

  I don’t have the strength to do anything but stare at him and breathe. As he crouches down next to me I can see his face again, and I don’t bother reminding him that my name isn’t Jasmine.

  He never listens.

  Two

  Her

  He doesn’t have to fight to get me back into the truck.

  I think about it, think about all the things I could try, should try, but don’t. I just follow. Like he expects. Demands. I hate myself for not struggling, because he doesn’t even reach to grip me, as if he knows I’m not going to fight, so why bother? I’ll do as he says because — what are my choices? I’m going to be punished, and he knows I know. He knows I’m not going to do anything that would make what’s coming even worse, and that makes me hate myself a tiny bit more.

  Compliance.

  I’m giving him exactly what he demands from me, and it’s all swirling around inside me like a hell-broth that has my stomach churning. And not just because of my meekness.

  No. It’s also for what awaits me when we get back to the ranch.

  This is only the second time I’ve been in the truck. I’m not allowed in it, it’s off-limits, and he’s only had me inside the one time before. I notice again how clean it is, even though it’s a work truck. Clean, maintained, nothing extraneous or out of place. Like everything else about him and the ranch, the prison I’m trapped in. I study the dash, noticing the empty socket where a radio would normally be. It’s gone, covered over by a piece of something he’s scavenged. And even that is neat, precise. No duct tape slapped on to hold it in place. No, it’s evenly cut, fitted, held in place by tiny screws. Trim, almost fastidious, like so much else about him.

  When I glance out the front windshield to the road ahead of us, I wonder again — for the thousandth time — where I went wrong tonight. It should have worked. I’d gotten away. And he’d driven past me, hadn’t seen me. I was sure of it. So… how? How?

  The dusty dirt road rolls past slowly, and suddenly I can see them.

  My footprints at the edge.

  A clear track marking my advance away from the ranch, as if I’d laid breadcrumbs out for him. Sometimes they disappear where the road is hard packed, at others it’s as if they’re outlined in neon. I’d run, but I had left him everything he needed to find me.

  That’s when the tears come. Unbidden, hated, pushed by rage behind eyes that blink as

  rapidly as I can to try and hold them back, force them back inside me where he can’t see them. He does though. He glances over occasionally at me, and I know he sees their tracks. He doesn’t say anything. His face, like most times, is a complete fucking blank. Like he isn’t even human. An emotionless automaton. I push savagely at myself to stop.

  Stop fucking crying. Don’t give him this.

  But it’s so very hard with my failure confronting me in each of those tiny, scuffed footprints leading me back to hell. By the time I stop, there is the faintest hint of light from the horizon, a bluish tinge that pushes back the black of night, and I realize I’d gotten further than I thought, that it has taken him longer than my memory allowed for him to find me. It’s cold comfort, but I grasp at it. A tiny sliver of success in the miasma of failure that everything else seems to be.

  We pass the fence line, rattling over the cattle guard with a brrrump that shakes the cab of the truck as his house comes into view. There are cattle just beyond the road, standing immobile in the last remnants of the night air. Waiting, like me, for whatever he decides to do with us next.

  I think of how long I’ve been up now, how long he has too. In a few more hours it will be twenty-four, and even if he acts like some sort of Terminator-like android, I’m positive he’ll be feeling the hours too, like I am, as the adrenaline finally begins to wear off.

  Maybe he won’t punish me now. Maybe he’ll just take me back to the house, put me in that bedroom and lock the door. Or in his bed, pulling me against him as he fades off to sleep, and I can catch a little myself, and then… maybe while he’s out I can sneak away again. But do better this time, stay off the edge of the road, cut out into the brush, cross country this time.

  The truck swings into the large, circular drive, the headlights washing across the legs of the

  windmill, the curving sides of the silos, the barn. He shifts down, angles the truck across the packed dirt, and hope evaporates inside me, raw despair taking its place.

  He’s headed for the barn.

  I’m trembling, I can feel another rush of adrenaline, but it’s weak this time, weaker than anything from earlier. Too much has gone on, too much has happened, and my body simply doesn’t have it in me to do anything more.

  He pulls the truck up in front of the barn and shuts off the engine, not even sparing a glance in my direction. He simply climbs out and heads over to one of the massive sliding doors that close off the front of the barn. He steps inside and lights flicker on, backlighting him and the rectangular opening that is a portal to Hell. Slits of light bleed out between the old boards that make up the structure, and I watch as he disappears inside.

  I could run right now, jump out and try again... but it would be futile. I’d fail yet again.

  He knows it too. It’s why he doesn’t even bother watching me, or forcing me to come with him. He knows I won’t run again, because even if I could make my feet carry me, it would only add to what’s about to happen. He’s going to punish me for what I’ve done, and if I run again? He’ll make sure that punishment is a thousand times worse than what I’m about to receive.

  Not worth it.

  His shadow appears in the doorway of the barn, a monster made of darkness that I can’t overpower even on my best day. I keep my eyes on him because I need to see what he does even though it won’t help. I watch as he stops at the edge of the light, looks back inside one more time, then starts toward the truck.

  Frozen, I sit rigidly, facing forward, trying to feel stronger than I am. Don’t let him see how scared you are. Don’t give him that.

  He opens the door, the overhead light comes on, and he stands there looking at me for a long moment before he says, “Jasmine.”

  I don’t move. I need to, should, because nothing is going to stop what’s about to

  happen, but I can’t. A few more seconds, just a few more so I can try and gather myself, prepare for whatever he’s planning to—

  “Jasmine.” He says the name so blandly. Patiently. He should yell at me. Any sign of emotion — anger, rage, hatred, anything — would be better than this. But he never does. He’s always like this. Placid, calm, quietly terrifying. Except… except when he’s finished. When he tells me he loves me, which is always somehow worse.

  He’s still standing there, waiting, not even reaching for me. He knows I’ll come to him. Because it’s what he wants, what he’s ordered me to do, and I must obey.

  ‘You cannot escape punishment. What would be the point otherwise?’ He’d explained that to me… a month ago? Longer? Whenever he first brought me here. The exhaustion is making me fuzzy now, my thoughts are muddled, and right now I can’t remember how long this hell has gone on.

  But I move.

  I slide slowly across the seat and he takes a step back so I can slip out of the cab. I stand on the ground, the cold of the hard earth coming up through my soles. It should shock me, should bring the pain I know I should feel, but God… I’m suddenly so tired and I just want this to be over.

  He quietly shuts the door and heads back toward the barn. I know I’m supposed to follow, but again, just like in the cab of the truck, I pause, sucking down precious seconds of delay. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back, and as he gets closer to the rectangle of light, I glance around. The sky is showing signs of light, the black above
turning to deeper purple, and the horizon now has a dull, pinkish band cut by the silhouette of rolling hills. Useless, it’s all so useless. I move, forcing my legs to follow after him, because I can’t afford to make this any worse.

  He disappears inside the barn, and too soon after I cross the threshold myself. My eyes take time to adjust to the lights. The barn floor is concrete, and like everything else it’s pristine. Swept clean, and except for the slightest trace of dust from the soil outside, you could eat off of it. He’s by one wall, near the long workbench which runs down one side. The large center posts separate the barn into two halves, and he stands on the side not taken up by the two tractors. There is the bench, a toolbox, a row of leather harnesses and straps and things I think are for the cattle or the horses — I don’t really know — all laid out neatly on the bench. Dark leather standing out against the worn gray wood.

  He turns, looks at me. “Come here, Jasmine.”

  I obey, my head muddy. He’s standing next to the wall, and I notice there’s a long, vertical board nailed to it. It has a column of big holes, neatly spaced, and in two of them dowels have been inserted — one up high, the other a little lower. I stop in front of him, a few steps away, and wait for his next command. Exhaustion is settling in, making me feel empty, numb… maybe it will help ease the pain of whatever he’s going to do.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  Goddamn him. Could he not put something into that voice? Does he have to make it sound so… normal? So ordinary, as if he’d just asked me to tie my shoe rather than to strip naked in front of him?