Erased

by Elle Christensen

  “No.” Dad.

  “Daddy, please. Just give it to him.” Me.

  A growl. My kidnapper.

  Thankfully, my hands are dropped back into my lap, and I pull them protectively against my chest. Bruce storms away, but in an instant, he’s back at my side, wrenching my wrists away from their safe haven.

  “She’ll never play piano again, William. Are you sure you want to make that decision for your sweet daughter?”

  Tears spill down my cheeks. Piano is everything to me. From the moment I was able to understand who my mother was, I’ve been smitten with it. She was a concert pianist like I am. Mom went to Julliard—just like I did. My destiny was to fulfill what she never could the day she died on the operating table while giving birth to a premature me. It was the only way I knew how to honor the woman I never knew but somehow always knew loved me even before I took my first breath.

  I need to play piano like I need to breathe. I don’t even understand who I would be without it.

  “Please!” I beg for anyone who’ll listen.

  “Bruce. I can’t.”

  Three words. Three simple words from my father’s mouth effectively turn my carefully laid-out world upside down. The betrayal in those three words will forever singe a scar in my heart.

  A hateful noise tears from Bruce as he yanks my ring finger up. The same finger I’d hoped to one day wear my mother’s wedding ring on. The same finger I’d secretly wished my boyfriend of nearly two years would slip a promise of his love on while bent on one knee.

  “Now, William.”

  Silence.

  While Dad remains silent, all that can be heard is my terrified sobs, the labored breathing of Bruce, and the grinding of the teeth of my kidnapper.

  “I can’t. It’s too important.” His voice is thick with remorse and resignation. My father has resigned himself to allow me to lose my fingers—my life and my career—to protect a fucking password.

  “Please, Bruce, no!” I scream, finally finding my voice.

  Cold, unforgiving metal clamps on to the soft skin just below the knuckle closest to my palm. The squeeze at first is bearable. But as he slowly—still giving my father a chance—begins smashing the metal together, I start to lose my mind.

  Thrashing in a futile attempt to escape him, I force myself not to think of the excruciating pain of my finger as Bruce continues his assault. Here’s the moment. I’m about to lose my fucking finger.

  Bruce starts a countdown as he squeezes. “Three.”

  Silence.

  “Two.”

  The bone of my finger aches with the pressure of the metal. Tears no longer have a place in my eyes as stars of shock settle there instead.

  Silence.

  Another growl from my kidnapper.

  The sound of my phone clattering on the concrete, no doubt shattering.

  A crunch of metal against flesh.

  But most importantly, relief. The clamp of the metal is gone, and my heart soars from the reprieve.

  Gone is my father’s silent rejection, having been disconnected when my phone crashed to the floor. Gone are the angry breaths of Bruce—now, soft, labored breathing can be heard from the floor. All that remains are my relieved gasps and the deep, frustrated inhalations from my kidnapper.

  “Please let me go,” I cry as I attempt to wriggle free. The throb in my finger still remains, but at least my finger is still attached to my hand. Small victories.

  My internal victory dance is cut short when I feel my attacker’s large hand palm my bare thigh. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right now. He saved me so he could what? Molest me? I whimper when his hand slides up under my gown and his finger barely skims over the edge of my panties. My emotions confuse me when my skin burns—embarrassment or desire or anger, I’m not sure. Thankfully, I’m rescued from my confusion when he slips it back out, but then I feel the sting of another injection in my thigh.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  His body warms my chilled one when he swipes a handful of my hair away from my ear. His finger twists in one of the curls before releasing it. Against my will, a shiver courses through me when his lips brush against my ear. Hot breath tickles its way deep down inside me—down to places I didn’t know existed. Kent’s breath certainly never held this sort of magic.

  I’m hallucinating. Whatever the man injected with me with is now causing my body to drift away from me—leaving my mind alone in the quickly all-encompassing dark.

  “I’ve got you, Joss.”

  And even though I should feel terrified, the barest of his whispered words comforts me deep down in my soul.

  I’ve got you, Joss.

  At least somebody does.

  I pray to God this is some awful nightmare—that I’ll wake up from all of this and find myself curled up against my normal boyfriend, in my normal bed, in my normal apartment, in my normal life.

  With all of my fingers.

  Aches.

  All-over body aches slowly draw me from my slumber.

  With a sigh, I sluggishly stretch out my long legs, expecting to feel the smoothness of my silky sheets. Instead, I earn myself a splinter on the side of my foot from the aged hardwood floors I’m lying on.

  Where am I?

  Horrifying memories from what I think are the night before flood my brain. I blink my eyes open, thankful when I realize I am no longer blindfolded and my hands are no longer secured. I am free.

  Rising to my feet, I ignore the dizziness that washes over me. I can still feel the residual effects from the injection the night before. Headache. Dizziness. Nausea.

  My eyes skitter around the space as I take in my surroundings. A full-size bed and a desk with a simple, wooden chair seem to be the only pieces of furniture in the small room. The room is void of any decoration or personalization. One small, dirty window on the far side of the room allows for sunshine to pour in, giving me a false sense of warmth.

  I feel chilled to my very core. This isn’t right—wherever I am.

  An open laptop on the desk catches my attention. My laptop.

  Stumbling over to the desk, I pull out the chair and sit. The moment my bare legs hit the wood, I shiver. I’m still wearing the same gown from that night—the night when I was stolen and almost had my finger torn from my body. Another shiver courses through me, this one unrelated to the chill against my legs.

  The screen is open to an unfamiliar e-mail account. Nothing exists but one single e-mail in my inbox.

  The e-mail is from ivorykeys34@fisher.net, and I instantly know it is from my father. In the e-mail address alone, every character holds a key to the fact that it is him.

  Ivory keys. The piano.

  Thirty-four. The age of my mother when she died.

  Fisher. Her maiden name.

  In dire need for answers, I hastily double-click and open it only to be horrified by its words.

  RE: Erased

  Dearest Jill,

  I’m sorry recent events have led to this. One day, I’ll find you when this is all over and we’ll make everything right. Until then, you have been wiped from this Earth. All traces of your existence have been erased. You are Jill Anderson. You have short, brown hair.

  My eyes flit over to a pair of scissors and a box of hair dye on the desk, behind the laptop.

  Your life consists of lying low and staying safe. I’ve placed you in the home of a friend where you’ll have shelter, food, and protection. One day, I hope you’ll forgive me.

  Love always,

  Scrooge

  My eyes burn with tears and I let out a ragged sob. My father betrayed me—for what? A computer program?

  “Can we put up a Christmas tree this year, Daddy? Please?” I ask eagerly. My seven-year-old self finally had the courage to ask for something I have always desperately wanted. All the other kids at school have a Christmas tree. Why don’t we?

  “I’m sorry, Joss. But no. I can’t.”

  I bu
rst into tears, unable to understand why we couldn’t have one. “I hate you, Daddy! You’re a scrooge!”

  My memories fade back to the present. That night, I was lectured and sent to bed without dinner. Later, I understood that, when your mother dies on Christmas Eve while delivering you, the holiday would forever be tainted.

  Dragging my thoughts back into the present problem, I begin tapping out a response. The rebellion that has always lain quietly below the surface in an effort to please my father bubbles angrily.

  Scrooge,

  How could you do this to me?

  Jill fucking Anderson

  His response is instant.

  Jill don’t-take-that-tone-with-me Anderson,

  Your life depends on it. Do as I say.

  Scrooge

  I scoff at his words. Even displaced from everything I know because my life is probably in danger, I can’t help but want to believe this is all some sort of sick joke.

  Scrooge,

  I want to call my boyfriend.

  Jill

  I’m not sure that simple Kent with his perfect, blond hair and kind, blue eyes could or even would save the day, but right now, I’m holding on to any thread of normalcy.

  Jill,

  You, Jill, don’t have a boyfriend. A certain blond girl’s boyfriend, though, was informed of her death and will attend a funeral on Tuesday to say goodbye to her. She’s gone. And according to the Social Security Administration, she never existed.

  I promise I will set this right. Until then, stay low. Do as I say. Your life depends on it.

  Scrooge

  Icy horror seeps into every pore of my flesh. Gone. Erased. I’m no longer Jossalyn Parker, a woman named after her sweet, deceased mother, Jossanna Lyn. Jill Anderson doesn’t have a normal, marriage-shy boyfriend who has yet to give her an orgasm like Joss Parker did. Joss’s fingertips will never again grace the keys of the pianos at the Philharmonic or Carnegie Hall.

  Joss doesn’t exist anymore.

  Joss is dead.

  A pounding on the locked door of my new “prison” snaps me awake. Dad said that I was to pretend to be this other person, but I don’t know that I can just kill off Joss and accept this Jill. I don’t know that I am mentally prepared to act as if I never existed. It’s too painful.

  “Miss? Mr. Slade sent me up here to bring you some lunch. He said you’d be hungry,” an accented male voice murmurs on the other side of the door.

  “I’ve placed you in the home of a friend where you’ll have shelter, food, and protection.”

  I gulp and climb out of the bed, where I’ve hidden away all morning. “Uh, thank you. Just set it down by the door. I’ll get it after you leave,” I tell him firmly through the door. I still don’t trust these people, but Dad does. And I need to eat.

  He grunts out that he will, and once the footsteps disappear, I open the door. A Styrofoam to-go box of what smells like meatloaf and two bottles of water have been left for me. Greedily, I snatch them up and hide out in the sanctuary of my room once again. Inside the box, I find plastic ware, and I’m already plowing through the food before I even make it over to the desk.

  Day turns into night and night turns into day. Repeated visits with different voices. All the same. Food. Water. Collect the trash. I avoid these people at all costs and sneak into the bathroom when I’m sure nobody is nearby.

  By day three, I feel like a caged animal and bored to freaking tears.

  “Hi, I’m Jill,” I tell the dark-haired reflection in the mirror.

  Jill looks pale. Jill hangs out in her prison way too much.

  I purse my lips and practice my seductive look. “Hello, I’m Jill.”

  Blinking my lashes several times, I decide I’m pretty sexy.

  Who am I kidding? I’m insane. I’m talking to the reflection of a made-up person.

  “I’m Jill, and I’m hot,” I purr once more at the mirror.

  Hell. I need to get out of here and face whatever waits for me downstairs. Joss has dramatically fainted somewhere in the recesses of my mind and Jill has had to nervously take her place.

  Jill can do this.

  She’ll do it for Joss.

  IT’S BEEN THREE days, and even though it’s early, she should be awake by now. She’s had plenty of time to have changed her look and to have embraced her new living arrangements. But has it been long enough for her to get over what I’m sure is an all-consuming rage at her father?

  Unlikely.

  I lean against the door of my apartment and stare across the hall. She’s over there—just on the other side of that door—possibly in nothing but a nightgown.

  Damn it!

  The tightening in my jeans just pisses me off. I take several deep breaths, trying to calm down as I remember the silkiness of her skin, the soft, curly locks that flowed down her back, and those lips. Those pink, plump lips. Lips that were created to be wrapped around my—fuck!

  I walk the three steps across the hall to her door and knock briskly. At first, there isn’t a sound. I’ve kept an eye on the stairwell and backdoor since she arrived, so I know she’s still in there.

  I knock again—harder this time.

  Finally, soft footsteps make their way to the door and it cracks open. I’m slightly shocked that she actually answered considering the fact that she’s been hiding away for the past several days.

  Her big, blue eyes peer out at me, full of fear. I watch the sweep of her long lashes across her cheeks as she slowly blinks. When her eyes open again, they are shuttered. The fear is no longer there; in its stead is simply wariness.

  “What do you want?” Her voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s low. Defeated.

  I feel an urge to wrap her up in my arms and comfort her.

  I what? I don’t think so.

  “Jill, right?” Joss. I don’t want to think of her as Jill.

  She nods hesitantly.

  “I’m Derek Slade. Slade.” I’m afraid to touch her, so I don’t offer her a hand to shake. “I own the building and the bar downstairs. We need to talk.”

  She hesitates again. I don’t make any attempt to reassure her. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and wait. I know I’m intimidating, but I don’t give a shit. She should fear me. If she lets her guard down around me, I’ll only break her further. But when I look into her eyes expecting to see fear, I see a gleam of irritation.

  It’s cute.

  A low growl rumbles from my throat. This crap needs to leave my head right the hell now.

  “You can’t stay up here forever,” I tell her with furrowed brows.

  She snootily lifts her nose but doesn’t disagree. The woman has to be bored to tears. No television. No books. Just her laptop which requires a security code to access the internet with the exception of email.

  Finally, seemingly resigned, she steps back and pulls the door open. “Where’s here and who are you anyway?”

  “You didn’t hear me the first time, Cupcake?”

  Her eyes narrow slightly, “Not what your name is. Who are you? And where the hell am I?”

  In four lengthy strides, I’m at the small desk along the far left wall. I plop down into the chair and scan the room. When my eyes return to her, I slowly take in her appearance from head to toe. Damn, she is beautiful. She’s tall, around five foot seven, but still dwarfed by my six foot-five height. Her body is long and lean with the exception of the generous curves of her breasts. She obviously found the suitcase next to the bed, because her endless legs are encased in a pair of ass-hugging jeans, and it’s a spectacular ass. When she lifts her arms to run her fingers through her long, straight, dark hair, her white T-shirt shows a sliver of her flat stomach, a sweet, little rhinestone twinkling from her belly button.

  Wait . . . Long hair?

  It hangs fluidly down her back, almost to her waist. I stifle a laugh. Cupcake’s got a defiant streak. My humor, though, leaves as quickly as it arrived. She needs to stick with the plan; I need to be able to protect her.
<
br />   “As I mentioned, I own the apartment and the bar downstairs. We’re in Connecticut—middle of fucking nowhere. It has been arranged for you to live here, and I’ve got a job for you as a waitress. Luckily for you, one of my girls just quit, so it’s all yours, J.”

  “J?”

  I just can’t call her Jill. I just want her to be my Joss.

  Well, shit.

  She isn’t my anything except my job. For fuck’s sake, I barely know her. “Yeah, J. You don’t strike me as a Jill.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Or I can keep calling you cupcake.”

  She purses her lips in annoyance. “J it is.”

  There are questions on her face. Rather than volunteer information, I wait.

  “Do we have an acquaintance in common?” she asks, sadness creeping back into her expression.

  I need to make it go away, although I’m not about to examine why.

  Leaning forward in my chair, my elbows on my knees, I consider how much to tell her. It’s not like I can tell her our parents know each other or some bullshit like that. Even if the son of a bitch uncle who raised me was still alive, he wouldn’t run anywhere near her circle. I excel at lying. It’s second nature to me. Yet I say, “You could say that. I was contacted by someone who was calling in a favor. You’re the favor. Apartment. Job. Now, we’re even.”

  Even? What bullshit.

  As expected, annoyance flits across her face once again. “Is this how you treat all of your tenants? I find it hard to believe that anyone would pay to live in a dirty cell with a jackass for a landlord.” Sarcasm drips from her words.

  This time, the chuckle slips out. I stand up and prowl over to her, stopping just inches from her face. Then I lower my head, keeping my gaze locked with hers. When she stubbornly refuses to retreat, I feel admiration prick at my conscience. Only when my lips are a breath away do I break eye contact, swerving my head until my mouth is right at her left ear.

  “Most of my ‘tenants’ spend their nights in the bed across the hall.” And, because I’m an asshole, I let my tongue dart out and slide along the shell of her ear. Her quick intake of breath tells me that she isn’t unaffected by the sparks igniting between us. “If you’re ever interested in the same arrangement, baby, you just let me know.”