Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance

by Savannah Rose

  Sticking with tradition, there was nothing, no one, that ever got the better of me. In this case, however, senorita loca threatened to forever haunt me. And while that was a great romantic notion, I didn't do romance. I did power. I did control.

  “Too bad you never did her,” chided a little voice inside my head.

  I put my hands on either side of my skull. Oh, how it hurt.

  “Shut up,” I said to the voice, and kept shuffling along the shore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MADDOX

  It could have been five minutes, it could have been five hours. I was so god damn exhausted, and thirsty, and hungry, I didn't have any true sense of time.

  My sense of smell, however, was completely intact. The whiff of the campfire became more pronounced, more pungent. Closer.

  Excellent. Excellent, and of course. This was me, Maddox Petersen. Son of Johnathan Petersen III, one of the most insanely successful business moguls on this planet or any other. Success was not only expected, it was guaranteed.

  The shoreline ended here, butting up against a high, craggy cliff which was blanketed in thick moss and shrubs. The glow of the flames licked just beside the outcropping of foliage, tucked away from the elements in its own little alcove. A perfect place to camp, if you were into that sort of thing.

  My steps were quicker, despite my fatigue. I thought about what sort of people I'd find here. If they were survivalists doing a dress rehearsal for the promised end of times, a honeymooning couple, a gang of corporate assholes forced to participate in a particularly savage team-building session. The poor bastards.

  Maybe there would be luxury tents, or better yet, cabanas. Mosquito-netted beds, wine, fruits, bread, and meat. Oooh, how about steak. Steak would be great. Tri-tip, T-bone, sirloin, anything. Shit, I'd settle for a hot dog at this point.

  There wasn't any steak. No tents, cabanas, not even a sleeping bag. Nothing. Just a little fire, the tips of its flames crackling and popping into tiny orange embers, then drifting and disappearing into the sky.

  “Hello..?” I asked, even thought that was fairly stupid. That's what everybody does in the movies, right before the ax-murderer pops out of the closet and decapitates somebody. “Hello?” I asked again.

  An ember popped in sudden response, exploding into a burst of orange sparks.

  “Hey, so who's here, huh?” I said with a more authoritative tone, standing up straighter and posturing myself for whoever may be watching.

  It didn't matter who they were, how many of them there might be, my six foot plus frame was intimidating in itself.

  The ocean breeze pushed against the flames, sending a smoky haze across the air, as the waves continued their relentless assault against the shore. The smoke grew thicker – a sooty, gray gauze enveloping the air, veiling the stand of trees beside the alcove.

  Over and over again, the roar of the surf crashed into the sand, as if it were hungry for it, but would never be sated.

  Yet, for all the noise, it was eerily quiet.

  Maybe whoever the fire belonged to was taking a piss. Well, fuck 'em. It was my fire now.

  I took a step closer. And another.

  It was then that I noticed something behind the trees. A twig snapped, the frawns rustled, and she burst forward – wielding a branch like a goddamn baseball bat.

  “You stay the fuck away from me!” she screamed.

  Her eyes were wild, barbarian wild. It made me wonder if I’d actually lost my shit and miscalculated how much time I’d been out here. With her wide eyes and rabid sneer, she looked like she’d been out here for a month at least. And the way she was holding the branch... definitely practiced. At least I think it was.

  My eyes scanned her body quickly. And damn, did she look nice in my shirt. Hmmm… where did she get my shirt from?

  “Hey, easy, girl,” I said, holding out my hands in an I-Come-in-Peace gesture. The tip of that branch looked sharp as hell, honed to a potentially lethal point. “Honey, if you couldn't off me with a loaded gun at five paces, what do you think your chances are with a stick?”

  “Fuck you.”

  She was wearing the skirt I'd appropriated for her, showcasing those lovely legs spread out in a power stance, and one of my shirts. It looked sexy on her, and the way she was brandishing her homemade weapon like an island warrioress? Nice.

  “I'm not going to hurt you, alright?” I said, feeling a little like I was trying to reason with a rabid dog. “Damn, I thought you were dead, Sofee,” and started to lower my arms, slowly.

  “You should be so lucky. And keep 'em up, where I can see them,” she pointed her stick at my hands. “Shit head.”

  “I saw footprints going into the ocean. Thought they were yours. That, I dunno, you drowned yourself or some bullshit,” I said, casually stuffing my hands in my pockets, trying not to grimace as I swallowed over an increasingly dry lump in my throat.

  Her eyes darted to my pockets, then back to me as a sad realization washed over her. She absolutely knew there was no way she was going to tell me what to do, no order she could give, no request she could make.

  “What you should have done, Sofee, is waited until my back was turned, then clobber me with your branch thing.” I nodded toward her only line of defense. It was desperately pathetic, to be honest.

  The branch began to tremble. Her hands, shaking wildly. And, yes, there they were – tears welling behind her big, brown eyes.

  “Whatdya got there, Sofee?” I pointed behind her.

  Apparently, she'd salvaged some bottled water from the boat. She managed to grab a few protein bars, tool. All of it was from the ship's emergency stash which meant all of it was mine.

  I inspected the items. One of granola bars was opened, a small bite taken from it. Smart girl. Rationing the food.

  My stomach growled, and my mouth went moist. Protein bars were fucking awful, like hard tack Tootsie Rolls, but, you don’t get to be picky at moments like these.

  “Okay, let's knock off the bullshit,” I said, and started to push my way past her.

  She drew back her branch like a major leaguer in the batter's box, and swung. I caught it mid-air, and grinned at her. Just from the one side of my mouth, though. Also her fault. I wrenched the stick away, not a terribly difficult effort, and snapped it in half across my knee before tossing it into the shrubs. She tried, I'll give her that. I expected it, though. Saw it coming.

  “Whatcha got for dinner, babe?” I sashayed over to her little stockpile, took up one of the waters, and drank it down in two gulps. “Ahh,” I remarked, smacking my lips then wiping them with the back of my hand.

  Her tears were falling now. Exactly like I knew they would.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said. Or, to put more fine a point on it, she wept.

  “You've got more,” I pointed to the bottles, almost a six pack's worth, then helped myself to her protein bar. Yeah, it was awful. A dried, almost petrified Tootsie Roll.

  I chewed through it, the bitterness making it nearly unpalatable, making me wonder how often Atlantic Charter swapped out their emergency rations. Probably not often.

  “If we're going to be a couple, sweet face, you're really going to need to learn how to cook.”

  All she was capable of was crying. Poor little thing. Looking up to the starry, starry night, most likely asking God why He would do such a thing to her. She forgot that as forgiving as God was, he still had a lot of good people to help before he got to almost murderers and their issues.

  There could be worse things for Sofia, most definitely. For instance, with me here, she'd be protected. From what, I didn't exactly know, but every woman wants a big strong man to keep her from harm, to be her hero. I'd be her hero, alright, just in an anti sort of way.

  “Y'know what, Sofee? I think this may be fun,” I said, and took a seat at the base of a palm tree.

  I was tired as shit, and sitting down was alleviating. I helped myself to another bottle of water, and choked down another bite o
f the bar. This shit was gross. I may as well have been chewing a shoe.

  “You'd think for the prices those assholes charge, they'd stock better stuff.”

  I crumpled the wrapper, and threw it into the fire. The flames crackled, embers drifting up into the inky black night, the cellophane curling in on itself. Which, for some reason, was fascinating.

  “I'm impressed, chica. You know how to make fire. Where'd you learn how?”

  Sofia didn't say a word. At first. She was staring at me, snuffling back her tears, and man oh man, the glow of the fire made her look ten times prettier. There's something about the light of a fire that paints a face in the perfect picture of seduction. In the most beautiful ambers, and the most magnificent golds.

  “Girl Scouts,” she replied.

  “Hah! No shit? Thought they just showed you how to sew, and knit and stupid crap like that.”

  Her big brown eyes narrowed. She hated me so much, and now, now, I'd finally be able to find out why. The interrogation process would be great, I reckoned.

  I took another big swig of water. I'd prefer it to be colder. At least it was wet.

  “So, Sofee...” I began, twirling the half-empty bottle, watching the water swirl inside it. A tiny little vortex, in my hand, the light of the fire reflecting in the liquid, creating a reddish yellow whirlpool. It was beautiful. “I'm sort of confused, babe. Shouldn't you be running away? I mean, I'm the bad guy. The big bad bad guy, and you know… you know what I'm gonna do. To you.”

  She shrugged. “Nowhere to run.”

  “Mmm. That's for true. But, seriously, why don't you like me?”

  My head leaned against the trunk of the palm tree. My eyelids felt heavy.

  I wasn't the most outdoorsy guy in the world, but I really should be able to keep it together better than this. I sat up, and the fire kept glowing in my bottle. Because we were on an island.

  “What's wrong? Babe?” she asked.

  “I'm good,” I smiled. It didn't hurt to smile this time. “Don't run away, Sofia. I'll have to tie you up if you do.”

  “You'd do that anyway.”

  I chuckled and tried to nod in agreement, but it felt like if I nodded my head, it might roll off my neck. It felt heavy. And big. Probably all the trauma I'd been through. Hit my noggin a lot lately. Today. Yesterday, too? And, god, I was so effing tired.

  I looked across the fire at the lovely Sofia.

  She was smiling, too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SOFIA

  Up until very recently, I was always the good girl. Did all the right things, ruffled no feathers, kept to the appropriate path and stayed on the straight and narrow.

  Each time I did that – made the proper choices, acted on the principles and pointed my moral compass due north, life slapped me sideways.

  I never cheated on tests. I never changed lanes without using my turn signal. I donated to all the right charities and relief efforts. I didn't need nor want big houses or cars, spa treatments and a billion dollar wardrobe. I wanted to pay it forward. I wanted to do that fantastical, magical, right thing.

  If I were to ever strike it really rich, I had my sights set on establishing a non-profit – a combination Make A Wish Foundation with the ASPCA. The idea being that homeless, abandoned animals would help to ease the hells that kids and their families go through when wracked by terminal disease. In turn, the animals' chance at a forever home was ten fold. Win-win.

  My little niece died before she ever had the opportunity to pet a puppy, or hold a kitten. Rebecca soon followed her daughter to the great beyond, while leaving me alone with a staggering mountain of medical bills, a foreclosed house, and holding the reins of a dead company.

  It was Maddox who'd pulled the rug out from under my life, and he didn't even care. He wasn't even a person. He was just a corporate symbol. And when the darkness clouded my mind completely, the only fair and just choice left to be made was to make sure he'd never hurt anybody again. Murder was suddenly very, very attractive.

  When the thought first hit me, I practically rejoiced. It was exciting, a rush of blatant eagerness. Thinking of him dead made me feel alive for the first time in months.

  In essence, it felt right.

  I spent weeks marinating on it, concerning myself more with the whys than the hows. It was more than bizarre, asking God for a helping hand as I contemplated taking a life. This was where being raised a Catholic got super complicated.

  My parents had raised us in a casually religious atmosphere. No Bible thumping or hellfire repentance or anything like that. We were more of the Christmas Catholic variety, taught to respect the church, take a confession once in a while, and try not to be a jerk.

  After Leslie's death, and subsequently Rebecca's, all I wanted to do was follow them.

  Suicide was a one-way ticket to hell, according to the good book. I disagreed. Part of me admired Rebecca for taking that route – it was the ultimate act of faith. She felt she had no choice. Her life was over, so why continue walking about the planet when you're dead? Seemed a waste. And even though your father warned you not to do it, (the holy guy up in the cosmos, allegedly) you did it anyway and by golly, he should still love you, right? And it wasn't a Big Ten commandment or anything.

  I didn't have the guts. I was the ultimate coward. I loved my sister, she was my hero, and when she was gone I didn't have the balls enough to follow her lead. I couldn't bring myself to kill myself, but what I could do is go one better.

  Thou Shalt Not Kill was rated five out of ten demerits in the handy dandy notebook of the cosmos. The supreme being's guide to the galaxy forbids murder, not suicide, and when I imagined breaking one of the Big Ten and doing the world a favor in doing so… a light when off in my head. Everything changed. The allure of breaking bad was seductive. And so I went with it.

  The plan I concocted could have used some fine tuning, to be sure, but hindsight is twenty twenty. Should circumstances not work out the way they had, I may not have been given the opportunity that lay before me – currently passed out against a palm tree.

  Maybe this is what the fates had in mind. Everything happens for a reason. We make our own luck. We're responsible for our own happiness. Our destinies are laid by our own hands. And my personal favorite, there are so many things worse than death.

  I could not agree more.

  As expected, Maddox Don't-Call-Me-Maddy Petersen came sauntering into my camp like he owned the fucking place. Drawn to my fire as an asshole moth to a flame, threatening me, toying with me, taking my food, my water…

  All according to plan.

  Right before the bow of the Insatiable collided with the beach, someone pushed me. There was no other way to describe it, although what I was describing was in essence, impossible.

  Two firm points of pressure on my back, a shove, and down I went. I'd like to think it was Rebecca. We'd had our fair share of sibling scuffles growing up, so believing it was her spirit that shoved me underneath the console stood to ridiculous reason. I hit not wood, but life jackets. About a half dozen of them, stored below the dashboard. I was essentially engulfed in pillows upon impact.

  The collision was surreal. A flying sensation. Soaring and silent, gravity suspended for just a moment, then, wham. And absolute nothingness. There's a reason it's called a dead stop.

  I was disoriented but conscious, and as I crawled out from beneath the console, I found I had sustained little to no damage. Not even my bum knee was complaining. Everything was in working order, all teeth in place, no cuts, bruises. I had gotten lucky. Really, really, lucky. Which is a lot when compared to the luck I’d been having only a couple minutes prior.

  The same couldn't be said for Maddox. He'd been thrown from the stern, and had landed a few yards down from the wreckage. A heap of evil, right there on the beach, the ebbing tide lapping at his feet.

  I watched him for a little while and didn’t see him move. Not even once. I’d thought that maybe he was dead and maybe my work here
was done. Ofcourse, that was too easy for the likes of him. Too simple. There wasn't any time to dwell on it, however, as the way the Insatiable was creaking told me I'd have to abandon ship post haste.

  But not before I'd retrieved a few essentials.

  With one eye on him, both ears on the boat's groaning, I had dug the Insatiable's survival kit out from beneath the pile of life jackets. Inside the duffel, all the essentials; waterproof matches, emergency blankets, a Life Straw, some protein bars, and a few packs of chocolate.

  “Good thinking, Miss Insatiable,” I’d said, as I shouldered the bag.

  I gingerly made my way through the upturned cabin, passing by the master quarters. Inside, I found a few more items I couldn't live without. Clothes, for one thing. I hated to put on one of his god damn shirts, but there was no way I was going to go about this naked.

  I’d glanced out the window, to where Maddox lay, wondering whether or not he had moved. Being as dark as it was, it was hard to tell, but it looked like maybe he had. It could have been the surf pushing against his legs, but there was no way to know for certain.

  The emergency lights began to flicker, illuminating the cabin in a sad, dying strobe. What a disaster area. I couldn’t believe I’d lived through this. Everything was upended, everything broken, all the cabinet doors hanging open like gaping wooden mouths. Inside the one above the headboard, I saw the little red light of the GPS and tracking system. It was flashing, sending out our distress signal. Alerting the authorities of our exact location.

  Putting the Black Box of the seafaring world in the master's quarters was weird, but then again, I once had a VW Golf with a chronic case of breaking down, and whose water pump was mounted in the rear axle casing. Pretty much a car's length away from the engine. No one could figure out the lack of logic behind that design, and considering most of these playboy ocean missiles are manufactured in Europe, I chalked it up to engineering that an American simply isn't wired to understand.