Loving the Cult

by Nicole Tillman

  “Mind your place, woman. Next time you talk out of turn, I'll make sure you never talk again.”

  Bradley's hand makes its way up to my throat, tightening just enough to reinforce his threat.

  A woman in the crowd gasps, as if on the verge of screaming 'no', and I realize that Daphne's in the crowd, watching her wild partner berate me.

  Bradley can feel my fear. I know this because it's pounding through the vein in my neck, pressed directly under his middle finger. By the spark in his eyes, I can tell he's the kind of man that would get off on something like that. Seeing a woman's discomfort brings him pleasure. Well, he's in the right fuckin' place.

  “I...” I try to talk around his constrictive hand, but I can barely swallow. I want to say something snarky, I want to spit in his face, but I look down at Jameson in time to see him silently begging me to back down, begging me with his eyes.

  “I'm sorry.”

  Immediately, Bradley releases me. His hold wasn't enough to cut off my oxygen, but I still fall into a coughing fit.

  “Get her out of here,” Omar instructs. “She doesn't need to be here.”

  “No.”

  All four of us look to Jameson in surprise, as does the crowd waiting outside the door.

  Jameson is dragging us into dangerous territory. There are very few reasons why he would want me to stay and none of those reasons are accepted by these people. We're not supposed to care for each other. We're not even expected to like each other. He controls me, I obey him. That's the relationship.

  But the way he's looking at me right now, begging me with his eyes, it's not good. He's in pain and not thinking clearly. Although my heart wants to swoon, my brain is screaming at him to shut up or pass out.

  I express all this as best as I can with only my eyes, hoping Jameson will pick up on it, but he doesn't. Pain clouds his features and he turns away from me, closing his eyes with a wince.

  “She stays.”

  Omar nods, Bradley makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, and Bobby looks genuinely worried. Three subtle reactions, but the impressions I had constructed in my mind about the men are reinforced.

  Watching Bobby flick his eyes back and forth between me and the man on the table, I see the same softness I've seen so many times from Jameson in the privacy of our room. His years here haven't hardened him.

  The look triggers a recent memory. Lyla. Anytime she speaks of Bobby there's a quiet fondness in her voice. And the way Bobby looks at Lyla, like he's working overtime to keep a smile from forming on his lips, it's so close to the way Jameson and I have been the last couple days.

  Bobby's in on this...

  Slowly and quietly, I make my way over to Bobby's side of the table and lower myself into the chair he's not using. He scoots up a foot or so and I reach forward and take Jameson's hand.

  Rules be damned, I place a kiss to his white knuckles and he lets go of the breath he's been holding. As stupid as it is, as much trouble as it could start, I bring his hand to my chest and rest it over my heart.

  If he's going to behave recklessly, so am I. If he's going to be punished for having 'inappropriate feelings', so am I. If he's going down for breaking the rules, then I'm going down with him.

  “I'm not going anywhere.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The crowd disperses once Jameson's painkillers take effect. He's not giving quite a show now, so the gawkers have left the hallway.

  I watch in awe as Omar cuts the arrow with what looks like a pair of bolt cutters. Jameson's shallow breathing and lack of color worry me, but everyone seems to trust the makeshift doctor's every move.

  After sliding the arrow out, Omar begins sewing up the small gash in Jameson's side. I've never thought of myself as a squeamish person, but if I go the rest of my life without seeing blood, I'll die a happy woman. The smell is making my stomach roll and I'm not sure I'll get through this night without throwing up.

  While Omar and Bradley are engaged in deep conversation, Bobby turns to me with a lifeless smile. “You're looking a little green around the gills.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “A little bit, yeah. I took you for a hardass.”

  “Yeah,” I nod. “Me too. Guess we were both wrong.”

  He laughs, eying Bradley and Omar to make sure they're not listening. “Nah. I think we're all just immune to these things from being here so long.”

  “This happens often?”

  “This? No. But we have our fair share of skirmishes. Ever so often, a man goes a little overboard...”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. I don't want to know what kind of injuries these men have inflicted on their women. I'm already fighting an urge to run out of the room screaming, I don't need another incentive.

  “Think you can manage getting him upstairs?” Omar asks as he bandages the wound.

  The twins nod, but I want to protest. I want to say that they can't move him, that he needs to stay here and rest, but I clamp my lips shut. I don't need to give Bradley another reason to put me in my place. Aside from Bobby, I'm the only person here to fight for Jameson, to ensure they do things right by him, since he passed out half an hour ago.

  His soft and even breathing reminds me that I was torn from a nightmare featuring a certain fearless leader...

  “Where's Joan?”

  Jameson is her son after all, yet she's nowhere to be found.

  Bradley and the good doctor ignore my question, so I look to Bobby again.

  He doesn't answer. He just shakes his head.

  Fine. Don't answer me, jackass...

  When the men finally get him upstairs, I find Joan waiting for us. Leaning against our open door, arms crossed over her chest, she looks annoyed. I don't know what she has to be annoyed about, her son's the one who just had to be sewn up.

  Joan quickly ushers the men out the door as soon as Jameson is rested carefully on top of the covers. I can hear her thanking Omar and telling the twins to return to their rooms. Her voice is cold, which is no surprise, but I expected a sliver of concern to slip past her hard exterior. I guess that was a little too much to hope for. She really is as inhuman as she seems.

  Choosing to ignore her indifference, as well as how uncomfortable her presence makes me, I kneel by the bed, taking Jameson's hand again. I don't care what she thinks of the gesture, I just need to be near him, need to touch him.

  I can feel the moment Joan turns her attention to me. Her gaze is so hot it feels as if a hundred different insects are trying to burrow their way into the back of my skull. Instead of ducking my head in submission, like she expects me to, I pull my shoulders back, drilling confidence into my posture.

  “You'll be taking care of him,” she commands. “The only time you are to leave this room is to get his meals. Straight to the kitchen and straight back. Whatever he asks of you, you'll do. No questions asked.”

  She can't see my face, so she doesn't see me roll my eyes. I don't know what she did to earn her place in this hierarchy, and I'm sure I don't want to know, but I'm getting real tired of being talked down for being a woman... by a woman.

  “Of course,” I say sweetly.

  “I'll have one of the girls come by to get his laundry.” Her voice is quieter, and I look back to see she's already halfway out the door. She looks over her shoulder once more before turning down the hall. “And don't do anything stupid, Tess.”

  I guess that's the only bit of compassion Jameson's going to get from his mother- a warning to his caregiver.

  Ugh, caregiver...

  I haven't had to tend to a wound since the day I left my father's house, especially a wound of this magnitude. I'm not entirely sure I'm up for the challenge, but Jameson needs me and I need Jameson. I can only hope he doesn't get some freaky infection and die on me.

  I can't go back to sleep since the sun is beginning to rise, but my back is aching from leaning over that damn exam table for way too long. As much as I would like to slide in next to J
ameson, I know that's a horrible idea. One wrong move and his stitches could rip.

  So, I find a stack of extra blankets in the closet and make a pallet on the floor beside the bed. I'll be able to sleep soundly, but be close enough that if Jameson should wake up, I'll hear him.

  Stretching out under a flannel sheet, I let my limbs go slack. The tension oozes out of me as I give in to the the fuzziness skirting my thoughts. Letting it take over, I begin to fall, taking comfort in the deep breathing coming from the bed above my head.

  Everything's going to be fine...

  We can still do this...

  I can keep Jameson safe...

  And he'll do the same for me...

  Just as I've let go of the terrors of the day, just as the sandman is about to pull me under, a groan snaps me back.

  “Tess?”

  Emitting a groan of my own, I raise my hand to the bed, tapping him on the shoulder to let him know where I am.

  “What are you doing down there?”

  “Sleeping, sorta. What's wrong?”

  He doesn't reply right away and I wonder if he's fallen back asleep.

  “Other than the gaping hole in my side?”

  It's not funny. It's so far from funny that I can't contain my laughter. Erupting into a fit of giggles, I have to roll onto my belly to mash my face into the pillow. Jameson chuckles softly and that spurs me on. I know I'm slap-happy from lack of sleep, because this isn't something I would normally laugh at, but the fact that Jameson is laughing with me is hysterical to my sleep-deprived brain.

  “I'm glad you think it's funny that I got shot.”

  “I don't!” I say, trying to quiet my giggles. “I'm sorry, I swear it's not funny. It's just how you said it!”

  “Yeah, ha ha, Jameson got used for target practice, let's all laugh at him.” He's trying to be serious, but the smile in his voice betrays him.

  “Hey, I said I was sorry,” I say, still softly giggling. “I don't mean to take pleasure in your discomfort or anything, but it was kind of random. I didn't expect to find you lying on Omar's table because someone went Indian Warrior on your ass.”

  “Pssht, they wish. An Indian warrior would have much better aim. Indian apprentice is more like it.”

  Again, I have to practically suffocate myself in the pillow to keep from waking the entire floor with my laughter. Jameson might have been dry when I first met him, but the more he opens up, the more I realize just how fun he is to be around. If it weren't for this place... I can't even imagine the kind of person he would be without the chains that bind him here.

  “Why are you sleeping on the floor?” He asks, craning his neck over the edge to see what I'm doing.

  “I didn't want to accidentally hit you in your sleep. I figure you're in enough pain as it is.”

  “Well, you're right, but this bed is massive. I think you'll be fine.”

  Part of me is relieved, since the floor sucks to sleep on, but the other part is worried. It would be so easy for me to hurt him, and contrary to what I wanted to do when I first got here, I do not relish the idea of causing him pain.

  “I think I should stay down here.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says with a yawn. “Hope a giant cockroach doesn't slip under the sheets with you.”

  I bolt up with a screech, sending sheets and blankets flying in every direction.

  “Eww! Eww! Eww! You didn't tell me there were cockroaches in here!”

  Jameson slaps one hand over his mouth and the other over his bandaged stomach as he shakes with laughter.

  “That's not funny!”

  “No, no of course not,” he says, trying to act serious. “It's about as funny as me being shot by an Indian apprentice.”

  He's alternating between laughing and wincing, which makes me want to laugh more, but I know I have to tone it down before he busts his stitches. I know he's in pain, but it can't be that bad after the amount of painkillers Omar gave him. I was actually worried he was going to give Jameson too much, but he seems fine. Just a little high.

  “Everyone's still sleeping,” I remind him. “We have to be quiet.”

  “Well then,” he pats the pillow next to him. “Get up here and snuggle close so I can sleep.”

  He's definitely high. Jameson would never be this open if he were in his normal state of mind.

  “I'll get in there with you, but I'll be staying on my side of the bed.”

  Jameson pouts, but after a stern look, raises his hands in submission.

  “I'll be good. I promise.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, committing this moment to memory. I'll probably never see this side of Jameson ever again.

  I practically moan as my back hits the mattress. Jameson's bed is the most comfortable thing I've ever slept on and however messed up it might be, I'll miss the damn thing if we ever get out of here.

  “Comfy?” He asks.

  “You have no idea. This mattress feels like it's made of puppy kisses and angel orgasms.”

  Snorting, Jameson laughs quietly, and I inch closer to him so I can lay my head on his outstretched arm. I feel the need to just be near him. After thinking he might die, I need physical reassurance that my one real ally, hell- my one real friend, is still alive.

  “Cold in here, is it? I didn't take you for a snuggler,” he jokes.

  “No, not cold.”

  I leave it at that.

  “Your hair smells like strawberries and rain,” he says, twirling his fingers through my hair as his eyes begin to flutter shut.

  “Go to sleep, Jameson.”

  Not even a full minute goes by before he starts to snore.

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  Jameson is still snoring when I wake up. He slept soundly, never waking up once. I know that because I got close to no sleep at all, worried that I would hurt him. Even though I didn't sleep a wink, it's probably better that I moved to the bed. My spine would be paying the price for staying on the hard floor.

  Since he doesn't look like he's stirring anytime soon, I take a pair of his athletic shorts and a plain black t-shirt from the dresser and throw them on over my tank top and spandex running shorts. I didn't exactly plan to be abducted when I packed for my camping trip, so I'm officially out of clean clothes. After pocketing the room key Jameson gave me, I cinch my ponytail tighter and head downstairs.

  It's nice to have a splinter of freedom. Now that Jameson trusts me, and I trust him, I'm free to walk around the compound unaccompanied. He knows I won't leave without him, and I know that if I did, my chances of making it out alive would be slim to none.

  Frankly, we need each other. I'm sure neither of us has thought about what will happen if we manage to escape, but that's a bridge we'll cross when we get there.

  My senses are assaulted once I reach the dining hall. Everyone's already eaten breakfast since it's so late, but the staff is gearing up for lunch. The entire room smells of honey-glazed ham, sweet corn, and homemade biscuits. There's a small crowd of older people sipping coffee at a corner table, but other than that, the place is empty.

  That would put me at ease... if it weren't for the redhead at that occupied table.

  Keeping my back to them, I manage to make my way to the kitchen door and ask a young blonde woman for Jameson's tray. She seems to know what I'm talking about because she nods and heads for the huge stainless steel fridge in the back.

  As I'm waiting, I feel a presence, her presence, behind me.

  “Morning, Joan,” I say, letting her know she didn't sneak up on me.

  “How is my son today?”

  “Still sleeping.” I turn to give her a lopsided, unenthusiastic smile. “Thought I would come down and get him breakfast before he wakes up.”

  She huffs. “Well, I would hope so, since that's your job.”

  I want to badly to punch this woman in the throat. I was just trying to make small talk and she turns it around on me. Luckily, the blonde comes back with two covered trays.

  “Thanks.” />
  She nods, and I don't miss the way she ducks her head, refusing to make eye contact. I wonder if it's me, or the monster standing behind me. She's probably terrified of Joan, just like everyone else here.

  “Good to see you, Joan. I'd better be getting back upstairs.”

  “Yes, you'd better.” As innocent as she looks blowing on her steaming coffee, her voice sounds like that of a Nazi kindergarten teacher.

  No. Scratch that. I'm pretty sure Hitler himself wouldn't want anything to do with that woman.

  Jameson is awake when I stumble through the door. It's a miracle I didn't lose the contents of the trays on the stairs. Some of it might be smashed, but surely it'll still be edible.

  “Hey, you're awake.”

  Jameson nods, but shuts his eyes.

  “Hopefully not for long. Can you hand me those pills on the dresser?”

  “Oh, sure,” I say, grabbing for the bottle.

  Jameson looks worse today than he did last night lying on Omar's table. The gauze covering the wound isn't soaked with blood, so his stitches haven't busted, but he's ash white and trembling.

  “You okay?”

  Jameson jerks his chin in the direction of the orange juice I just uncovered and I hand a cup to him so he can take the pills.

  “Okay is definitely not the word I would use to describe how I'm feeling right now.”

  “Well, on a scale of one to ten, how bad do you feel?” I'm definitely not a nurse, but I've watched enough hospital dramas to know about the pain-ranking scale.

  “Ten's as high as I can go?” He asks dryly before throwing the pills to the back of his throat and chugging half the orange juice.

  “That bad, huh?”

  He nods.

  I'm unsure of what else to say. There's a reason I'm not a caregiver, a teacher, a mother, or anything like that, and this is the reason. I suck at the whole sympathy thing.

  “Do you wanna talk about what happened?”

  Cracking his eyes open to glare at me, he huffs out a sardonic breath.