Kidnapped: A Criminal Deeds Novel

by Kyle Autumn

  Before I know it, Keaton is wiping under my eyes and rocking me back and forth in the chair.

  “Let it out, Ali,” he whispers in my ear, holding me tighter to his chest. “Just let it out.”

  So I do. In the safety of his arms, I cry and mourn in a way I was never able to before. I sob and release every emotion and feeling I’ve kept pent up for the last four years. With my fists, I punch his chest, but he absorbs every blow. With my mouth, I cry out, shout, and scream for the girl I used to be, the life I used to have, the mother I lost in its wake. His soundproof room gives me the privacy I’ve always dreamed of, and his heart holds on to the sadness and agony for me, now that I can’t any longer.

  When my open my eyes again, the room is pitch-black. I’m on something way more comfortable than that hard chair I was tied to before. So I’m clearly not in the basement anymore. But Keaton’s familiar heat is unmistakable. It’s wrapped around me, keeping me warm in the otherwise coolness of the new room we’re in.

  I go to lift my head, but his arms tighten around my middle. I relax against him, allowing myself the comfort while I can get it.

  “You cried yourself to sleep down there,” he says close to my ear. “And, since you don’t seem to want to leave, I thought I’d bring you up here so you could sleep comfortably.”

  It feels ridiculous to appreciate such kindness in the face of what’s actually going on here, but it also feels right. This bed is amazing, and my body needed the rest so badly. And he’s taking care of me, not hurting me. So I really don’t know what the harm is.

  “You were talking in your sleep though.”

  Just like that, the relaxed feeling evaporates from my whole body. “What did I say?”

  He presses himself against me even more. “Something about how you couldn’t see through the rain.” After giving me a moment to comment and I don’t, he continues. “Wanna talk about it?”

  The darkness of this room feels safe. No one can see me or hear me. And I can’t see Keaton’s face, which means I won’t know his reaction when parts of my story spill from my lips. That gives me even more reason to say what’s on my mind.

  There’s something to be said about the freeing feeling of letting out four-year-old secrets to a man whose name is the only thing you know about him. Because the moment I release part of what I’ve been holding on to so tightly, I can breathe more easily than ever before. I no longer have the weight of the world crushing my lungs. And it’s incredible.

  “My mom was killed in the pouring rain several years ago, and I saw it happen.” A hard exhale rushes out of my chest. But I have no tears to shed. I cried myself out earlier in this man’s arms. “She was the best,” I tell him, a tiny crack of a smile trying to appear on my lips as I’m overcome with happy memories. “Pancakes on Sunday mornings, always home when I got back from school. Her kindness was the total opposite of my father’s cold parenting style.” Now, my expression becomes harder. “All he wanted was someone to fill his shoes one day, but when he realized I wasn’t going to be the one, he made life…difficult.”

  His hold on me tightens yet again, but he doesn’t offer an apology. No empty condolences fall from his lips. None of that, “That must have been tough,” bullshit. He just keeps me wrapped in his strong, powerful embrace.

  “I haven’t talked about it since I had to stop talking about it,” I admit. “I haven’t wanted to, and I don’t really want to now, but it feels good to get that out.” I twist around to face him and rest my head against his chest, under his chin. “Thanks for listening.”

  “What are neighbors for?” he asks. His tone is serious, but the sentiment hits my funny bone and I lose it.

  I crack up laughing in a way I haven’t laughed in years. Because that is not the kind of neighbors we are. It’s not what I’ve ever used a neighbor for. Though I’ve clearly crossed the neighbor line with this new one. I doubt either of us knows what neighbors are actually good for.

  It’s when Keaton starts laughing, though, that the euphoria kicks in. His deep, resonating laughter sets my soul on fire. It lifts my heart and makes me want to live inside it.

  Still giggling, I ask, “Is there a light in here you can turn on?”

  Through his chuckles, he reaches around me and turns the knob on the lamp next to the bed. Then he suddenly stops laughing. His hard breath in is the first signal that things are about to change. The click of the light is the second. But the flood of warm light in the room brings the change on.

  First, my gaze flies to his chest.

  Second, my breath stalls in my lungs.

  And third, I realize that those tattoos I briefly saw through my window days ago aren’t tattoos at all.

  They’re scars.

  Deep, glittering, horrible, and beautiful scars.

  16

  Keaton

  It’s only fair. She let me in, so it’s time I do the same. Give her a glimpse of my past the way she did with me. Except mine’s an actual glimpse. Something to be seen, not heard. Seeing as her eyes are as wide as saucers, I assume she has questions. If I’ve learned anything about her in the last twenty-four hours, it’s that she loves to ask questions. And get real answers. So I steel myself for what’s about to come.

  She surprises me, though, with her silence. Instead of bombarding me with words, she stuns me with her touch. With gentle fingers, she lightly traces the outlines of my scars.

  They’re old now, but they’re partially why I haven’t wanted to get close to anyone. No one needs to see this. No one can love this. Not this physical body, and not the emotional turmoil brewing on the inside. Not the fact that I’m constantly on the run, on the lookout for my past to catch up with me. It’s too much for anyone to handle. Too much of a burden to place into anyone’s hands.

  With her hands on me, though, I can picture another kind of life. A way to make something worth living for happen for me. That seems to keep happening with her, and I never want to let it go.

  Then I remind myself that, eventually, the bubble will pop. This will have to end. She’ll find fault with what I did to her and finally let that anger take root once the shock has worn off. This won’t last forever, and that’s all there is to it.

  When she does speak, she surprises me yet again with the words she chooses. They don’t form a question like I was expecting. Instead, they make the most beautiful sentence I could possibly hear.

  “These don’t define you.” When she closes her mouth, she peeks up at me with strength and kindness—things no one has offered me for as long as I can remember.

  Once my brain has had a chance to mangle the meaning behind what she said, I push her hands away from my chest. “I’m not whoever you think I am.”

  “Believe me. I’m sure you’re not,” she responds, returning her hands to their previous position as if I hadn’t shoved her off me. “And that’s the most interesting part. We’re never who people think we are. Sometimes, though”—she pins me with her gaze—“that’s a good thing.” Then she runs her fingers over my scars again.

  “You don’t unders—” I try to say.

  But she won’t have it. With a finger placed on my lips, she says, “I do. We both know I do. So don’t let your past ruin a good future.”

  I go to speak around her hand, but she silences me again.

  “No.” She bends her arm and props her head up with her hand. “It seems like you don’t understand, Keaton.”

  My name on her lips shocks my body into obeying her commands. I haven’t heard someone say my name with so much care and concern, even through the force and stress of her tone. It’s so jarring that I give in to attempting to believe that what she’s about to say is true.

  “I need this as much as you do,” she tells me with conviction. “I can feel it in my bones. I don’t care what it took to get us here. The past is in the past, and the only thing we can do is move forward. That’s it.”

  When she finishes, she stares at my chest like she’s seeing right thr
ough it. It’s as though she said those words to convince herself as well. And the brightness in her eyes when she returns her gaze to mine, the upward curve of the corners of her lips—it all tells me that she believes herself too.

  The past is in the past? Is that something we can leave behind and not allow to color our future? Can we really give up every learned behavior in an instant to create a future we can actually enjoy?

  Honestly, right now, I have no clue. It sounds scary. Dangerous as fuck. I’m only here at this moment because I’ve let my past teach me how to be more diligent in the future. I’d have been killed a long time ago if I hadn’t used everything I’d learned during my life in crime. And the things I’ve done have certainly made me the man I am today.

  Granted, I’m a callous, short-tempered, fiercely private, and unattached man. But that’s because I have to be. Because of my past.

  No. The past is not just the past. She’d care about what it took to get me here today. She may say she doesn’t, but she would. Especially given what she just told me about her mother. There’s no way she’d want to be with me if she knew I actively participated in a murder’s coverup. Not a chance in the fiery depths of hell.

  The past most definitely matters.

  But because I still believe that this bubble will pop and we’ll lose this chance for good sooner or later, I nod in agreement. I’d rather it happen later. If it makes me a selfish asshole to want her to smile at me the way she is right now for the rest of my life, then fuck it. Add selfish to the list of shitty qualities I possess because of my past.

  Because I’ll gladly be selfish for the rest of my life if it means keeping her a little while longer.

  17

  Ali

  I can tell he’s lying. He took way too long to answer, and nothing on his face changed. An epiphany like that would have a bigger effect, but his expression remained the same. He doesn’t believe that the past doesn’t have to affect our future.

  But I don’t care. That makes him who he is: a man who’s trying to please a woman he wants in his life. Why else would he lie to me about agreeing with that? He doesn’t want to argue. He’d rather spend this time we have together in peace. We can use this time to share our stories and our scars with someone who can appreciate and care for them. When we finally decide what to do when this is over, we’ll deal with the fallout then.

  For now? We’ll pretend. I’m okay with that.

  As long as we keep telling the truth about the past.

  Because maybe I don’t believe myself, either. Not fully. There are issues one has to deal with when being with someone who has a past like mine. Though maybe that’s why we found each other. We can complement the other when it comes to fucked-up lives.

  Obviously, based on these painful-looking scars, he’s led a life full of trouble and horror. He’s had more than a few moments of anguish and agony. I saw that in his gaze the first time we ever laid eyes on each other. In the briefest of seconds, when our gazes met, I could tell how troubled he was. Now, I know without a doubt, and that only softens me toward him more.

  “How long has it been since anyone has touched you like this?” I ask him, my fingers still trailing the path of marred skin on his chest.

  His own hand shoots out to snatch mine away, but I evade him and put my fingers back where they were.

  “Answer me,” I insist. “We’re safe here.”

  After a deep, long inhale, he releases the air on a rush. “A long time.”

  I wait him out. He’ll keep talking when it’s awkward enough.

  “Years,” he says quietly, just like I thought he would. Then he clears his throat, which vibrates through my fingers on his skin. “Many, many years.”

  With my gaze still on his chest, I ask, “Before or after this happened to you?”

  “Before.” His voice is gruff and low.

  Now that my suspicions have been confirmed, I set out to make sure he has a memory from after that he can keep with him forever. No one deserves a lifetime of loneliness no matter what their past was like. No matter what they’ve done or why they think they deserve it.

  I push his shoulder so he’s flat on his back on the bed. Then I straddle his hips and begin kissing my way down his body, starting at his chin. I pay special attention to the silvery twists and turns that guide my way south, lingering on the deeper ones and showing appreciation for the entire path. With my tongue, I glide along a few of the rivers and streams before placing my lips on his skin again, my gaze on his.

  He’s watching me. It’s with a mix of awe, amazement, and lustful heat. Like he’s trying so hard to commit it to memory while being focused on living in this moment of admiration and raw sexual desire. I draw on the raw sexual desire so he can feel the admiration in his bones.

  When I’ve reached the top of his jeans, I undo the button and pull the zipper down. He’s slow in his reaction, like he can’t believe this is real, so he doesn’t need to move. But it’s real, so I tug on his pants until he lifts his ass to give me room to pull. He’s already naked underneath, and his hard cock bobs as it springs out of his jeans.

  Once those are gone, I straddle him again and carefully slip my hoodie over my head. Immediately, his hands go to the skin on my sides, and from there, they slide up and over my breasts. For a few moments, he caresses my skin there, softly pinching my nipples as if to test how hard or soft they are. Or maybe he remembers how tough he was on them earlier and wants to make sure I’m not in any pain. Either way, the contact sends zaps of erotic pleasure to my already throbbing pussy.

  This whole scene—his gentle touches, our skin-to-skin contact, how careful he is with me—has me a complete mess of hormones and need. But we’ll go slow. That’s what he needs right now. Slow, honed-in attention. Pleasure from someone who sees him.

  He saw me through falling apart and grieving my mother. Now, I’ll see him through this. Really see him.

  His hands trail down my sides until they reach my sweatpants. He slips his fingers inside and gives my pants a slight tug. I get the hint, so I help him help me out of the last item of clothing keeping us from being naked together. And then we’re bare skin to bare skin.

  Our physical bodies are no different than they were when we fucked against that wall in the basement. But, now, we’re in the light, and the light can make a lot of difference. Darkness can create connections, but the light, where the truth resides, where you can’t hide from your scars—that’s where the connections cement themselves. That’s where they become real.

  Here in the light, two become one.

  Here in the light, we forget about the past.

  Here in the light, we don’t worry about the future.

  Instead, we spend our time in the light creating a present that feels right. It feels good and true and perfect no matter what else has taken place before this. We are whoever we are right now, together, carving out pleasure from emotional and physical torture.

  He lifts me up until I’m kneeling over him. Then he guides me back down until the tip of his cock rests at my opening. He tests how ready I am for him with a swipe of his dick through my slit, and when he finds what he was hoping for, he slowly enters me, inch by inch, until our midsections are touching again.

  Skin to skin.

  Scars to scars.

  Fully present.

  Here in the light.

  18

  Keaton

  Selfish asshole, indeed. No insisting to use a condom. No telling her—or even showing her—that her needs should come before mine. None of that. Just straight to the bareback sex. Straight to taking what I can get while I can get it. Straight to receiving what I hadn’t realized I needed all these years.

  She seems willing to give. Almost too willing. I briefly wonder if I should worry about that, but the future can wait. And the past doesn’t matter with her. Not when she’s seen my scars and still wants to fuck me like this. Like I’m the only man on Earth she wants. Like I’m her first and her last.
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  Her hips rock and swivel at a snail’s pace as she places her fingertips on my chest. I hold her waist, but not to guide her. I let her do the work, and not because of that selfish asshole part of me. Everything about her body’s movements tells me that she wants to take the lead this time. It’s sweet torture to go this slow, but there’s something poetic about how extreme we take things. The pendulum swings from one side to the next, but in a way, they complement each other.

  She rises and falls on my dick, all the while running her fingers over my scars. I watch myself disappear inside her, and then I raise my gaze to see what she’s focused on: me. Everything about this scene is beautiful and fucking perfect. So I allow myself to do what I want for the first time in way too fucking long.

  I glide my hands up to her breasts and fondle her nipples. They’re perky and perfect in my hands. Then I trail my hands up her chest until my fingers land on her lips. She parts them for me and sucks on my finger as she rides me. When my finger pops from her mouth, I bring it down to her pussy so I can press the wet tip to her clit.

  Watching her pleasure take her face over is nearly too much. As I make circles on her clit, her bucks on my cock bring tingles to my balls. They tighten up until it’s almost painful and I can’t take it anymore. Before I come inside her, though, I take my finger away from her pussy, lift her up until I’ve pulled myself out of her, and flip her onto her back. However, when I start lowering myself to return the pleasure favor, she cups my face to bring me back up.

  Without any words, she takes my dick in her hand and starts to pump until I come all over her stomach. Then she speaks.