Tremble

by Alison Foster

  Two things could be happening here. Maybe this is a huge miscalculation on his part, a game he’s taking way too far, perhaps to find out what scares me like he claimed he would.

  Or I’m in bed with an extremely disturbed man who has been manipulating me all this time.

  “Get that handcuff off me,” I command him. “Just fucking drop the whole act now and we’ll pretend it never happened. I mean it, Lukas. I’m not enjoying this. Stop it. Uncuff me.”

  He says nothing. In fact, he’s not even looking at me. He’s busy rubbing something off his jeans, like that’s a lot more important than my wishes. Like my anger is a nonfactor.

  “Please, Lukas,” I say, changing my tactic. “I’m really not the brave type. I get nervous easily. I get paranoid. It’s not fun for me.”

  He smiles and for a moment I think I might have reached him. He sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples.

  “The thing is, you sealed your fate when you let me lick your pussy,” he says with a voice I have never heard before in my life. A voice so cold it freezes my blood. “No woman can resist my tongue,” he concludes. “Too bad.”

  I have no idea who or what this man is. All I know is it’s not a game. I can tell this isn’t something new for him. He’s been here before. This is not going to end well. I understand now. I’m trapped and may never get out.

  “Nothing?” he says. “You have nothing to say to that?”

  My mind is reeling. I’m mortified and I know he senses that. With every doubt, every fear, every feeling of despair that runs through my head, I am giving him more power.

  I recoil from him when he moves closer. He grabs my hair, pulling my face an inch from his. “I’ll come back in the evening,” he says. “I hope you’ll enjoy your new room.”

  “What if I have to use the bathroom?” I blurt out.

  Lukas smiles widely as he gets up. “Just hold it in, Mac. Whatever you do, do not pee on my comforter.”

  He winks at me before he closes the door behind him. I hear the key turn in the lock and then his fading footsteps. He’s left me in this room, handcuffed to the bed, paralyzed by terror. I’m having trouble processing reality right now. It’s a dream. I’m going to wake up and tell Lukas. We’ll laugh about it.

  I twist my wrist inside the leather handcuff. It hurts. I realize there’s metal inside the leather, making it impossible for me to wiggle free.

  My god, am I the stupidest girl ever? How did I fall for this man, an escort, so quickly? What’s wrong with me? What’s my fucking damage?

  No, he’s the one who’s damaged.

  Could he still just be messing with me? Is that possible? If so, he will not be forgiven. This is sick. Maybe it’s part of his profession. Cruel games and mind fucks, or whatever. Or maybe he’s perverted in this way. Or maybe he’s a serial killer. The fact that the last scenario seems most likely chills me to my bones. I can’t think this way. I need to start thinking about a way out.

  The money. Wait. He’s probably after the money. I won’t be getting that for a while. Could he keep me his prisoner until then? At least I’ll be alive. I’ll live longer if this is about the money and not serial killing.

  My god. What about Jules. She’s a witness to all this. Will he go after her? Has he already? Fuck. It’s only been five minutes and I’m already losing my mind. I got to keep my shit together. What if I give him the money, sign something, transfer it to him? Would that get me out of this?

  The answer floods my brain. My blood turns to ice. Nothing’s going to get me out of this. It’s already gone too far.

  Sooner or later, his plan is to kill me.

  Chapter 16

  Lukas

  The hot, brown liquid pours into the paper cup in spurts, slowly filling it to the rim. The subtle aroma hits my starving nostrils. The proximity alone to a fresh cup of coffee energizes me.

  I pour a second cup as soon as I gulp down the first. It’s not the sugary bullshit Nora orders at Starbucks but she’ll be grateful for the offer anyway.

  I’m not proud I restricted her to nothing but water yesterday, but the sooner she understands who’s in command, the easier it will be for us both.

  I turn on the surveillance camera feed to check on her before I enter the bedroom. I don’t need any fucking surprises. If she’s playing dead or if she’s crying, those are things I need to know beforehand. I will turn any stunt she pulls into an advantage. She’s a complete neophyte in my world.

  Her eyes are open but lifeless. She appears calm but her barely trembling upper lip betrays her inner turmoil. I doubt she could shut her eyes all night.

  “So innocent, so delicate,” I whisper to myself, “yet so privileged, so blind to all the damage her family causes.”

  I grab the cup and cross the carpeted hallway to the wooden staircase. I’m using the den next to the garage as a bedroom so she can’t hear me move about while I’m here. My hope is that the whole thing won’t take long. Once she gives me what I want this can end. Sooner rather than later.

  I unlock the door and push it open with my boot.

  Her body tenses almost immediately as I enter. It works to my advantage that she has no fucking clue who I am or what I want. I can see panic rising in her eyes despite her attempts to conceal it. Her mind must be racing, drowning with a thousand questions. All of this works to my benefit.

  “Is it about the money?” she blurts out, trying, but failing to mask her contempt. “What’s the number?” A ray of hope glimmers faintly in her eyes. She thinks she can think her way through this. Poor bitch.

  I laugh. “Money? No, sweetheart, but wouldn’t that be great for you?”

  Any flicker of light in her expression vanishes. I can see her hopelessly calculating options in her head. I decide to give her a little break.

  I lock the door and put the keychain in a pocket. I walk over to pull on the handcuff around her wrist. I want to make sure her blood circulation isn’t compromised but the way she recoils her body away from me makes it obvious she thinks I’m going to hurt her.

  “The faster you give me what I need, the faster you’ll get out of this room,” I say, matter-of-factly.

  This new development has her gazing straight at me. There’s a new hope forming inside the darkness. “What is it you want?”

  I unlock the cuff, gently removing her wrist from within. She immediately starts rubbing her wrist bone, never taking her eyes off me.

  “Not so fast,” I say. “First you need time to think and to understand your predicament, so when I ask you a question, you won’t even think about trying to outwit me or play dumb.”

  “One question,” she says.

  I nod. “Why not? Just one question. Easy peasy.”

  She doesn’t believe me. I never expected she would even if it’s mostly true. There’s one key question I need her to answer. There might be others, but getting the first answer is essential. The important thing is she’s finally realizing she’s my prisoner and I make the rules.

  Nora picks up the coffee cup cautiously. She brings it to her lips slowly before she begins sipping. I reach inside my pocket and retrieve a small butter croissant. I’m not even going to hand it to her because it’s been smashed into a crusty ball of greasy dough, but she snatches it away and attacks it.

  She’s a survivor. She’ll do whatever it takes. That’s good. In survival mode people do what’s necessary. She’ll give me what I want and then some.

  I should probably let her get out of her jeans and boots. They can’t be comfortable after all this time tied to the bed. I need to give her a little humanity to keep her cooperating. Intimidation and kindness together are the best negotiation technique. That’s Taking a Hostage 101.

  She’s startled when I take one of her boots in my hands. I pull it off and notice her hands begin to shake. I could have told her to do it herself but it’s better this way. Another reminder I’m the boss.

  I proceed to do the same with the second boot and she squir
ms this time, stiffening her entire leg and foot to make it harder on me.

  When the boot comes off, I grab the waistline of her jeans roughly. She freezes for a second and then grips my hand.

  “I could cuff you again,” I warn her. She hesitates before letting go.

  I find her zipper and slide it down. I do so slowly, giving her ample time to question my intentions and arrive at all kinds of dark conclusions.

  Now my favorite part, sliding the jeans down her smooth legs, watching how her skin prickles at my touch. When they’re off, I get up and stare down at her. She’s fucking lovely. I’ve been keen to this fact since day one. Big brown locks frame her small face and those honey brown eyes shaped like half-moons. Her slim legs and waist make me instantly hard. Her firm and perky tits remind me of those nipples that fit perfectly in my mouth.

  And now I begin to notice the details. Her nose is a little big for her face and there’s a wrinkle forming across her forehead already. Her light makeup from yesterday has streaked off around her eyes and cheeks giving her skin an uneven tone. Her lips are dry and parched, her hair tangled and wild.

  She might not be the prettiest girl in the world and she might not be every man’s ideal, but she’s the most heartbreakingly beautiful girl to me and that hurts. It hurts to know I’m about to break something so delicate, something so innocent and beautiful.

  Chapter 17

  Nora

  “Are you going to rape me?” My whole body simmers with rage, but there is also some lingering denial. “Is that what this is all about? Some sort of psychotic thrill you get?”

  He laughs, pleased. It would be less unnerving if he had punched me in the face. “I don't rape women, Mac. Women beg me to fuck them. And you will, too. You'll beg me to fuck you again and I won't. Not unless you are very, very convincing.”

  A chill cuts through me. He means every word.

  P-S-Y-C-H-O.

  “Now that we’ve clarified that, Mac, let’s focus on getting you into some comfier clothes.”

  I thought Mac was his odd form of endearment, his way of creating intimacy between us. I realize now he’s always meant it as a belittlement.

  He returns from the walk-in closet with a pair of athletic shorts. He puts them on me silently like I’m a child. When he’s done, he slaps my thigh. It’s more playful than rough but my skin stings anyway along with my dignity.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” I say, biting my lip until it hurts. So much humiliation, so many regrets in less than twenty-four hours.

  “Go,” he says, pointing at the arched entrance. “I’ll be right here.”

  He sits on the bed facing the bathroom where he has a perfect view.

  “There’s no door,” I protest.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like I haven’t seen you pee before.”

  He has. I had to pee in his bathroom while he was taking a shower after a sex marathon. He told me it turned him on to watch me sit on the toilet with my knees close together. I feel sick to my stomach. I’d throw up on the spot if fear hadn’t shut down all bodily functions for the time being.

  I drag myself to the bathroom, trying to calculate what angle I could sit to reveal the least to him. As I position myself carefully, Lukas moves on the bed to gain a better view. His eyes lock on me eagerly until tears well in my eyes. I won’t do it. I won’t let him see me cry.

  He licks his lips as I pull down the shorts and my panties around my ankles. He grins when he hears my pee hitting the cold marble, and then leans forward to squint when I fold the toilet paper to pat myself dry.

  I feel so hollow now and furious that I block out the terror as I walk back to the bed. He pops up to draw the blinds open. To my horror, I realize there are metal bars outside both windows. This is no longer a bedroom to me, but my personal chamber in hell.

  The clean, morning sunlight shines in from the outside world which already seems like another time and place to me. I don’t know if I will ever return to it. I don’t know if I will ever leave this room alive.

  My life seemed so full of problems, but now it seems like everything was perfect and I never found a way to appreciate it.

  I find the courage to push Lukas. “Was this the plan all along?” I shake my head. “Was it really necessary to have sex with me a hundred times? Couldn’t you just kidnap me and get on with it?”

  He leans back against the wall. His eyes sparkle with malice as he stares at my every move. “Of course it wasn’t necessary, but, honey, it was so much more fun having you follow me here happily of your own free will. Humiliating you wasn’t a necessary step to the plan but it has been a lovely bonus.”

  What a fucking nightmare of a human being. A total evil creep. I want to hurl a million curse words at him but he’s not worth it. And I’m guessing he wants me to break down. He’d get off on it.

  “The fact that you’re fuckable was a lucky break,” he goes on. “Although I’d have done the exact same thing no matter how you looked.”

  “I don’t fucking get it,” I yell, finally losing control. “You didn’t even know what I looked like before you targeted me? You just picked a random girl?”

  “That’s not what I said.” His face stiffens, all irony disappears. He’s made a mistake. He’s revealed too much.

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what you said,” I insist, trying to strike while he’s frustrated. “My appearance was a lucky break, you said. You didn’t know what I looked like.”

  “I watched you from a distance, biding my time,” he says, coming closer to the bed. “I had your phone tapped. I hacked your email account. I stole some of your mail. I got to know you pretty intimately before we ever met.”

  His words make me dizzy with terror. “Why? How? What happened to the other escort? Did you do something to him?”

  “Boy, you’re not the brightest tool in the shed, are you? I’m not a fucking escort, Mac. Never was, never will be. That was just my way of getting into your life.” He grins as he sits next to me. He takes my hand. I let him. “That puppy I brought back to that lady on the Santa Monica Pier? All staged. You seeing me getting friendly with Simone at L.A. Live? Staged. As for the real escort, those guys respond well to money. That and a certain look in my eye that explained everything to him.”

  “Yeah, your psycho look,” I say rolling my eyes.

  “Don’t be mean, Mac. You’re better than that,” he says. “He could see love in my eyes. Determination.”

  I laugh loudly. “Oh, because you know what that is—you’re fucking crazier than I thought.”

  “It’s a crazy world,” he says. “We all need to be a little crazy to survive.”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You think you’re wise.”

  He stares at me hard, but I don’t care. Fuck him.

  “I don’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth,” I say, bitterly.

  “What you believe or don’t believe is of no interest to me, Mac. It’s what you do that matters.”

  “Do all madmen talk in riddles?” I say, fighting back tears by feeding into my anger. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  “I told you what I want. An answer, Mac, one simple answer. I’ll ask the question when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready. But, fair warning, I don’t speak lunatic.”

  He takes my face in his hands. The terror races back into my bones. “No, you’re not,” he says. “I’ll know when you are.”

  He plants a kiss on my forehead. I can’t believe how many times I yearned for his kisses and how disgusting his lips feel now.

  I fight to hold my stare on his eyes as he lets go of my face. The menacing expression has faded, replaced by an almost benevolent, cheerful smile.

  Lukas Dupree is clearly insane.

  “I have something for you,” he says as he strides into the closet. He returns holding two books that he places on my lap. I stare at the books, unable to understand. They’re two old French novels, The Charterhouse of
Parma and Madame Bovary.

  “To pass the time,” he explains. “I’ll let you keep them for a couple of hours every day. I’m not heartless.”

  Every day? How long does he intend to keep me like this? What horrors does he have in store for me?

  Don’t fall for his act. Don’t believe he has a question. This is a game for him. Don’t give in to the Stockholm Syndrome.

  When he turns to go, I instinctively reach out and grab his arm. He stares at my hand clutching his forearm pensively. He’s trying to decide something. Maybe he’ll punish me for this, maybe he’ll hurt me.

  “I’d rather have some paper and a pencil,” I tell him. “You can take the books back.”

  He doesn’t get it at first. “No writing,” he says, pulling his arm away. “Writing will put ideas in your head.”

  “I don’t want to write. I’m an artist, I want to draw.”

  He considers my words. “No. You need all your time to think.”

  “Drawing helps me think,” I insist.

  “Nice try. You’re not here to do the things you want. Not another word about fucking pencils. Is that clear enough?”

  He leaves. My heart shrinks a little at the sound of the turning key. For all I know he might never come back. He might wait until I rot. Only coming back to dispose of the body.

  Yet, I still can’t believe he’s that sinister. I’ve seen the soft, caring side of this man. No, that’s not true. He even told me it was all scripted.

  Fucking Los Angeles. Actors everywhere.

  HOT PSYCHO ACTOR SERIAL KILLING SEX GODS.

  I walk about the room to stretch my legs. Lukas is not a fool. He's left me no connection to the outside world. Just two old books on the bed and no pen so I can't even keep track of the days as they pass. There’s no clock in the room, no TV set. Just this comfy bed and two chairs, my clothes in the closet, fragrant shampoo, soap and soft towels in the bathroom. It's all very well thought out. I have nothing and no one to turn to but him. Yep, this is all about him breaking me, but that’s not happening.