by C. C. Piper
“Yes. And I’m willing to share if you want to eat in the dining room with me.”
Pursing her lips, she eyed me, then stepped around where I stood, going down two doors to where I’d laid out two place settings of hardy earthenware. Score. Initiation of Operation Get To Know Her Better had its first win.
She lifted the first bite up to her mouth, then hesitated, narrowing her gaze. “This isn’t poisoned, is it?”
I took a bite. “If it is, I’m in trouble.”
Rachel dug in, maintaining a wary expression the entire time.
“Want some wine?”
“Why? So you can roofie me?” she asked, incredulous.
“I would never do that.”
“Hmmm.” Clearly, she didn’t believe me. But then, why would she? I poured her some water instead. She drank a little too greedily, telling me how thirsty she’d been. Why hadn’t she gotten whatever she needed from the kitchen? She glanced down at her hands, her fingers strumming the table in a noticeable rhythm. Then she spoke in a rush. “Are you going to lock me in that room again?”
“Your bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Promise?” she asked, the question almost plaintive. I studied her face, seeing a tinge of undisguisable fear there.
Idiot. Of course, she was scared. She didn’t know what I might be capable of or what I might do.
“I promise.” I reached out to her, stilling her hands, and felt awareness drill up my arm at the contact. I let her go, feeling uncomfortable. I’d felt the same reaction the first time I’d touched her, a reaction I hadn’t felt with anyone else. What was that?
She rose to her feet and seized more water, guzzling it down. What difference did being in that bedroom make as long as she drank her fill of fluids…. And then, it struck me. The bathroom. She didn’t want to be stranded away from the bathroom. If I’d hated myself before, I hated myself more now. What kind of sick mother fucker would purposefully keep a woman from going to the restroom when she needed to?
Someone who’d kidnap her, that’s who.
She leaned against the counter. “So, how’d you wind up guarding people for a living?”
“I normally do another line of work.”
“Yeah?” Was she sliding the drawer open behind her? “What kind of work?”
“More clerical in nature,” I said, staying in the realm of truth while keeping the subject vague. “How about you?”
Rachel turned her head toward the doorway while one hand stayed behind her. “I’m getting my business degree. My parents want me to take over Brisbane Industries someday.”
Everything in her posture said she didn’t want anything to do with business. Her shoulders had slumped forward and her features had taken on a much bleaker cast to them, her complexion going almost gray. “But I’m guessing you’d rather be something else,” I surmised. The way she gaped at me told me I’d nailed it.
“I don’t think you’re a guard after all.”
I froze, everything inside me going perfectly motionless. “No?”
“No. I think you’re a mind-reader. How’d you know that about me?”
I shrugged, relaxing. “Research.” Though that was a lie. I hadn’t bothered to do much research on anyone but her father. And if I’d been a mind-reader, I would’ve recognized Hannah as a fraud, and I hadn’t.
“I’ll do what my parents want. I love them,” she said, surreptitiously pulling something from the drawer behind her. The luscious curve of her hips—dammit, stop noticing—partially hindered my view, but I knew she was up to something.
“I’m a big believer in doing what you want and following your own dreams,” I told her.
“Well, you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t trust the advice of a man holding me hostage.”
Then she lunged at me, the silver gleam of a weapon in her hand. If I hadn’t been watching her, she might’ve caught me unawares, but luckily, I was ready for her. I gripped her wrist, shaking it until she released the object she’d wanted to gut me with…a rounded-edged table knife. Kit would’ve made a joke, saying, “What were you gonna do? Spread me to death?” But I wasn’t my best friend. I knew she was desperate and afraid. Especially now she looked crestfallen.
“Crap. I thought that was a paring knife.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
I don’t know why, but I wanted to soothe her, even though I was the last one she’d ever want soothing from. Instead, I watched as she grabbed a jug of water from the refrigerator and without glancing in my direction, strode off to her room.
9
Rachel
For the next two days, I did everything I could think of to get out of the confines of whatever this place was. I’d wait until Guard—I’d decided to just call him what he was—closed himself in his room and search for any crevice or weakness I could find. I’d pound on various locations along the walls and floorboards, listening to hear if any part sounded hollower. But I found nothing, and the thickness of the walls resonated like they were at least a foot thick. I’d even tried to get into his room to no avail.
Whoever had built this place must’ve needed to keep someone big and strong in here.
I was so sick of feeling cold. The place was climate controlled, so it wasn’t like it was freezing or anything, but I was used to keeping the temperature higher. I knew my fear had something to do with this cold feeling, too, but I couldn’t do anything about that. Instead, I began to layer the clothes I found in the closet for warmth.
The place was lit by these unusual lights planted into the ceiling, but I’d never realized how much I would miss the sun. I hadn’t seen it once since my arrival. Guard seemed unaffected by the lower temperature—maybe he liked it that way—or the less than bright lighting during the evening hours, or the fact that we were the only two people here.
I, on the other hand, thought I might die of the lack of sunshine. To occupy my brain, I did what I always did when I had time to myself: I wrote songs in my head. I didn’t have paper—which would’ve been optimal—but I had a decent imagination. The next time I had access to paper, I’d simply write everything down then.
I pictured a template for sheet music in my head, the bars, staffs, and measures black against the white page. I decided which key would be best, and I began to compose, tapping my foot once I had enough to determine what tempo would be needed. I hummed along, getting caught up in it, lost in the act of creation.
Not for the first time since my arrival, I thought about what had happened to Madison. My eyes and nose stung, which was stupid. I knew my cello was an inanimate object and shouldn’t inspire such feelings from within me, but I couldn’t help it. If my kidnappers had destroyed her or tossed Madison in a dumpster somewhere, I’d never see her again.
I had so many happy memories of performing with my cello. She’d been my lifeline for so long, my reminder that while I may have to parade around at corporate functions playing all nicey-nice for my parents’ benefit, deep down I was a cellist. Thinking that the instrument I’d spent so much of my time learning and playing on might be gone forever made my heart ache.
I probably shouldn’t have been so nonchalant about the peril I was in. It was still a dicey situation I didn’t know if I’d get out of, but somehow Guard seemed less frightening with each passing day. On an afternoon three days in, we’d sat in the cozy living area, me taking one end of the long, overstuffed sofa while he took the other. We’d played a game. Well, I’d played a game, attempting to guess his name. Up till then, the man had seemed so solemn, even morose, at times. But during those few brief moments, things lightened up a little.
“Is your name John?”
“No.”
“Steven?”
“No.”
“Matthew? Mark? Luke?”
“No. No, and no.” His lips had quirked up a smidgen at the rapid-fire way I’d volleyed those at him.
“Peter? Paul? David? Goliath? Nebuc
hadnezzar?”
“You’re religious, I take it.”
“No, but my favorite auntie was huge into Bible stories. Ironically, she cussed like a sailor. She died last year.”
“Sounds like an interesting lady. I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, which bugged me. He’d go from big, tough, badass guard-man to nice guy for a blink, then back again. I didn’t know what to make of such inconsistencies.
“Jimbo?”
“No.”
“Jehoshaphat?”
“No.”
“Bugs? Daffy? Porky? Yosemite? Elmer?”
“It’s not from a Warner Bros. cartoon.”
“Geraldine?” That time he sunk his chin down and blinked up at me. “Okay, so you’re not one of those men with a girl’s name. Good to know. Andrew?” I said, then instantly felt a pang at my brother’s full name.
“No. What’s wrong?” Those light green crystalline orbs went soft, gentler. I decided I liked Guard better this way. He scooted closer. I didn’t scoot away.
“Other than the obvious, you mean?”
“Yeah, other than the obvious.”
“Well, I miss my brother. I can feel him freaking out over this.”
One of his eyebrows shot up. “You can feel him?”
“Drew and I are twins,” I explained. “We can tell when the other is in distress, especially when that distress escalates. He’s been in a bad way ever since shortly after I woke up.” I thought Guard might apologize, but he didn’t.
“My name isn’t Andrew or Drew. Keep trying.”
Keep trying? Was he enjoying this? I’d thought he was merely playing along to entertain the prisoner, but his eyes had lit up with fascination when I’d told him about our freaky twin connection. I tried another tack.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No.” And this time, he smiled. A legitimate and apparent curving of his lips. “Only child.”
“Parents?”
The smile vanished as hastily as it’d dropped in. “Dead.”
Now our roles seemed to reverse. “I’m sorry,” I said, and surprisingly, I meant it. Feeling compelled to show him, I placed my hand gingerly on his.
“It was a long time ago. I was young. My grandfather raised me, and he didn’t die until after I’d flown the nest. It’s all good.”
This spontaneous soliloquy of his had been the longest string of words he’d used so far. I felt kind of shocked that he’d willingly shared so much information about himself, particularly the part that had come unsolicited. He appeared to realize this, too, and steered the conversation back to where it had been. “Let’s go back to the name game.”
I pulled my hand back, noting the warmth left behind in its wake. “Okay, Christopher?”
This time, there was a fleeting reaction, but it happened so swiftly I almost thought I’d imagined it.
“No. Nothing so common.”
Ooh, a hint! “Jedediah? Ezekiel? Mitchell? Marshall? Tallahassee?”
“Tallahassee? Really?” he chuckled.
I loved what laughing did to his face, how much more human it made it. How much more gorgeous. Whoa, had I actually thought of Guard as gorgeous? What the hell? He was a thug, for God’s sake.
What was that thing that happened when victims became enamored with the perpetrators of the crimes against them? Some kind of syndrome? Munchausen Syndrome? No, it something else. It started with an S…Stockholm Syndrome. That was it. I totally, totally had Stockholm Syndrome. I’d officially lost my freaking mind.
Peeking at the shirt under his Armani, I spotted the recognizable symbol of a bat.
“You realize you’re wearing a cheap superhero t-shirt under a $5,500 suit, don’t you?”
“Who said it was cheap? This shirt came from Dolce and Gabbana.”
I gawked open-mouthed at him. “It did not.”
He grinned, mischief sparkling in his beautiful eyes. “No, you’re right. It didn’t. Still, it was fun watching you believe me for a second.”
I bopped him on the arm and leaned forward until our knees were touching.
“How about Bruce? Wayne? Clark? Kent? Barry? Allen?”
The smile, that perfect white smile, was back. “No.”
“Steve? Roger? Tony? Thor? Clint? Parker? Logan? Xavier? Eric?”
The smile expanded until it split his face in two, and I found I wanted to keep it there. Needed to, even.
“Leeroy Jenkins?” I asked, stretching out the words and raising my voice. The name was famous in YouTube and gaming circles as the guy who’d ignored his teammates and rushed into an online gaming battle, causing all his buddies to be slaughtered on screen. The doofus had been an absolute legend when Drew and I were teenagers, and we’d both hollered “Leeeeroy Jaaaankins!” at each other for months, giggling every single time.
This time Guard leaned over and roared with laughter, his face even went a bit red. By the time he’d gotten control of himself again, I was laughing, too. I’d always found laughter contagious. Plus, it was the first time since finding myself here that I’d felt like laughing.
My heaving body had brought me so much closer to his, and I didn’t become cognizant of that fact until our faces were inches apart. I lasered in on those full, juicy-looking lips of his and wondered how they’d feel open against mine. How they’d feel on my neck, on my earlobe, and lower…. My breasts became heavy, the nipples pebbling into hard round beads.
“Tell me about that,” he said, and I whipped back, crossing my arms over my chest. Had he seen? “That song you keep humming. I don’t recognize it.”
Oh! I must’ve been humming under my breath. I did that sometimes while I composed new songs without being aware I’d done so out loud.
“It’s just a song I’m writing.”
“You’re a songwriter?”
Though I’d been doing this for the past few years, I’d never associated the term “songwriter” with myself. Maybe it was true, though.
“Yes. In a manner of speaking. I consider myself more of a musician. I play cello.”
“That’s the giant violin, right?”
Well, no. That wasn’t accurate. Not precisely accurate, anyway. If I’d said such a thing to my orchestra teacher, the woman’s head would’ve done a three-sixty spin like the little girl on The Exorcist as she explained point by point the differences between the various stringed instruments. But I didn’t feel like going into all that, so I didn’t.
“Sort of. It rests on a stand called a tail spike which touches the floor and is played with a bow like a violin is.”
“Sounds difficult to manage. Is it heavy?”
“Yes, but I don’t mind. I really miss having Madison around.”
“Madison?” he asked, and I felt my cheeks heat.
“I call my cello Madison. That’s her name.”
I waited for him to make fun of me. Drew and Alicia both did when they found out, though not with any rancor, of course. But Guard didn’t.
“I gave my first car a name. Gertrude. It was an old lady car, so it seemed fitting. And I always name my laptops, too. My current one is Granny Smith.”
“Let me guess…it’s a MacBook, right? An Apple?”
His grin curled around his mouth and made his eyes glisten. “You got me.”
“You have a weird fascination with elderly women, don’t you?”
He laughed again. “Maybe I do.”
“Do you like music? Have you ever played?”
“I love music, but I’ve never played an instrument. I understand about the creative process, though. There’s nothing more exciting or rewarding than making something out of nothing.”
I gawked at him, reading the sincerity on his face. He understood what it was like to become obsessed with something, to feel this compulsion to create. I didn’t know how, but he did. I wondered if he was an artist of some sort, and if so, how did someone like him wind up guarding prisoners for a living? It seemed like a travesty of the highest order.
&
nbsp; “What is it you make?”
He dropped his gaze, as I should’ve anticipated. He kept everything very close to the vest. “Nothing important.”
Guard had feigned nonchalance, but I could tell that this was a lie. Whatever it was that this man had made was of vital importance to him, just as my music was to me.
“I think it’s the whole bringing something into the world that didn’t exist before, the idea of leaving a legacy behind—although I already have a legacy I’m responsible for,” I said.
“Your father’s business.” His tone held a sharpness to it.
“Yes, my brother and I have an obligation to carry on with it after my dad and mom are gone.”
“You sound…wistful.”
Did I? I hadn’t meant to. “I’ll do what I must. What’s expected of me.”
“Even though you like making music more?”
Now he sounded like Drew. And Alicia. “Yes. One thing many people don’t understand about having a certain surname is how much…” Baggage it comes with. “How much pressure there is to follow in your parents’ footsteps. My father’s business has put meals on our table and allowed us to live an affluent and comfortable lifestyle. I owe him, and I can’t ignore that.”
“You owe him? I thought it was a parent’s job to provide for their children.”
I frowned. “Well, I guess it is, but…”
“Sounds like your father wants payment for that affluent upbringing of yours rather than what might be best for you,” he said, baldly, stressing the word “father.”
“He does want what’s best for me. He’s my dad.”
“He knows better than you what will be best for you in the long run? Even if it doesn’t make you happy?”
I couldn’t say yes to that but admitting such a thing to this man felt inappropriate. I changed the subject. “Not having Madison with me is like missing a limb. I was carrying her when I was taken…” I trailed off.
“They took it?” He sounded as if he genuinely didn’t know. His features looked pinched now, as if hearing about my lost cello pained him.