I shake my head no. I'll be damned if another person from this asylum is going to touch me. I'd like to tell him that, but he looks too disappointed and too distraught as he carries a chair to the side of the bed and lowers himself down with a heavy sigh.
“You could have killed yourself.”
Obviously...
I'm starting to think that would have been the best outcome. I don't want to be enslaved to that woman. I don't want to be forced onto my back by Jameson, and I don't want to 'carry the seed', as he so eloquently put it. I just want to go home, curl into a ball on my broken down sofa bed, and die. That's all I want to do.
“I'll be right back. Don't do anything stupid.”
Jameson doesn't leave the room. Instead, he trudges into the bathroom. It sounds as if he's making as much noise as possible, turning the water on full blast and opening cabinets before slamming them closed.
I know what he's doing, and the thought makes me sick. I'd rather my cuts fester and swell than have that man clean my wounds.
He returns, carrying a square bowl, the kind hospitals use for sponge baths, and I attempt to roll away from him.
“Stop. You'll only hurt yourself more.”
“So?” I snap, causing a fission of pain to cut through my side. “What do you care? I'm just here to be an incubator. No one cares if a receptacle is in pain.”
Water rushes into the bowl as Jameson wrings out the washcloth and I can feel the bed bow as he takes a seat beside me.
“Would you just let me do this,” he says when I cringe away. “You're bleeding and covered in dirt.”
“I don't care.”
“You'll care when your cuts get infected, now keep still.”
“Oh, I get it.” My voice is soft and gentle, which gives Jameson pause. “You don't want your baby mama to get sick. That could cause all sorts of problems.”
“That's not why I'm doing this.”
“Are you sure?” I turn to face him. “Because I can't think of any other reason you'd care.”
Jameson reaches out and takes hold of my arm, roughly pulling it onto his lap and scrubbing away the dirt.
“Shit! That hurts!”
“Oh, does it? I figured you were a masochist. You don't want me to clean this because it hurts, but you jumped from a second story window?”
I'm not sure how he wants me to answer that question. Actually, I'm pretty sure it's rhetorical, but I want to piss him off til he's as angry as I am.
“I had to! This won't hurt nearly as bad as giving birth to your bastard child!” He has the nerve to laugh, which fans my flames. “What's so damn funny, Jameson?”
“Bastard child,” he chuckles. “Is that the problem? Is that the biggest problem you have with us? That we don't believe in marriage? After all the other shit you've seen, the hell you've been through, that is what it comes down to?”
No. I know it's not. I'm not a firm believer in monogamy. I don't think you have to be married to raise a child together, but I do think you should be in love. That's the problem.
I never wanted to be in love and I never thought of having children. So, the idea of not being in love and bearing someone's child, of course it doesn't settle well with me. I'm not meant to be a wife, and I would probably suck at being a mother. After all, I don't have much of an example to go on, and I'll be damned if I have to take parenting advice from Joan the She-Devil.
“No. That's not the problem.”
“Then what is it?”
Reluctantly, I offer Jameson my hand. I'm too tired to fight. If I'm going to die, I don't want it to be from something slow and excruciating like a blood infection. I want it to be quick and painless.
Like jumping from a third story window.
“I don't want to be here, Jameson.”
I let go of some of my anger. Hopefully, that way, Jameson won't scrub the skin off my arm.
“There's nothing you can do about that now. You're here. You're not going anywhere.”
I'm not sure whether it's the hopelessness that causes me to turn my face to his, or the defiance I still feel in my heart, but I manage a rueful smile anyway.
“Am I not?”
He meets the challenge in my eyes with a level of his own and I know, I know, that he wants to be close to me. So close that he could possibly let his guard down. He'll give into me, lower his defenses, and let me in. And when that happens, I'll be more than happy to slip through his fingers.
Jameson finishes cleaning most of the debris from my arms and face in silence. As uncomfortable as it is, I'm glad. I don't really feel like talking about his cause or my shitty life.
“You can take a shower if you'd like.”
Thank God!
I haven't taken a shower since the night before my camping trip. I feel so itchy and disgusting that I know I wouldn't be able to sleep, no matter how drained I am.
“I don't have a change of clothes,” I say, limping my way to the bathroom.
“I'll have something for you when you get out.”
So, in other words, I'm supposed to take a shower in his bathroom and then walk out in a towel? Not a chance. I feel overexposed as it is.
“Right. Yeah, okay.”
Jameson follows me into the bathroom, and I'm suddenly very nervous. Surely he's not going to stand here and watch me get undressed!
“Shampoo and soap is on the shelf, towels are in the cabinet,” he says, pointing to each item. “Do you need help? The tub is kind of tall.”
“Uh, no, Sir. I do not need your help.”
“Tess, you're limping.”
“Yeah, limping, which means I'm still able to walk. Get out.”
Trying to hide his smile, he gives a small, unnecessary wave and exits the bathroom. Of course, the first thing I do is search for a way out. Nothing. There's no window, not even an exhaust fan. It's a plain white box with a shower on one side, a sink with cabinets on the other, and a toilet in between.
“One step up from a prison bathroom,” I grumble.
“Did you say something?” Comes Jameson's muffled voice from behind the door.
“Yeah! I said these are lovely accommodations!”
He says something else, but all I can make out is the sound of his footsteps retreating to the other side of the room.
It takes more effort than I imagined to peel my soiled clothes off my body. Although I'm positive the fall didn't break anything, the pain is still a lot to handle. I'm no stranger to pain. I have a high tolerance, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't used a variation of medications to get through anything I'd dealt with before.
My muscles try to relax as I step under the hot stream of water, but the tension just won't let up. I think it's going to be a long damn time before I'm ever able to fully relax again. Before, I was always on guard, but still able to take a breather every now and then. I'd like to think that between living on my own for so long and having to rough it as a child, that I have some kind of superpower that allows me to thrive when times get tough.
However, times are more than tough now. I've always been able to get myself out of any situation life placed before me. An absent mother? I learned all I needed to from books, television, or eavesdropping. An abusive father? I sucked it up until I was able to run away and survive on my own. Kids who tortured and bullied me in the high school cafeteria? I put them in their place once I learned how to speak my mind.
Abducted by a cult with extremist views and a band of muscled up dudes making sure no one escapes?... Yeah, I'm not quite sure how to get myself out of that one.
All these thoughts and more flip through my mind in rapid-fire succession. My peaked anxiety and worn down body are taking a toll on my mental clarity. If I can't find some peace of mind, if I can't find the courage to hunker down until I find a clear exit, I'll never be able to weasel my way out of this.
As I towel off, something occurs to me. When we're alone, Jameson is different, obviously, but there's something cryptic about the way he talks
to me. Some of the things he's said... what were they?
“I don't want you here any more than you want to be here.”
“I didn't want to do those things.”
And when I said I didn't want this family... what was his reply?
“Yeah... sometimes, neither do I.”
At first I thought it was just Jameson being snarky or rebellious, or even just humoring me. But now I can see it. The way he operates differently, the gentleness that he's hiding from everyone around him. The sadness in his eyes when he's asked to do something he knows is wrong...
Jameson doesn't want to be here.
CHAPTER TEN
I wrap the towel as tightly around my chest as possible without groaning in pain. For all I know, the fall dislocated some of my ribs. That's what it feels like. Actually, it feels like there's a tiny elf in my chest prying my ribs apart with a crowbar. I hope these people believe in pain medication, because I could really use some right now.
I let out a dejected sigh, because the only other option I have is to cry, and that's out of the question. So, I straighten my shoulders, hold the top of my towel to my chest, and crack open the door.
Jameson sees me and jumps up from the foot of the bed, bringing a folded stack of clothes with him. As he silently hands the clothes to me, I let out a laugh. It hurts like hell, but the endorphins it releases takes some of the sting out of my situation.
“What's so funny?”
“Pink?” I say, holding out the pajama pants. “Do I look like a pink kind of girl to you?”
Jameson's cheeks darken with a blush as he gives me the shyest of smiles. That smile right there suits him well. I'm pretty sure that smile could get him out of almost any crime if the judge were a woman.
“Sorry, it's all I could find. You didn't pack anything to sleep in, so I borrowed these from a girl down the hall.”
“I didn't pack... wait, do you have my bag?”
He shrugs. I have half a mind to forget about holding my towel in place and socking him in the throat.
“It was in the front seat when they brought your car. I put it in the closet.”
Hope flutters to life in my belly at the mention of my things.
“You have my car here?”
“Well, yeah,” he replies, as if I'm a complete dunce. “We couldn't just leave it there. Someone would get suspicious.”
“Do you take everyone's car? When you take them, I mean.”
“Yes.” A much simpler answer than what I was expecting.
“Oh... okay. I'm just... I'm gonna go get dressed.”
“Of course.” He leans down in an awkward bow before closing the door for me.
Dressed in the ugliest damn pajamas on the planet, I feel like I should be attending a slumber party instead of getting ready to crawl into bed with a complete stranger who may or may not intend to cause me harm. I still haven't gotten a good read on him.
I haven't worn pink since I was in grade school, and I don't like the memories that accompany the heinous color. I know it's vain, and completely ridiculous, but I'm uncomfortable.
Before I can begin towel drying my hair, I hear someone laugh. It's quiet, but I know it's a woman's voice. Throwing my hair up in a messy bun with the elastic band I always keep around my wrist, I open the door to find the two girls from breakfast lounging on the bed, chatting with Jameson.
The women give me friendly waves as I come out of the bathroom, bringing the steam with me.
“Thought you could use some company.”
Jameson obviously doesn't know a thing about me. I hate company. I hate pink. I hate girl talk. Three strikes against him already. Not that wearing pink is a huge ordeal, but really... I may burn these clothes just so I don't have to wear them again.
“Company, huh?”
“Yeah, you remember Lyla and Daphne from breakfast, right?”
“Right.” I force a tight smile that they are eager to return.
“I have to leave for a little while, didn't want you to get bored. They can help you if you need anything. You're probably in a lot of pain after your spill.”
My spill? Is Jameson trying to cover up the fact that I tried to escape? Surely it's not uncommon, and what difference is it to them? These women look like robots with their emotional meter stuck on 'eccentric'. I'm not stupid. He didn't bring them here for my sake, he has them here for his peace of mind.
“Ah, thank you for the babysitters, Jameson. How sweet of you.”
I put an extra bit of bite into saying his name. I thought by now he'd have made some kind of comment as to how often I use his name, but he hasn't. He should hate that I spit it out like a curse, but my overuse might mean something entirely different to him.
“We're not here as babysitters,” the younger woman interrupts. “We just offered. Thought it would be nice to get to know you.”
My eyes flit back to Jameson and I try to convey that I'm better off without these two nimrods. A smile stretches across his face as he slides out the door.
“Have fun!”
Right. Fun.
I turn back to the two strange women, fake smile in place, only to find the grins wiped from their faces. The masks are gone. It's just us women in this room and shit is about to get real for the first time since I was carried through the front door.
“Hello, ladies,” I say, cautious of my next move. “I'm Tess.”
I extend my hand to the older woman, Daphne, but she waves it away.
“You don't have to do that. It's just us.”
“I'm sorry, what?”
“She just means that you can relax around us. We aren't going to repeat anything you say or do,” the younger one, Lyla, says as she crosses her legs Indian style on the bed.
“Um... okay.”
“I'm sure you have a lot of questions. I doubt Jameson's told you very much,” Daphne says. Her tone is friendly as she runs a hand over her pregnant belly.
Her gesture reminds me of the talk we had earlier and of what lies ahead of me.
“Actually, he told me quite a bit. He told me... what I'm doing here.”
“I know it's kind of weird at first, but after you've been here a while, it's not that bad.”
I cannot believe the words that are coming out of this woman's mouth. Not that bad? We're being held prisoner so we can pop out 'generic' children. 'Not that bad' is definitely not the way I would choose to describe it.
I decide to humor her.
“I can see that. How far along are you?”
“Six months,” she beams, cradling her abdomen in her hands.
“And... and whose is it?” I know who she was sitting with at breakfast, but I have to make sure.
“It's Bradley's.”
“Ah, well, congratulations.”
Her smile falters as she shakes her head.
“I told you, you don't need to pretend. It's just us. If you want to cry or freak out, you're welcome to. That's what this one did,” she says, gesturing to Lyla.
“I did not!”
“Oh, please! You're first night was awful.” Daphne turns back to me. “We had to give her a sedative just to calm her down so she wouldn't hurt herself.”
That reaction seems perfectly normal to me. After all, I jumped out a window. Not a whole lot of mental clarity in that decision.
“It gets easier,” Lyla offers. “I swear it does. And you're with Jameson! He's the nicest guy here.”
Tell that to my sore cheekbone...
With the way her eyes light up, it's clear she has some kind of thing for Jameson.
“How old are you, Lyla?”
“I'll be seventeen in a few months.”
Sixteen. This girl is only sixteen and she's being forced to bunk with a tyrant who will impregnate her not out of love, but out of some clouded disillusion of duty.
“What about you? How old are you?” She asks.
This get-to-know-you-bullshit is pointless, but it's better than girl talk.
�
��Twenty-seven,” I answer.
The look of surprise they share intrigues me.
“What?”
“That's actually kind of odd. Most of the women here are younger than that,” Daphne says, her eyebrows drawn together. “They get them young so they have time to assimilate to the lifestyle.”
She looks older than me, but looks can be deceiving.
“Well, how old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
No freaking way... She looks like she could have at least five years on me.
“I know,” she says, smiling wearily. “I don't look it.”
She definitely doesn't, but I can see how being stuck here for an extended period of time could age you prematurely.
It's my turn to ask a question.
“How long have you guys been here?”
“Well, Lyla just got here a few months ago, but I've been here for years.”
Years... She's been here for years.
“How many years?”
Her eyes cloud over as she tries to figure something out in her head.
“You know, I'm not sure. I stopped counting after a while.”
If that isn't the most dismal thing I've ever heard...
“Don't worry, you'll stop counting eventually too.
Not likely, because I'm jumping ship at the first opportunity that sails my way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After an hour of the girls filling me in on everything I need to know to survive in this place, we grow quiet at the sound of the door being unlocked. Jameson enters quietly, giving half a smile to the girls.
“Ladies,” he nods as he swings the door all the way open to reveal Bobby. “Your escort for the evening.”
“Guess it's time for us to go,” Daphne says, pushing herself off the bed with one hand while holding her belly with the other. “We'll see you at breakfast.”
“Yeah, breakfast, sure.”
The girls obediently follow Bobby out the door and down the hall. Part of me wants to get up and peek my head out, just to see what rooms they're in, but I stay put. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to scope the place out later.
“Nice girls, aren't they?”
I lift one shoulder in a half-shrug.
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