That Which Binds Us

by Amanda Richardson

  Sexy.

  I walk quickly down the ornate, palm-tree-lined driveway of the St. Regis, where I work. The only thing I want to do right now is strip these work clothes off and sit on my balcony with a very large, very cold mojito.

  I turn left at the end of the driveway, entering the area that encloses the villas for the workers. The accommodations here are magnificent. Two-story, Spanish-style villas house two employees each. There are two bedrooms, a large living room and a decent-sized kitchen. The best part? An oceanfront balcony.

  The sunset is beginning. The diluted orange will soon turn into deep amber. Seeing as the beach is only a short walk away, I decide to watch the setting sun from my favorite bench along the sand before heading home. I do this often, much to the chagrin of Rachel, my friend and roommate. She seems to think it’s dangerous. I always have to remind her that we’re on the property of a five-star resort. A secured five-star resort at that. But I digress. I look around for her sake, because I know she’d want me to. I am, in fact, alone.

  The white sand goes on for what seems like miles. It’s deserted at this hour. Most of the guests are inside now, their beaching hours over. Dark brown wicker daybeds with white, gauzy fabric dot the beach every twenty feet or so. The waves here are small, and the water is a deep turquoise. There’s a small jetty to my left made up of rocks that separates us from the public beaches. Behind the beach is a small enclave of trees and paths meant to isolate the beach area from the living quarters of the employees. As I walk up the concealed path to my favorite wooden bench, I check behind me for good measure.

  Alone.

  I let out a heavy sigh as I let myself fall onto the bench, the only one on this side of the beach that overlooks the water. Shaking my shoes off, I twist my toes into the still-hot sand, relishing in the warmth that makes me feel drowsy and happy. The days of cold winters are over for me. I never want to live in a place that snows ever again. Perhaps that’s why Puerto Rico appealed to me.

  As the golden sun lowers itself along the horizon, I half-wish I’d brought my oils and canvas. A long time ago, a therapist gave me my first paint set. I’ve been painting nonstop since. It’s my way of decompressing, letting go of negativity, and even though I’m sure I’m a horrible painter, it makes me so happy. I can only imagine how I’d paint the scene in front of—

  I stop thinking as two men enter my line of vision. They seemed to enter behind the jetty, and since it’s low tide, they were probably able to walk over from the public beach. It’s hard to tell though—I was lost in thoughts of the gorgeous sunset.

  Goose pimples erupt on my skin. The man in front is dragging another man by his collar, and they’re both walking along the shore. It must be a bar brawl. The beach to the right of the jetty is known for its nightlife. I suppose they got into a fight, and it continued along the shore.

  The dragged man seems to be struggling. My breath hitches. Something’s not right. My heart starts to beat like the thrumming wings of a caged bird. I gather my things to leave. I’m about a hundred feet away—a safe distance—but I’d rather not get in the middle of a fight. Just as I stand and slip into my shoes, I hear a gut-wrenching cry.

  I gasp. One of the men falls to his knees. Even from here, I can see the bright red blood. My stomach churns just as the standing man takes a knife and stabs the wounded man again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Finally, the man on his knees falls face first into the sand.

  I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Needless to say, I’m stuck watching the scene unfold in horror. My legs feel glued to the ground. My heartbeat races in my ears. What’s that saying again? Fight or flight? Why am I not fleeing? My feet feel like they’re glued to the sand with superglue.

  Before I can register what just happened, the man’s head snaps up and makes eye contact with me. He drops the knife. He looks at the man on the ground, and then back up at me.

  Panic seizes me. It’s almost dark now. He just killed someone.

  I have to run.

  Instinct finally kicks in, and I turn and sprint toward the dirt path that leads back to the villas. My flats are sweaty so I can’t run as fast as I want to. My breathing becomes ragged. In this moment, I vow to commit to a regular exercise routine if I can get out of this situation alive. I’m already out of breath. My hair flies in front of my face, sticking to my sweaty cheeks. I start to cry, fear gripping every fiber in my body. I hear heavy footsteps behind me, and I let my flats fly off so that I can run faster. My feet fling the shoes in different directions as I kick up, but I don’t even care.

  I need to call the police. I need to—

  I trip, flying forward onto the darkened path. Crying out, I stand quickly, but not before heavy arms encompass me, pulling me into a hard body.

  “Don’t move,” a husky voice commands. An American accent. His breath is only inches away from my ear.

  I start to violently shake. Oh God, he’s going to stab me.

  “P-please,” I stutter, tears streaming down my face. “I didn’t see anything. Please let me go. I swear I won’t tell any—”

  “I should clarify. Shut the fuck up, and don’t move,” he hisses, tightening his grip. He now has my hands firmly clutched behind my back with one hand, and the other arm slung over my chest to keep me still.

  My body collapses against him, but he holds my weight up. I begin to whimper. The only thing that runs through my head is, Rachel was right. Damn her. I want to scream, but I know he’d kill me if I did.

  “Please,” I whisper. His body is warm. Too warm. I wonder if I could fight him off. It seems like a stupid idea, considering he’s wielding a knife and he’s obviously not afraid to use it. How have I not taken a self-defense class yet? I shut my eyes tightly, trying to conjure any type of self-protective move I can remember from the movies, but nothing comes. Fuck!

  He sighs loudly. I want to scream, but I also want to get out of this situation alive. I slowly raise my head and open my eyes as he fidgets with something in his pocket. If I have to identify him at the police station, I want to know what he looks like.

  It’s too dark to get a good look, but I take in the basics. He’s tall, muscular, with reddish hair and a strong-looking jaw and stubble. Judging by his accent, he’s American or Canadian. I begin to shake even harder, tears leaking from my eyes.

  “There are cameras on the beach,” I say through sobs. I’m lying, but he doesn’t need to know that. I see him pull out a cellphone.

  “Do you work here?” he asks, loosening his grip.

  I nod vehemently. Maybe he’ll let me go. Maybe—

  “Let’s go.”

  Before I can protest, he lets my hands go but continues to hold me close to him with one arm.

  Now’s my chance.

  I elbow him with my free arm, and at the same time, angle my jaw lower to bite the arm that holds me.

  “Agh!” he cries out, but instead of loosening his grip, he only holds me tighter, almost to the point of choking me with his arm. I cry out in pain. He stops and pushes me against a tree. I look around, disoriented. Where did this tree come from? I’ve never been on this leg of the path before. I don’t even know where we are.

  “I said, shut the fuck up,” he growls, holding my arms at my side, against the bark. It stings.

  “Fuck you,” I whisper, sneering. “I’ll escape before you kill me,” I add, spitting in his face. It doesn’t deter him.

  He sighs again and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

  Stupid, Nina.

  “Very well.” He clamps my hands together roughly behind my back, clicking the cuffs around my wrists. I scream.

  “Help!” I yell, pulling away from him. “Help m—”

  His hand flies to my mouth. He tastes like blood. My stomach rolls, and I gag. With his free hand, he reaches into another pocket and produces the knife. It’s stained dark red. He must’ve grabbed it after he dropped it into the sand—befo
re he came after me. In an instant, the blade is at my throat.

  “One more peep, and I will slit your pretty little throat,” he snarls. Just as his hand pulls away from my mouth, I lean forward and vomit onto the sand. The mango prawn salad I had for lunch pours out from within me and onto his shoes. Payback, you cocksucker. “Come,” he growls, pulling me along before I can even wipe my mouth off. He doesn’t seem deterred by the vomit.

  “I swear,” I say quietly, pleading. “I won’t tell a soul if you let me go. Ask anyone. I keep my fucking promises.”

  Unlike my dad.

  He doesn’t respond as he walks us onto the sand. To my surprise, we’re near the bench I was sitting on earlier. He must know his way around this area. I am kicking myself for not getting to know my surroundings better before tonight.

  I look around wildly. The sky is an inky dark blue now. There are no lights on this part of the beach. The owner wanted to preserve the natural ambiance of the magical, Puerto Rican stars. Fuck the natural ambiance. Fuck the magical, Puerto Rican stars.

  The chances of Rachel or my boyfriend Garrett coming to find me are slim to none. They both worked the late shift today, and they don’t get done until midnight. So, unless someone heard or saw us—which is unlikely since it’s the off-season and half of the villas are empty, plus the wind has picked up and sounds don’t carry very well—I am fucked.

  Unless I fight my way out. I’m determined to try.

  The man leads me to the rocks on the jetty. There’s a clicking sound as he undoes one of my wrists. Relieved, I begin to smile. I gird my loins to run as far away as humanely possible, but the man has another idea. He firmly grips my arms and bends them at a weird angle. Suddenly, I realize what he’s doing. With sickening realization, I see the small pole sticking out of the sand. There’s a No Tirar Basura sign attached to the top. No littering. I wonder if a body counts as littering.

  “That should hold you,” he mumbles as he clicks the handcuffs in place. I’m now handcuffed to the sign.

  Just fucking great.

  My breathing gets louder as he walks over to the body in the sand several feet away. I see him check the pulse on the neck, and then he turns the body over. What was once a white button-up shirt is now stained dark red. I squeeze my eyes shut as the man drags the body to the water.

  I take ten deep breaths, willing myself out of this fucked up situation. I need to form an escape plan. My dad and I used to play survival quizzes when I was younger. I’m sure if I just think, if I just concentrate, I can come up with something good. I’m a smart woman.

  Think, Nina.

  I open my eyes slowly, and the man who handcuffed me is now walking back over to me.

  “Did you just dump him into the ocean?” I screech. “How do you know he won’t wash up on shore?”

  I shake my head and laugh. Am I giving him advice on how to hide the body?

  “He might,” the guy says, wiping his hands on his jeans and looking out toward the ocean with a furrowed brow.

  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll come after you? Not just for murdering him, but for kidnapping me?”

  He laughs. The lines around his mouth become more prominent. “I don’t give a fuck if they come after me. By the time they put two and two together, I’ll be long fucking gone. And so will you.”

  His words pierce my heart with ice. I begin to shiver again as he roughly undoes my handcuffs and grabs my bicep, dragging me across the sand.

  My shaking becomes unbearable. Everything is starting to sink in. With a sickening realization, I know I’m about die. I can feel it in the air. Earlier, I was in fight or flight mode. Now, I can feel his thirst for blood. And there’s no one here to help me but myself. How privileged is that? I keep looking around for someone else to save the day, when really, it’s entirely up to me.

  I have to save myself.

  Again.

  I look around for something, anything, to help my situation. A branch to stab him. A rock to hit him over the head with. Thrashing against his firm grip, I let out a feral scream. Someone has to hear me. Right? He halts, twisting me around so that my back is against his chest. One of his arms moves up to my neck, choking me. My eyes bulge out, and I fight to free myself. I fight for air. His grip only tightens.

  Oh God, I’m going to die.

  I’m going to be a fucking statistic. There will be front pages of newspapers with my face on them. Parents will prevent their children from coming to Puerto Rico. They’ll say, remember what happened to that Nina Cosway? Such a tragic story.

  Will they find my body before it decomposes? Or will they have to run DNA tests to identify me?

  I start to see red splotches. I hear his heavy breathing above me. It sounds… ragged. Anxious. No… I’m not going to think of him in my last living moments.

  There’s so much I never got to do. I’m only twenty-nine. I never got married. I never had children. I never had an outline for those things. It wasn’t as if I had my life planned out or anything, but I hoped that someday I would settle down, buy a house, and do the soccer mom thing.

  The red splotches grow bigger. I can feel myself losing consciousness. Any second now… and my life will be over before it ever really began.

  Why was this happening to me? Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time. But I suppose every nonsensical crime is a result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m not special. I’m just a stupid woman who should’ve listened to her best friend.

  The red spots turn black, and I feel my knees give out.

  Is Heaven real? … Is my dad there? Benny?

  Benny…

  Nina…

  Suddenly, he drops me, and I fall face forward into the warm sand. Sputtering, I pull myself up onto my elbows, gasping. The musky, humid ocean air never tasted so good on my lips. I’m half-crying, half-laughing. Weakly, I pull myself up further and look at him.

  The man is swearing, pacing back and forth a few feet away from me. My mind is still racing from being seconds away from death.

  I can run now.

  Standing, I inhale a deep, salty breath. It feels like my lungs are collapsing. But I have to run, and I have to run now.

  Right now.

  Run, Nina.

  In a second, I’m on my feet and running, running, running…

  Something heavy hits my head. It feels as though it split my skull in half. Maybe it did. I falter, swaying until I hit the ground with a soft thump. The world tilts out of view as blackness overtakes me.

  T W O

  Nina—Present

  San Juan, Puerto Rico

  I COME TO and immediately roll over and vomit onto who knows what—it’s too dark to see. Disoriented, I lift myself up onto my elbows and look around. The stars are above me, but everything else is pitch black. Trying not to retch again, I blink a few times and take a ragged breath. The sound of lapping water… the cold, industrial metal against my skin… Realization and awareness set in, forming a dead weight in my stomach.

  I’m on a boat. From the looks of the slowly emerging outline… a very small row boat. I see the figure of a man a few feet away. I squint, trying to ascertain his identity. I hear him move, presumably to turn and look at me. The thudding sound of oars being taken in hit my eardrums. I can’t see his face, but I can sure as hell feel his eyes on my body. My skin prickles as he reaches out for my hand. I don’t realize he’s doing it until I feel the warm flesh atop mine. Instinctively, I pull away.

  “Fucking hell, I’m trying to help you,” he growls, aggressively reaching out again and quickly unlocking my wrists. The handcuffs clatter to the ground, and I let out a relieved gasp. Rubbing the raw skin, I sit up all the way and face him. I look at him, but I can barely make out who he is as my eyes adjust.

  “Aren’t you worried I’ll jump?” I jeer, hoping to find his weak spot. Every man has one. I need to find out what will break him.

  “Go right ahead.”

  I narrow my eyes, even though I kno
w he can’t see me in the darkness. I twist my head around. I can’t see five feet in front of me, let alone the shore… wherever it is. I’d never make it back before drowning. I curse myself for not memorizing the islands of Puerto Rico.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and collected. There’s no use in panicking. It’ll only make things worse and muddle my mind with anxiety. Instead, I force myself to become placated. I need to relax in order to think. I need to play his game—I need to beat him at his game.

  “I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

  I digest his words. With a sigh, I lean back against the side of the boat. “Why didn’t you kill me and dump my body too? Seems like that would’ve eliminated a lot of your problems.”

  At first, I think he’s going to ignore my question altogether. As my eyes adjust, I see him shake his head and look away. I resort to fidgeting with my blouse buttons. I completely forgot about my clothing malfunction. Now I’m stuck with forever-cleavage and no shoes. Finally, he answers me.

  “I’m capable of some pretty terrible things. Things… you couldn’t even fathom. But I… I thought I could, but…” he trails off, obviously fighting with himself over what he should and shouldn’t reveal to me. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with you yet.”

  His voice is still hard, yet somehow it has a softness around the edges of his tone. I’m relieved that he’s not going to kill me—not yet anyway. He might change his mind once he realizes how headstrong I can be. However, I’m not thrilled at the prospect of tagging along with a murderer to lord knows where. If he can kill someone with such ease, I don’t want to think about what else he’s capable of.

  We sit in silence for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s probably only thirty minutes or so. Patience has never been one of my virtues. My mind is churning with escape plans. The guy is obviously not going to let me go, so there’s no use in begging or pleading. We’re in the middle of the ocean somewhere, so I’m stuck in this damn boat for the time being. I have to come up with a plan when we dock.