Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance

by Savannah Rose

  Another strike. Thunder right on top of it. The wind was howling, the rain pelting me like little BBs against my bare skin, and the cuffs pinched my skin as I struggled against them.

  “Becca.”

  I stopped moving. It was hard to hear her against the wind. “W-what?”

  “My sister,” she said, and it looked like it hurt to say it. She blinked back what I thought were tears, and swallowed, then spoke through her teeth again. “You killed her daughter, and then you killed her.”

  There was nothing. Nothing in my memory. I didn't remember a daughter, or someone named Becca.

  I shook my head vehemently. “You've made a mistake. You have me confused with someone else, Ramona. Someone else, maybe, who looks like me, alright? I–”

  Thunder roared, cutting off my lame excuses. Rain assaulted the pond, the banks, the canopied trees in silver sheets.

  Lightning cracked, twice, getting closer to where me and my metal cuffs were hanging like a desperate target.

  “I wish I could tell you different, Ramona. I do. I swear to God I do, but please,” I tried shoving the cuffs toward the front of the branch, where I could at least drop to the water, run for the shore and maybe bury my hands in the sand. Hide myself from the lightning. But I was still stuck. Still snagged. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run to.

  Ramona, on the other hand, had things to do and places to be. She gathered herself together, and began to leave.

  “Sof– Ramona! Ramona, come on!”

  She twisted her hair into a makeshift ponytail as she made her way toward the brush. Her long, beautiful locks were like a rope, a rope she held in front of her, as she turned to look at me for the last time.

  “Ramona, please. I'm sorry for your sister, I'm sorry for her daughter, but it wasn't me. I didn't kill anyone, I–”

  She disappeared into the flora. Leaving me to my own devices, of which I had none.

  “You can't do this! Ramona!”

  Nothing. Nothing but Mother Nature reminding me exactly how insignificant a being I was. To prove her point, she threw down another bolt. Jesus Christ, it was blinding. The closest one yet.

  Not long now, bro. Not much time at all 'til Mom and Pop aren't disappointed anymore.

  I jerked down on the chains, pulled as hard as I possibly could, thinking that my adrenaline would fire off enough to change me into Superman or something, and I'd break the links.

  I yanked, and tugged, and felt my flesh pinching up against the manacles. They had become bear traps, and were going to chew through my wrists if I kept going.

  I eased off, breathing heavy against my arm, and tasted my own blood. It was running down my bicep, turning pink as it mixed with the rain water. It was warm, too. Pink and warm. I was almost glad I couldn't see my wrists. I didn't want to know what I'd sliced them into.

  The last crack was by far the loudest. Right over my head. It didn't sound like lightning. It was more like an explosion. Like that of a grenade. Light detonated just above me, and I plunged face first in the water. Not deep here, but very dark. And somehow, somehow, the branch missed me when the lightning severed it in half.

  I was able to stand. My knees were weak, and shaking, barely able to hold my weight, but as far as I was able to tell, I wasn't dead. Not yet.

  I didn't want this turning into one of those out of the frying pan into the fire scenarios. I fought against the water, wading my way to the shore, the bottom rocks cutting into my feet as I trudged to the sand. Gripping the surrounding boulders, I sucked in a lungful of air as I hauled my sorry ass out of the pond.

  The rain had turned the shore to mud. Hard to walk on, but easy to bury my cuffed hands. I started digging like a dog, the shredded skin on my wrists stinging and protesting as I shoved my forearms deep within the sand. As I pushed them in as deep as they would go, it occurred to me that while the water may have been fresh, the ground was rich with salt.

  I clenched my jaw, heard the crunch of my tongue when I bit into it. That hurt like a bitch, but no comparison to the burning of my wrists.

  I believe this is what was known as a hot fucking mess. Naked as a god damn jay bird, the pelting rain beating hard and fast against my exposed ass, the lower part of my arms feeling as if they were on fire, wet fire if that was at all possible, and a trickle of blood oozing from my mouth.

  Thanks a lot, Ramona Sanchez. You and your dead sister named Becca, the one with the dead daughter. What, that makes her your niece? I regret to hear of their passing, but we must continue to live in the moment, with an eye on the future.

  That last part. About eyes on the future. Living in the moment, eyes on the future. That was a great tag line, I remembered, about a thousand years ago when I used to wear Italian three piece suits and eat Sushi at board meetings. Not now – not this moment – face down in the sand, chained like an escaped slave from a cargo ship with my bare ass pointed to the heavens.

  Take a gander at this, God. Josh. Becca, whoever you are.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  MADDOX

  Deep in the twilight hours, time did something strange. It stopped meaning anything. For someone like me – whose every moment was scheduled, dictated, and accounted for – this was a completely alien concept. Yet, everything had become alien, hadn't it?

  I must have fallen asleep. Or passed out. Apples to apples, really.

  When I moved, I was chagrined to discover everything hurt. My head throbbed. My joints were stiff, and my skin was raw from spending the evening in sand. Also, my hands were missing.

  A terrified gasp escaped me. I pulled what looked like stumps from the muddy sand.

  I started breathing again when my wrists emerged. All ten fingers. A short lived relief, however, when I saw what the cuffs had done to my flesh. They were cut like a side of brisket. And swollen. Black and blue with bruises. Purple, too.

  “Oh, what the fuck...” I said, and started stretching my fingers, making fists, and stretching them again. At least they worked. They felt as though they were stricken with a mammoth case of arthritis, but they could function. Thank God for small favors, right?

  A night bird chirped from the top of the tree where I'd been locked, as if it were agreeing with me. The branch where I'd hung stuck halfway out of the water, splintered in half. I could only conclude that the lightning had missed me by that much. God must have missed.

  “Not that great a shot, huh?” I chuckled, then shut myself up.

  I was not a religious man. I wasn't even spiritual. No time for that shit.

  Other than luck, I couldn't come up with a rational reason why I wasn't a fricasseed carcass floating in the water. But, really, why take unnecessary chances? I was in enough fucking trouble. I didn't need to piss off some unknown force that may or may not have been responsible for sparing my life.

  Such as it was.

  I pulled myself up to my knees, feeling about ninety years old as opposed to my virile, thirty something self, and looked to the night sky. All those stars. Clusters of them, dots of diamonds peeking through the canopy. Shining, shimmering on the pond water. They were quite pretty, actually, if you were in to that crap.

  I thought of tossing a little stone into the water, disrupting the calm surface and jeweled reflection, but there were no little stones. Just sand. And my arms hurt like a mother fucker. So fuck stones.

  I held my hands in front of me, trying to assess the extent of the injuries. Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess. My wrists were swelling, like what happens when a ring is too small for a finger. I'd really done a number on myself. With Sofia's help.

  Or, should I say, Ramona.

  Ramona Sanchez, who claimed I killed her sister, and her niece.

  What the fuck, girl? And more importantly, what do I do now?

  I had no god damn idea. Other than ordering venison at the Huntsman's Lodge once upon a time, nature and I were on opposite sides of the map.

  A map. Surely this island was on a chartered water way. There was nothing man did
n't know of, couldn't label, or define. Certainly there would be other boats, or planes, even helicopters flying past. They'd see the wreckage of the Insatiable, and come to investigate.

  That's exactly where I'd be when they did – at the site of the wreck. All I had to do was find my way back to the shore – how hard could it be – and wait beside the boat. The Insatiable was a worthless shell of its former, grand self, but it was a semblance of civilization. I wanted to curl up next to it, tell it I loved it, and wait for rescue.

  At the time, it was a great plan. A fucking fantastic plan, if I did say so myself, and exactly what I was going to do.

  My fucking fantastic plan began falling apart approximately five seconds after I implemented it.

  The soles of my feet were sore. Tender, having been forced to trudge across the terrain on the way to this fine oasis, then across the rocks and stones on the pond floor. My feet were used to Himalayan salt baths and pedicures. I used water shoes in my swimming pool, for Christ's sake. We weren't prepared for this.

  I tried to ignore it, which was impossible. But I ignored it, anyway. I thought of brandy snifters and cigars. The things I'd have once the cavalry arrived. As branches and fawns slapped at my face, snagged at my skin, I put my mind on my bed. My comfortable, wonderful bed. The one in my room, back home. The one at the office, too, where I'd mistakenly had Miss Sanchez...

  “No. Don't think of her,” I said, my voice coming from somewhere else. “Don't think of that, because you're looking toward the future. Not the past. You're–”

  It felt like a stone lodged in the back of my throat. I was thirsty again. So I had to think my thoughts, to myself, and attempt to conserve what energy I had left.

  You're in the moment with an eye on the future, Maddox, my boy. Granted, this moment totally sucks, so keep your eye on the future.

  I couldn't walk anymore. I just couldn't. It hurt too much. Rather than trying or pushing through the pain, I started to crawl. Sadly, that turned out to be a non-option. The cuffs wouldn't allow it. They gave me just a little over a foot of maneuverability. So I'd inch-worm my way along. That's what I'd do. Inch along, pay no attention to the burning, swelling of my wrists. Which was getting worse, by the way. The more pressure I put on my forearms, the more they protested. My body was betraying me and there was sand in my ass. Sandpaper, between my cheeks against my groin.

  I hate this, I seethed, unable to maintain my weight on my forearms. I went down on my belly, like… like a soldier crawling beneath barbed wire. The barbed wire, however, was underneath me, unavoidable. The twigs, the gravel, the fucking sand… does it ever goddamn stop?

  My muscles were giving out. They shouldn't be giving out, though. I was in tip top shape. I paid a team of personal trainers a shit load of money to make sure that I was. I had the best equipment money could buy. I was a ripped, sculpted, a beautiful Adonis, and I didn't want to continue to live in the moment with an eye on the future.

  Why does that keep going through my head? Because it was a damn good tag line, that's why.

  The only parts of my physique that weren't on fire were my elbows. The more I pulled myself along, the more they didn't like it. Just to prove their point, they gave out on me. Somewhere between a stand of palm trees and a cluster of brush, I collapsed.

  My hands were numb. The circulation was cut off.

  You know what your future is, Maddy boy? Amputation. That is, if you don't die right here and now…or in five minutes. Given the choice, where would you say your future lies? Heaven or hell?

  I wasn't sure how to answer myself. But as it turned out, I wouldn't need to. The smell of smoke invaded my nose. Drifting across the air, it was pungent and strong. Sickeningly sweet, too.

  So the answer was Hell. There was no doubt in my mind that that's where I was going, and I was fine with that. Just fine.

  That's not Hell. That's Ramona's campfire. She's sitting before it, warm and safe, roasting marshmallows. No, weenies. She'd roast weenies. In fact, she has your dick on a stick, and she's cooking it over the flames. She's smiling, too. Demure and proud of herself, as she should be. Her deep brown eyes are twinkling, bright. Just like she looked when she handed you the proposal that had that great tag line inside.

  My head snapped up. I spit sand from my mouth. I wanted to wipe the gritty rope of saliva away, but the numbness in my hands had traveled up my arms, wrapped around my elbows and toward my shoulders.

  Ramona had slid a properly bound proposal across the mahogany table, and the embossed cover had the initials RNR. No, wait. Those weren't initials. Ramona Sofia Sanchez would be RSS… not RNR. The R's stood for Ramona, and Rebecca. The N was just a cute, clever way to join the two.

  They were… twins. They owned RNR Limited, which would go belly up after they became too much of a liability. I was the one who told Martin that we needed to sever the ties. And there was a quick press conference, on TV. Yeah, there was. A reporter asked me what I thought of the second R's death, and by then I didn't really remember or care, so I shook my head and used Ramona's great tag line. Then our stock rose.

  I pushed my body forward, my aching feet not wanting me to. I was bulldozing my way across the sand, the ever-lovin' effing sand, creating a burn in front of my face like some retarded sea turtle.

  If I could make it to the fire, to Ramona, I could tell her that I remembered. That I knew. That I was an asshole and that I understood now. I could tell her that I was sorry.

  I closed my eyes, only momentarily, but so many memories played out in quick succession. Martin had showed me the article, a little column tucked away in some unimportant section of the Wall Street Journal, attributing Rebecca Sanchez's suicide to her husband's desertion, and their sick baby succumbing to cancer. And I brushed it aside. I brushed it aside, like a fuck, and didn't even sign the sympathy card Phyllis had purchased for the surviving sister. Martin signed it, though. I remember that.

  My personal sand dune was growing. I couldn't push my way through it anymore. I dug my heels in, and shoved.

  The smoke smell was getting stronger now and the sand dune wouldn't budge.

  You know what's wrong, Maddy? You're a puss. Maybe you're concussed, sure. And to be fair, dehydrated. Starving. You can't feel your arms anymore. That god damn cut on your face has never stopped hurting, and everything feels like it's on fire. That's what you have, huh? A fever. But you never get sick. You know what you have, Maddy? A fatal case of blue balls… that's what will end up killing you. You lived by the dick and you’ll die by it, too, Maddy.

  “...what a way to go,” I said, my face planted firmly in the sand, salty granules wedging between my teeth.

  My brain felt as though it was a mushy sponge, absorbing all the cranial fluids my skull had to offer. It would explode soon.

  The pillar of smoke blew toward me, little orange embers popping and flying upward into the black, cloudless sky. Ash swirled, joining the embers, and lofted to where I lay. They made my eyes water. Badly.

  I wanted to wipe the tears away, but I may as well have been paralyzed. Or chained to a tree. Useless from the waist up, that was me.

  I blinked, but I still couldn't get the sting of ash out of my eyes. Nor could I see Ramona. I wanted to see her. I had to see her. There was a strange, indefinable something deep within me that told me I needed to see her. I wanted to say I was sorry, and I wanted her to know that I meant it.

  I'd never apologized to anyone, for anything. Not even my mother. Not even when she found me banging the funeral home's assistant director at Josh's wake. Who does that, Maddox? Nobody does that. But you did, and now look at you.

  I'd rather not look at me.

  I rolled onto my back, and tried to look, instead, at the stars. But there was so much sand, so much smoke in my eyes, all I could do was close them. It hurt to close them, but keeping them open hurt more. I listened to the roll, crash, roll of the waves. Most people liked that sound. Found it soothing in its repetition. Some would say it coaxes them to
sleep. One of Mother Nature's lullabies, if you will.

  For me, there was nothing comforting. I didn't know what it was like to die, but by god, how I felt right now came very, very close.

  Then, there was a compression against my chest. Good fucking grief, now what. Everything hurt, I just wanted it to stop hurting, and now to top off all my god damn misery, now there was something on me. An animal..? A hairless animal… what in the shit was it?

  I wanted to push it away, but I could not. No hands, no arms, no way. I forced my eyes to open – could barely see the figure poised above me. It was pointing something at me… but everything was so blurry… my head pounded, my throat was too dry to speak, and I heard something go 'click'.

  The hairless animal pushed against my chest, then was gone. It must have jumped away, scared of that clicking noise, and I wondered what it was. A rabbit? No, rabbits have fur. Maybe a lizard? Islands have lizards. No, it was a rabbit. It had to be. A bald rabbit. I'm a bald rabbit, too. Are there rabbits on islands...?

  “You don't give up, do you?”

  My head rolled to the side. I saw the bald rabbit, right next to me. It looked more like a foot, though. A feminine, human foot. It had pretty, brown toes, and I felt the sides of my mouth curl up, my lips cracking and stinging as they did. Must be chapped.

  “What the fuck are you smiling for?” Ramona asked, impatient. “You're a serious god damn lunatic, you know that?”

  “...takes one...” I swallowed. Even words felt like they weighed a ton. “...to know one.”

  “Oh, real funny, asshole,” she said, and lowered whatever it was she had pointed at me. I thought it may have been her flare gun, but it hurt to keep looking at it. It hurt to keep looking at her. I shut my eyes, wondering when my brain would stop swirling around my skull. “Always figured you for a quitter, Maddy,” she went on, her voice sounded like it was coming through a tin can. “If it's not handed to you, you're not going to reach for it. What gives with this, huh? You crawl your ass all the way over here, and for what?”