Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance

by Savannah Rose

  And just as I’d turned to leave, that's when I saw Maddox's opened suitcase. The impact must have belched it open, revealing its unique and highly questionable contents. This was his special bag of personal possessions. I vaguely recalled seeing it when we were boarding the ship. Around the same time that I tried, in my drugged-out state, to tell the guys on the dock I was being kidnapped. They just smiled, and waved, and told me to have a nice voyage.

  Fuckers.

  Another creak followed by a concerning pop managed to startle me. I didn't know what the fuck that was, all I knew was that I had to get off this boat, and find a place to hide until the Coast Guard got here.

  I still didn't know if Petersen was alive. If he was, and even if he wasn’t, I wanted him nowhere near me.

  I pushed open the one, still functioning window, tossed out the survival bag, hoisted myself up, and saw Maddox move. His arm twitched, his hand went to his head, and that meant the mother fucking, sister killing, perverted piece of corporate shit was still very much alive.

  I don't know if you could call it a watershed moment, but whatever it was, there was one familiar feeling that came with the idea suddenly crossing my mind.

  It felt right.

  I unzipped the bag, and shoveled Maddox's private collection into it. There was a shaving kit, too, which I thought may come in handy. Snagging a pair of pincers from the survival pack, I crawled over to the cabinet where the GPS system flashed its S.O.S. Which, despite popular belief, does not actually stand for Save Our Ship. That's just a backronym.

  The wires cut easily.

  Smashing it was a heck of a lot harder. It took a couple of rocks and a boulder to get the job done. The more I thought about what I was planning to do, however, the more the adrenaline rushed in my veins.

  Within a couple of minutes, the Insatiable would be written off as 'lost at sea'. Sort of like Amelia Earhart. Disappeared. Vanished, without a trace.

  With any luck.

  Depending on luck wasn't something with which I was comfortable, though. There's 'faith' and then there's 'luck' and the line between them is far too fine.

  The duffel bag and I made our way down to the breakwater, well away from the bastard laying on the sand. I kept my eye out for any sort of movement, a twitch of a finger, a turn of his head, anything. He appeared to be down for the count. Not dead, but out of it enough.

  The water was freezing. My entire body recoiled as the surf crashed against my knees, my hips and finally my waist.

  Hypothermia, meet Ramona. Ramona, this is hypothermia. I know you guys will get along great. Seriously, I couldn't feel my feet. My legs were going numb. My teeth were chattering as I said; “Bon voyage,” and tossed the tracking system into the Atlantic.

  Actually, were we still in the Atlantic? No idea.

  I looked back over my shoulder. Petersen was still there, still unmoved. I could make out my footprints leading from the boat to the water, and I thought that if I could manage to stay in the surf, make my way down the shore until I was a safer distance away, he may think I went ahead and drowned myself. Since I'd just tried to kill us, it would be a logical conclusion to draw.

  It was a hell of an effort, but it would be worth it.

  I waded through the icy water, battling the force of the tide and the weight of the bag. I tried to think of happy places, warm places, and couldn't come up with a damn thing. It’s hard to shake how cold you are when you’re soaking wet and getting even wetter in ice-cold water.

  How far I actually got, I wasn't sure. I was beginning to black out, the bag was getting heavier as it took on water, and since I really did not want to wind up drowning my foolish self, I turned toward the shore.

  I could not longer see the Insatiable.

  That was good.

  Even better, I'd reached an impasse between the shore and rising cliff side of the island. There was an alcove, a perfect little niche nestled away from the elements. There was also mass of old trees, so that meant plenty of firewood close by. It was a perfect little Eden, tailor made just for me.

  And if I could pull this off, I’d have a very special guest join me.

  The first rule of survival is finding shelter. A place to hunker down. Take inventory of what is available to you, and if humanly possible, make a fire. Water, then food. In my case, I'd have to rearrange a few of those basic rules.

  Hauling the duffel bag to the alcove was a feat in itself. My adrenaline rush had long since faded, and I was crashing. Hard.

  “Hunker down,” I said. “That I can do.”

  The bag and I plopped down like two sacks of wet potatoes.

  I could have fallen asleep right then and there. Under the stars, with the cool breeze of the ocean rushing over me and the cold, wet shirt plastered to my body. A shirt which would have either kill me, or make me sick as a dog. Neither scenario would do.

  I had a job to do.

  I was on a mission.

  Death wasn't an option anymore.

  I pulled off the shirt and then the skirt, undressing myself like a regular Eve waiting for her Adam. My fingers were icicles. Shaking, blue icicles, and I could barely get them to undo the duffel bag’s thick, metal zipper. When trying to maneuver my fingers got too tough, I bore down on it with my teeth, and yanked.

  It tasted like salt. Metallic salt. It was sandy, too. I swear to God, that's what happens at the beach. Sand gets into everything.

  I spit out a mouthful, and pulled the bag open. I had to dig through Maddox's stuff, before I found the survival blanket – the kind that will heat up for a while after you crack the coil – and tore open the package.

  I broke the seal, pulled it around my bare shoulders, and felt the instant relief of fabricated warmth radiating through my skin.

  There. There, that was a lot better. The plan was to make a fire soon enough, and I wouldn't even need the benefit of waterproof matches to do so. I hadn't been awarded the top tier Survival Badge for nothing. Becca was jealous when I got that one. I had more patches on my sash than she did.

  Once, I tried to show her how sparking a fire was possible, but she'd lost interest after the first hour. I couldn't blame her. But it's amazing what you can do with dryer lint.

  I smiled, remembering the day dryer lint and I saved Dad's birthday barbeque. Becca and I were about twelve at the time and the Instant Light charcoal did anything but start the fire. Just before we were going to resign ourselves to ordering pizza, I ran to the garage and pulled a small handful from the trap of Mom's Kennworth. I rushed back to the yard, holding the lint above my head like a trophy. I stuck it in the middle of the charcoal chimney, and had Dad relight it. There was a spectacular whoooosh when the lint ignited, and coaxed the Instant Light briquettes to life.

  Tears stung at my eyes, blurring my vision and making it harder to see inside the duffel bag.

  There should have been more barbeques. More birthdays. Leslie should have had a third birthday. Becca should have celebrated our last one. I didn't like having my birthday all to myself. I hated it. After she died, I decided I wouldn't have anymore birthdays, either.

  I ruffle through the bag, and surprisingly enough the first the thing I stumble upon is a candle. After all that thinking about birthdays, it makes me chuckle. Next up is a signaling mirror. Then a whistle, and safety pins. Oh, a fishing kit! Not a bad thing to have, either. A lockable pot, paracord, and a waterproof notebook and pencil. A deck of cards, too - to help a stranded individual keep their wits about them. Boredom, believe it or not, can be fatal.

  I kept digging, taking my inventory, and knew that as I stacked Maddox's stuff to the, side, bored is the last thing I would be.

  I cocooned myself into my blanket, kept the knife very close, and allowed myself to sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SOFIA

  He was a flitty little moth, a moth without a name.

  This silly flitty little moth one night did find a flame.

  Drawn to light and fire,

/>   as moths are wont to do

  he didn't know the danger

  a moth can get in to

  When they fly too close they burn

  their wings are singed and scorched

  there are so many little moths

  dead upon my…

  upon my….

  “Porch?” I asked aloud. That's the only word I could think of that rhymed with 'scorched'. No, wait. 'Torch'. That was better.

  There are so many little moths,

  dead upon my torch.

  I smiled, and tapped the pencil against my teeth. The moth poem would be the first entry in my waterproof notebook.

  People who may visit this island later might find this notebook, and wonder what sort of creepy mind would write such a thing. So I signed it,

  Ramona Sanchez

  and closed the book.

  From the position of the sun, I'd peg it to be about four or five in the afternoon. An hour or so to sunset.

  If Maddox didn't show up by this evening, I'd have to assume the best, and that he did die from some internal injury that caused him to bleed out from the inside.

  This would ruin what I'd had in mind, but I was okay with that. I could go on either way. It would be a hell of a lot more fun if he wasn't dead, but, hey. Que sera sera.

  I spent the better part of the day setting up my camp. I fashioned together a respectable lean-to, kept myself hydrated, and ate just enough protein bar to maintain a decent blood sugar level. I would utilize the fishing kit later, as well as go on a walkabout to determine what, if any, vegetation was edible. For now, for today, I had to keep my eyes and ears peeled for a certain special someone.

  I'd also need a weapon.

  The boa knife was a great choice, but I'd have to get very very close in order to use it. Remembering what the asshole did when I'd trained the gun on him, I knew my standing there with an eight inch blade separating me from his dick-headedness was more than likely going to end in the same result.

  “Fuck that noise,” I muttered.

  I was rather disappointed in myself that I hadn't stayed on the Insatiable a little longer, tried to find a harpoon or a crossbow. Playboy yachts like her, however, tended to be equipped with little more than glorified pea shooters. I suppose because the charter services knew their clientele were little more than entitled, intoxicated snowflakes. Too much liability.

  There could have been, and probably was, a flare gun. That could do a wicked amount of damage. Do Not Point Toward Face – they usually said. I wouldn’t listen to that warning.

  Something. There had to be something I could use, or forge, to keep the pig at bay. I wrapped my hands around my knees, and rocked back and forth. Doing that seemed to help me think and kept me warm, so that was definitely a win-win.

  Maddox's shaving kit was over there, next to his fucking suitcase. Behind the closest palm tree. His razor would be another option, weapon wise, yet with the same stipulation of proximity as the knife.

  Still, there might be something. I really had nothing to lose by looking.

  I unsnapped the kit, and felt a surge of acid roll through my stomach. The razor was great, its blade honed to a lethally sharp edge, and it glinted in the mid-day sun. Quite lovely, in a dangerous way. It would definitely come in handy for scaling fish or peeling fruit. Or... I dunno, cutting flesh if I really had to…or wanted to.

  There was a light scent of vanilla, tickling my nose. I fished around and found a bottle of Creame de La Mer. Holy fucking shit. This stuff was upwards of a hundred bucks an ounce. What kind of macho butt-munch carries this kind of over-priced goop around?

  “Probably not his,” I said, shaking my head. Probably belonged to one of his conquests. One of his victims. I wondered if she was a willing participant in his romps through his forest of sadomasochism. Or if he had to drug her, too. Say, with one of the pills in this bottle of Rohypnol.

  My eyes narrowed to slits.

  And I smiled.

  I wouldn't need a knife or even a razor.

  The protein bar I'd been rationing would be my weapon of choice.

  “Who knew?” I chuckled, and stuffed three of the pills deep within the chewy, nougaty center. Maddox was a big son-of-a-bitch. I figured thrice the amount of the recommended daily allowance would do the trick.

  I pulled the wrapper back around the bar, and rubbed my hands together. I felt a bit like the evil genius in a Bond movie. I liked that feeling.

  Rustling sounds came from the trees behind me.

  I whipped around, thinking he'd seen me, knew of what I was planning, and there goes the fucking neighborhood.

  No. Just two Tropicbirds taking off from the limbs of a calabash tree. They were slender, and white, and their tail feathers exceptionally long. Like birds from a Doctor Seuss book.

  I stood up, and made my way to the tree from where they'd been watching me. I'd have to remain much more vigilant. He was not going to get me again. No way, no how, no sir. Fool me once and then twice and all that.

  Gourds grew in abundance on the calabash. They weren't edible, but could be used to make bowls or plates. Or knock somebody out.

  I took the boa knife, and sliced through the stem of the lowest hanging gourd. It was heavy, rather a pretty shade of lime green, and had hung from a branch that if honed correctly, would make a dandy spear.

  Using the serrated edge of the boa, I began to saw through the limb. The knife made short work of the effort, and as it came away from the tree and into my hand, I found myself growing more and more fond of this island and all the goodies it was providing me with thus far.

  One of the Tropicbird's tail feathers had come away from its owner, too. It would make a nice ornament for my primitive little hacienda. Make it more homey, you know?

  I took my treasures back to camp, and literally whittled the rest of the day away.

  He came to call just as the sun had gone down.

  It may have been the fire that had lured him in, or it could be attributable to dumb, stupid luck. As far as Maddox Petersen was concerned, I'd chalk it up to the latter.

  My customized branch and I were just behind the palm tree when he'd called out.

  “Hello?”

  The dumb ass. What did he think, that I'd pop out from my hiding place and chirp, “Here I am, dear! Tag, I'm it!”

  I watched him step up to the fire, the embers popping and bursting into the night sky. He said 'hello' again, then asked who was here, straightened himself up, and put his hands on his hips.

  Shit, he was a tank of a person.

  A mountain of a man.

  I wasn't a very good actress. Even though my fake cramp had thrown him for a bit of a loop yesterday, I really didn't think I had the chops to pull this sort of stunt off. It was Rebecca who had earned the Theater Badge, after all. Not me. She was so happy when Mom sewed it on her sash. The embroidered comedy mask seemed to smile back at the both of them. That was just a few days before Dad's barbeque.

  Oh, God, I missed them so much.

  And the anger and the heartbreak all churned together in a furious, emotional tornado. I could do this. I had to do this. For Becca, for Leslie. For me.

  I clutched my branch, and burst out from behind the trees.

  “You stay the fuck away from me!” I screamed, and held out my homemade spear like a crazed Berserker.

  From the look on his face, I could tell he thought I'd gone nuts, and in some respects, he was right. He told me to take it easy, reminded me that if I couldn't shoot him at point blank range, my stick and I had limited odds. Which made me even fucking angrier, and that was good. Very, very good.

  I told him to fuck himself. Ordered him to keep his hands up, where I could see them. And all the smug mother fucker did was exactly the opposite.

  Fine.

  I expected that.

  To give myself even more of an edge, I took my eyes off him for just a second. For good measure, I started trembling. Not a lot. Not like I was having a seizure or anyth
ing. Just a little shaking. Because less is more in acting, like Rebecca always said, and thinking of her, and the barbeque, and the lint, brought the tears back to my eyes.

  This seemed to satisfy him. He then proceeded to help himself to my supplies, and it took everything I had to stave off a smile. Especially when he bit into the bar I'd put out in front of the others.

  He'd said something about bullshit, and knocking it off. Sauntered past me toward my stash of water, and to make it look really, really believable, I swung the branch. Which, of course, he grabbed from me. I wasn't expecting him to break it, though. Well, that was alright. There were plenty of branches. There was plenty of edge left on the blade, too.

  I snuffled back my tears and called him a son of a bitch, then tried not to laugh as he ate the whole thing.

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

  I kept sniveling and looked at the stars hovering above. I thought about my parents, my sister, and my niece, all up there, cheering me on. I heard Maddox ask where I learned how to build a fire. So I told him, bringing my stare down from the sky, and locking it on him. He was chugging down my water.

  Did he not understand he was marooned on a deserted island with no potable liquid? Seriously? How can someone live this long being this stupid?

  “…the big bad, bad guy you know,” he spouted. So proud of himself, he was. “You know what I'm going to do. To you.”

  I shrugged. “Nowhere to run,” I replied, and noticed the first trace of a glaze in his eyes.

  “That's for true,” he said, and went on to further query why I didn't like him.

  So many reasons, I thought as he leaned his head against the tree. At this point, he was fighting to keep his eyelids open. He looked as though he was feeling a little off, but couldn't quite put his wretched finger on it.

  “What's wrong? Babe?” I asked.

  He grinned, making the cut on his cheek bleed again, and said that he was good. He also said that I shouldn't run away or he'd have to tie me up again. He was still calling me Sofia, too. I nearly giggled, and pointed out that he'd tie me up if I ran away or not. He laughed.