The Woman Trapped in the Dark

by J. D. Mason

  Deep moans rolled in the back of his throat as he closed his eyes and pushed and pulled in her palm. Abby stroked him slowly, squeezing her fingers around his shaft until he began pumping in a frenzy, lost in that repulsive world in his head. It no longer mattered that he wasn’t inside her. He was fucking and she needed to keep him caught up in the filthy fantasy until he came.

  As he rested his head against the wall next to hers, hot pockets of breath rushed onto her neck and shoulders.

  “Aw, baby,” he kept saying over and over again. “That’s it. That’s it, girl.”

  Bile settled in the back of her throat. Abby pursed her lips together to stifle her cries. No greater crime had ever been committed against her. He had stolen from her the most sacred and intimate parts of who she was. With each moment of this degrading act, the weight of this defeat took its toll on her emotionally, spiritually. If somehow she managed to get out of this ordeal alive, she knew that she’d never be the same.

  An eternity seemed to pass before it was over and semen covered her hand and spilled onto her leg.

  He backed away abruptly and let her fall to the floor. “You fuckin’ cheated, girl!” he yelled angrily, backing away and shoving his penis back into his pants.

  And then he hit her hard enough to crack the back of her head against the wall, leaving her dazed and nearly unconscious. Abby felt him grab her by the ankles, jerk her shorts off of her, and press all of his weight down on top of her, fumbling to try to push inside her.

  “Fuck! Bitch! Fuckin’— Shit!”

  A phone rang several times before he finally raised up onto his knees and glared down at her. She tasted blood.

  “Make a gotdamn sound and I’ll kill your ass now.”

  “What is it?” he said into the phone. “Where?” He rubbed his hand down his face and huffed. “Right now?”

  She didn’t dare move or say a word. Abby held her breath. He ended the call, stood up, gathered up the food he’d brought, and left without saying a word, locking the door behind him.

  * * *

  Her hands were dirty. She was dirty, but Abby eventually managed to compose herself and worked feverishly to flatten the plastic bottle that sonofabitch had left days ago. They weren’t going to let her leave this place alive. She knew that now. The sun had set on another day of what felt like an eternity, but she wasn’t afraid. It was strange, but despite what he’d done to her, Abby felt oddly surreal, empowered and calm as she quietly made peace with the fact that her life might very well come to an end tomorrow.

  Some part of her had been expecting Jordan to ram his shoulder into that door and rescue her, but Abby had no room for fantasies like that anymore. Jordan wasn’t coming. He wasn’t Galahad. He was just a man. And men had their limits. If she did nothing, they’d just kill her like swatting a fly. Abby was no gotdamn fly. If she was going to be murdered, then they were going to know that they’d been in a fight.

  Of course that nasty bastard would be back. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tonight. Better to face that fact than to hope for anything else. Hope was gone.

  Abby stared at her weapon made from a plastic water bottle. She sat facing the door, listening for sounds that someone was coming back through it. The sun had set hours ago, but sleeping wasn’t an option. It would only waste time, and Abby wanted—no, she needed—to savor every precious second she had left.

  She wasn’t alone. Abby placed one hand on her belly and sighed.

  “I love you, sweet one,” she whispered. “And I don’t even know your name.”

  Abby had peed on a stick, and the little pamphlet said that a plus sign meant that she was pregnant. That something as monumental as giving life could be determined by a piece of plastic and urine seemed almost sacrilegious. As shocked as she’d been by the result, Abby had never been so happy. And Jordan … She smiled at the memory of the expression on his face.

  “Don’t you dare,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare ever believe that he didn’t love us.”

  He hadn’t come bursting through that door for a reason. She’d never know what it was, but Abby refused to believe that he hadn’t come because he didn’t want to. He didn’t come because he couldn’t.

  Sadness washed over her as she settled into the fact that she’d never see Jordan’s face again, or taste his kisses, and lie in his arms. They’d never see their baby’s smile or hear it laugh or cry. She had no idea how much she’d wanted to be a mother until she found out that she was pregnant, and even more when she saw how happy he was about being a father.

  She’d rolled the flattened plastic into a cylindrical shape. On the surface, it didn’t look like much, just a rolled-up piece of plastic. She knew better, though.

  * * *

  DJ’s simple ass wanted to meet. Like, what the fuck for? James sped down the dirt road headed toward the main street in a rage. That bitch thought she was slick, jerking him off like that. He’d been so worked up that he’d cum to a gotdamn hand job and it pissed him off. But it wasn’t over. She knew it. She had to. And she knew that his face was going to be the last one she saw in this life. That’s for damn sure.

  “Did you leave the key?” Naomi asked, rushing over to him as soon as he got out of the car as the two of them headed inside the restaurant where DJ was sitting.

  He just looked at her.

  She held out her hand. “Give it to me, James.”

  Fuck her.

  “We’re too close to mess this up,” she said as they stopped outside the door.

  Reluctantly, he placed it in her hand, but she’d be giving it back to him soon enough.

  Taking over Me

  “BE GLAD THAT THE POLICE aren’t at your office door to arrest you, Gatewood.”

  Jordan sat stoically behind his desk, listening to the senator’s voice mail. “My lawyers will be in touch, and if nothing else, I will sue you for every gotdamn penny you have to your name.”

  For the first time in his life, he stood to lose absolutely everything he’d worked so hard for: his corporation, reputation, legacy. He stood to lose his fortune. Most important, however, Jordan was about to lose the only woman he’d ever truly loved, his connection to another human being, someone in this vast world capable of rescuing him from utter isolation. He’d lived his whole life in a bubble, and only now, in this moment, was he fully aware of just how desolate it truly was and how empty it had been.

  They could have their money and their contract. They could have his reputation as a businessman. But they needed to keep up their end of the bargain and send her home to him, safe and sound. If they failed to do that—if they failed Jordan would spend the rest of his life hunting them all down until he found every last of these sonsofbitches.

  “God help them,” he murmured solemnly.

  He glanced at the time. It was after nine o’clock and Jordan had been sitting at his desk for hours, making mental assessments of all the mistakes he’d made since meeting Abby. From the moment he’d met her, he knew that she was too good for him. He never should’ve gone to Blink that day or to that house. And even if he had, he never should’ve noticed her, pursued her, because Abby had no business with him.

  Jordan’s life had always been filled with the unsavory residue of greed and dirty games that only people like him and Addison knew how to play, games that ate away at a person’s moral core until there was nothing left. He’d played them better than most, and Karma rode him like he was a horse because of it. Jordan had debts that, until now, he’d believed might never be fully paid for trespasses he’d committed in his lifetime. He’d always expected it to come for him head-on, but for it to come for him through her was beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined. It was beyond cruel.

  He glanced at his cell phone and saw Phyl’s number come up on the screen. Jordan wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but reluctantly, he answered the call.

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, boss. I know it’s late. I just … I’m worried about Abby,” she admitted. “I wa
s just wondering if there was anything I can do.”

  Jordan didn’t respond because he honestly had nothing to tell her.

  “I know you can’t tell me what’s going on, but whatever you need, I mean, I’m here.”

  Jordan was touched by her sincerity. Phyl had been invaluable in coming through with all the information she had given him related to Variant, Addison, and Crown Distributors, but there was nothing else.

  “I bought her the pregnancy test,” Phyl finally admitted.

  Jordan was speechless.

  “Is she—?”

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  Heavy silence loomed between them.

  “So there’s no correlation between Crown Distributors and the pipeline project,” she explained without him asking.

  “Any connection between Crown and Variant?”

  “No. I mean, Crown distributes parts for drilling and trains and big stuff like that to just about every- and anybody, but nothing stood out with Variant.”

  He was still reaching, still searching for something, anything that could provide a clue to lead him to Abby. As long as he was breathing, Jordan couldn’t give up.

  “I did find out some more interesting stuff on our good senator,” she said sarcastically. “Not only is his nephew or whatever a top exec and investor at Variant, but who do you think owns controlling interest in the company?”

  Jordan waited, expecting her to say Addison.

  “Laurel Penbroke.”

  “Who is Laurel Penbroke?”

  “She’s a lovely old woman living in a nursing home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, who happens to be Senator Addison’s stepmom. She divorced his father years ago, but old Addison’s been footing the bill for her care for years now, and she, in turn, made him her primary beneficiary in the event of her death.”

  Jordan sat up. The implications to what Phyl had just told him were huge.

  “How did you find out that he was her beneficiary?”

  Phyl sighed. “I’d rather not say, but let’s just say that I don’t quite owe my source my soul, but if I ever have any kids, I might have to hand one of them over to the person.”

  Jordan’s mind was reeling after hanging up from talking to Phyl. Addison was in on this. Somehow, the money Jordan invested in this pipeline would end up absorbed by Variant, the bulk of which would land in Addison’s lap.

  Without giving it a second thought, he dialed Addison’s cell number.

  “What the hell do you want?” Addison blurted out.

  “Where is she?”

  The man hung up. Jordan dialed his number again but got his voice mail.

  “Laurel Penbroke,” was all he said before ending the call.

  Moments later, Addison called back. “I don’t know what you think you—”

  “Where the hell is she?” he yelled, his voice cracking. “You tell me where she is, or I swear…”

  “I have no idea,” he reluctantly admitted. “I had nothing to do with any of that.”

  “Don’t do this. You want your money. I’ll give you the fuckin’ money, Addison, but don’t— She’s not a part of this. She’s got nothing to do with any of us.”

  He was pleading, begging for her return, for her life.

  “I don’t know where she is,” Addison snapped. “I didn’t even know she was missing until now. I had no idea. All I know is that you’ll be getting a contract tomorrow with instructions on where to wire the money. That’s all I know.”

  “Who else is there?” Jordan demanded to know. “Who else is involved?”

  “I … I can’t … I can’t—”

  Addison ended the call this time. Jordan gathered his things and hurried from his office to the parking garage. An hour later, he banged on the door to Addison’s home in Fort Worth.

  The housekeeper answered. “The senator and his wife are not here. They flew back to Washington this afternoon.”

  * * *

  It was late, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Jordan had placed a call earlier to his accountant to confirm that all arrangements had been made to make the investment. You don’t just move a hundred million without having to jump through federal hoops.

  His signature on that contract was the most important part of all of this. And Jordan was expected to sign it without disputing a single word, which was why he was using his personal funds. He would not put his investors at risk like that. Besides, this was personal. Abby was his, and it was up to him to hand over whatever they wanted in order to get her back.

  It was just after midnight when Jordan’s phone rang. Finally, it was Wells. “Yes,” he said, fearing the worst.

  “I think you should get down here,” he said.

  Jordan swallowed the lump in his throat, or tried to. “What’s happened?”

  Was she dead? Had he found her?

  “I’m not sure yet. But I think it’s best if you’re close. Go to her place and wait to hear from me.”

  “What the hell is going on, man? Don’t play games with me.”

  “And don’t fuckin’ insult me. Just do what I tell you. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Is she alive?” Jordan yelled.

  Wells paused. “We shall see, man. If I’m right. We’ll see real soon.”

  Jordan didn’t waste a moment. He packed up his laptop and his gun, got dressed, and left immediately. It was impossible to quell the anxiety in his gut. Adrenaline raced through every fiber of his being, and Jordan couldn’t have slept even if he’d wanted to. Wells with that cryptic shit was fucking killing Jordan. He needed to know what the hell the man had found.

  It normally took on average two and a half hours to drive from Dallas to Blink. Jordan made it to Abby’s house in an hour and a half. He went inside, walked to the bedroom in the back of the house, and turned on the small lamp on the nightstand. She was all in this place. Signs of her, everywhere, enveloping him, cocooning him in the spirit that was her. He used to welcome that feeling, but now, now it felt like it was squeezing the breath out of him.

  He told himself over and over again that it was going to be all right. Jordan forced himself to believe that she would be found and would be in his arms soon. He had to tell himself that. And he had to make himself believe it because nothing else would do. If this house was all that he’d had left of her, then Jordan would fucking die. He’d rot inside. Shrivel up and rot and nothing would matter. Not a damn thing.

  Day 5

  Better Never Let It Go

  “ADDISON COULDN’T TELL him anything,” Brandon explained, sitting in Lars’s office.

  Brandon had received a phone call from Addison late last night from Washington, D.C., detailing his encounter with Gatewood in person and the last time the two had spoken over the phone earlier that evening.

  “He claims he didn’t confirm or deny anything.”

  Lars sighed deeply. “I hate politicians,” he said solemnly. “You can’t trust any of them. They can’t even spell the word ‘truth,’ so how the hell can we trust them with it?”

  “He didn’t lie about not knowing where she was,” Brandon told him.

  The money they demanded from Gatewood was to go into an account belonging to some obscure company started by Addison’s nephew. It was to sit in that account for several weeks before being transferred to two stateside accounts with 65 percent placed into an account belonging to Brandon and 35 percent to Laurel Penbroke. Addison stood to inherit that woman’s fortune upon her death. Lars had a fondness for Addison. They’d been friends for many years, and Lars had been instrumental in raising funds to support Addison’s campaign. The money made from extorting Gatewood was a campaign contribution, as far as Brandon’s father was concerned. Addison had influential friends in high places in Washington, relationships that had proven to be good for business.

  Would he ever tire of these games? Lars’s body aged faster than his mind. On the outside, he was an old man, but inside, he was as sharp as he’d ever been and, as far as he was concerned, he was the
only man living with the wherewithal to finally drive Gatewood to his knees.

  “I’d heard rumors that Jordan wasn’t Julian’s son by blood. But even if that were true, you couldn’t tell. Blood is thicker than water. Sometimes, though, it’s not the blood that matters, but the conviction,” Lars said, talking more to himself than to Brandon.

  Today was a trying day for Lars Degan. His rheumatoid arthritis was flaring up again, making it particularly difficult for him to get around the way he liked without the aid of his walker.

  “Jordan has always been committed to the legacy of his father, to the point of adopting the man’s persona, his attitude.” He looked at his son, Brandon, sitting across from him in the living room. “There are moments when I’ve had to remind myself that Julian Gatewood died years ago, but it sure feels as if I’m talking to his ghost.”

  He wasn’t disappointed in Brandon, but oh, what he wouldn’t have given for his boy to be more like Julian Gatewood’s son, Jordan. Even Lars had to admit that Jordan was a larger, more imposing figure than the man he emulated. If Julian Gatewood was alive today, even he’d shrink in the shadow of his son, biological or not.

  “He’s grown to be more of a titan than his father ever was, though,” Lars said, grimacing as he rubbed into the soreness of one of his hands. “The last time I saw him, it took everything in me not to drop down on one knee to pay homage to him, like he was some fucking god.” Lars laughed at his own analogy.

  Brandon smiled politely. That was his way—politeness. He was like his mother in that sense.

  “I suppose that you hate the fact that I am your father.”

  Brandon blinked, astonished, at Lars. “Sir?”

  “Have I been a disappointment, Brandon?” Lars asked unapologetically.

  Yes, he backed his son into a corner, wondering how in the hell Brandon would make his way out of it. Would he come out fists swinging? Would he stay there waiting for permission to be excused? Or would he kiss Lars’s ass, say what he thought was the right thing, believing that if he was agreeable he would win his father’s favor? “You’re my father.”