“I know,” I reply softly, picking at my muffin, then look up at him again. “That’s why I need you to get me as far away from here as possible. If you really want to help me, that is what I need.”
Those intense green eyes hold me captive. I have no idea what he thinks of me right now. I only pray that he believes me, and sympathizes.
Then, slowly, he nods. “Well, for what it’s worth, I believe you. I’ll make arrangements for some accommodations in southern Oregon. That way we’ll have a place to shoot for by the time we both wear out.”
I manage another tiny smile. Something like hope is creeping into my heart, and I nod. “That sounds fine. I know I won’t be able to sleep for a long time as is.”
Part Two
Chapter 5
Aaron
The story that Madelyne tells me is horrifying. I have no doubt that it’s true, or at least mostly true. Her state of mind, the daze she’s been slowly coming out of since I met her, her oversized clothes—probably stolen from someone in the man’s household, or a neighbor—they all help verify her story. But there’s one more thing I can check to confirm things for me.
“Can I see your wrist?” I ask very, very gently. She blinks at me before slowly extending it across the table. I push back the loose sleeves covering her forearm, and a shudder goes through me.
Soft restraints only leave a mark if they are tied too tightly or left on too long. Madelyne has a faint, shiny scar around her wrist, along with fresh irritation. Someone basically had her chained up ... for a long time, by looks of it.
Shuddering, I nod and let her go. “Okay,” I murmur, my mind racing.
She’s telling the truth. She’s pale because she’s been indoors. She’s squinting against the light. She’s underweight, and she is only starting to come out of being listless. This girl was a captive somewhere.
The very thought makes me want to find whatever guy did this and beat the living hell out of him. It’s a deep, primal urge—to protect her and avenge us both against a nameless prick who has left me cleaning up his mess.
I can’t moderate my reaction very well around her. It’s just too intense. The hell that she has been through shocks and infuriates me.
I’m a doctor. Saving lives is my business. But if I ever find the man who did this to her on my table, my Hippocratic Oath will be severely tested.
Maybe she doesn’t tell me the rest because it’s even more horrible. Maybe I don’t need to know any more of the specifics. She can lay them out to the cops when she feels strong enough.
Right now, I just have to get her safe and get her well enough that she can go her way without my having to worry about her. I don’t imagine it will take that much time, and if I need to, I will take some time off. I’m not sure I can focus on anything else now that I know this woman is literally running from a criminal who stole her life away.
It really doesn’t help that I’m attracted to her. And I really, really am. It’s not just that dark-haired, pale-skinned waif look that I like so much. It’s not just the way I keep falling into those big, velvety eyes of hers. It’s ... deeper than that.
Relationships forged in crisis rarely get anywhere, I remind myself and focus on finishing another cup of coffee. “You doing all right on the bike so far?”
“It’s better now that I’m not so dizzy. The pills are starting to wear off, which is good.” Her lips twist. “The drugs were as much to imprison me as the restraints and the locked doors.”
“But you have no idea what he put you on.” I frown, knowing that a lot of tranquilizers have withdrawal symptoms. Ugly ones. “Can you tell me the shape and color of the pills?”
“One was oval and kind of cream colored. The other was kind of shaped like a chocolate bar, but small. He never let me examine them.” Her gaze drifts away from me for a moment and I can tell she’s hiding something. But at least what she has told me is a start.
I nod, pulling out my smart phone for my app version of the Desk Reference. “Rectangular white pills with multiple division lines?” She nods. Oops, that’s Xanax bars. That’s what they do with the higher dose pills so they can be broken up into smaller doses easier.
I brace myself to give her some bad news. “Okay. That adds a little wrinkle. If one of the things you were on is a high dose of Xanax, you absolutely have to have some on hand in order to step down. Otherwise, you are going to not only get a lot worse mentally, you’re going to get really sick.”
I am not kidding, and I make sure she knows that by keeping my eye contact focused and my tone deadly serious. “There’s a withdrawal syndrome associated with that class of drugs, so you can’t just go cold turkey. Fortunately, I’m an MD and can write you a prescription.”
“That’s going considerably out of your way,” she protests. I hear the wariness behind her voice and I can’t blame her for that either.
“It’s all right. I have two days off and can take more time if I need to. I’m assuming that you don’t feel comfortable going to the police quite yet?” My guess is she isn’t there yet. She barely even trusts me right now, and if she’s been trapped for ten years she may not know who else she can trust.
She shakes her head. “I have to figure out what I’m going to say to them. Right now, my kidnapper’s one of those pillar of the community types. Lots of money, lots of people working for him, and I don’t ... I don’t know how far his reach is. He may trick the police into turning me back over to him.”
A tiny alarm bell goes off in my head as she tells me this. I start to wonder whether her judgment of things is trustworthy. She might be telling the truth, or she might just be sincerely describing her delusions.
I like her. I want to help her. And though I am pushing the feeling down as deep as I can, I want her. So I decide to slowly gather enough information on her as I work on winning her trust, then I can run a search and see what the Internet has to say.
“I wish I could just stop taking those stupid drugs,” she sighs in frustration. “But I can’t afford to get sick either.” Her chin trembles suddenly, and she looks down. “I—I thought I was done with walking around in a haze all day.”
“You will be soon enough,” I reassure her. “I just wish I knew what your actual diagnosis is.”
“Major depressive disorder,” she mutters, looking embarrassed. “Starting at about age nine. No accompanying anxiety. He didn’t put me on tranquilizers because I needed them. He needed me ... compliant.”
God, how I hate that word right now. The despair that enters her eyes as she delves into those memories is hard to witness. “Okay. I just want to make sure you won’t have some kind of crisis because you’re stepping down off your meds.”
“If what you’re hinting at is true,” she mused, “the real crisis would be the withdrawal.”
“Now that’s very true,” I admit. “Not just the psychological symptoms but the physical ones. I’m sure you like to do things like sleeping and keeping down food.”
She winces, and hurriedly takes a big bite of her muffin. “Yes, I like them very much.”
I rub my temple, doing my best to keep my hopes up that this will get resolved without a big mess. But meanwhile, I’m thinking about the room I’ll be renting us as a destination, and what might happen when we get there. I keep trying not to think about it, but it’s always there in the back of my head now.
It’s taking advantage if I touch her. Isn’t it? I’m not even sure anymore.
Don’t make the first move, I warn myself, and prepare to plow through a disappointing night if she doesn’t have any interest. I just wish that I didn’t keep catching myself wondering what will happen if she does.
Chapter 7
Madelyne
We spend hours on the road, just flying along through the darkness with the moon and stars above and the sea shining out to one side. Now and again we pass a house clinging to the hillside that is decorated for Halloween in colored lights and jack-o-lanterns. I watch it all in wonder from
my perch on the back of the Harley.
Eventually we turn inland and head north toward the state line. The trees get bigger, the terrain more mountainous, and the air even cleaner. Now and again a few cars or a big truck pass us, but not often.
It’s been so long since I rode or drove anywhere. I’m too exhilarated to be scared. After all, if I have nothing to lose, why fear my possible death?
I don’t feel any withdrawal from the doctor’s chemical shackles yet. If anything, I feel better and better the further we get from the hospital. I can start to pay attention to things besides fear, despair, and isolation—good things, hopeful things.
Like touching someone, and being touched. That’s new, at least in any pleasant context. My arms stay around Aaron as he sends us roaring down the highway, and I have to admit ... it’s pretty comfortable.
He’s so big and warm. He’s kind, he’s thoughtful, and he saved my life. I have already confided in him more than I have in anyone for years, and he’s helping me more than I ever expected anyone would.
I want to be close to him. I can’t get enough of looking at him, of touching him, of smelling his scent. As the drugs finish wearing off, I can feel what he does to me, and it’s so natural and painless that I can’t resist it.
Something ... normal. Something other women pursue. Love, sex ... a relationship, or even just a one-night stand.
Though I’ve spent half my life in drug-fueled captivity, I’m not entirely ignorant to the realities of the outside world. Sometimes a sympathetic nurse would let me watch TV shows when the doctor was away, giving me glimpses of what my life could be like if I ever escaped. When I wasn’t so lucky, I passed my time by eavesdropping on all the nurses and doctors of the ward—they loved to gossip about their love lives, and those of their co-workers, whenever they’d get the chance.
Though I might have seen and heard a few things about the real world, all of that is unknown territory for me, just like pretty much everything else adults do. Driving a car, holding down a job, paying rent on an apartment—none of it is in any way familiar to my life. But they are all practical things and are pursued because you have to do them if you want to survive.
Love—of any kind—isn’t necessary. I have survived without it for most of my life. Doing so hurt, but I managed. As for sex ... I barely thought about it with all those drugs in my system.
Now, clinging to Aaron’s back while we roar on through the dark, I wonder again if he’s expecting sex from me when we get to this bed and breakfast he’s arranged for us in Medford. It will be tough telling him just how totally inexperienced I am at such things if that’s the case. Based off what I’ve told him so far, he probably already suspects my ignorance.
Maybe it won’t come up. Maybe I’m reading this wrong. Maybe he’s not interested in a traumatized virgin. Or maybe he won’t care.
It’s so beautiful out here, taking the long, winding road through the trees. I like the company too, even though we can’t talk with our helmets on. Maybe that last part is good—after all, I really don’t have much practice at conversation, and I’m worried I’ll end up messing up.
I’m worried I’ll end up messing sex up too. But ... maybe he’ll be understanding. From what little I know about men, they’ll put up with a lot if it means they’ll get laid.
Then again, who am I trying to fool, really? What do I know about men’s desires? I barely know anything about my own, except for the fact that being close to Aaron feels really nice.
Maybe I’m overthinking things. Just being around him has me confused, even more than the disorientation of finally being out of my cage. If I end up sleeping with him, I’ll be happy as long as it’s not too terrible. It’s yet another thing I didn’t ever expect I would get to experience.
Just over the state line, we pull over at a rest stop—this one’s big, with a public toilet and several big trucks parked in the lot. I need the break worse than I want to admit, and can only get off the motorcycle with his help. “How are you doing?” he asks me again as I pull my helmet off.
I do a quick once-over. I’m more clearheaded than ever, though I do feel tense, and I feel like I’m just not going to be able to sleep anytime soon. My muscles are stiff from clinging to the bike, and I have the beginnings of a headache. “Sore, but not too bad. I just need to walk around.”
“Good.” He looks over at the small truck stop store. “Bathrooms are around back if you need them. You want something to drink?”
Anything but coffee. I try and remember what I used to like before everything I drank turned into institutional apple juice. “Chocolate milk,” I declare after a moment.
“Chocolate milk?” he laughs a little. “That’s a kid’s drink.”
I feel my words catch in my throat. My eyes narrow and I actually get a little angry. The tranquilizers must really be wearing off. “Yeah, and the last time I could pick my own drinks I was ten. So don’t tease.”
He backs off immediately. “Of course not. Sorry about that.” And he gives me that charming, sweet smile again, and my anger evaporates. “Chocolate milk it is.”
There aren’t very many people around, just one guy gassing up his truck, a few trucks with a light shining or music playing from their cabs as truckers bunk for the night, and us. It makes me a little nervous—but I go around to the back of the building to take advantage of the smallish, dingy women’s room.
I’m finishing up in one of the three steel stalls when I hear the outside door open and a heavy tread come in. I figure that one of the truckers is female and don’t pay much attention as I fix my clothes. The footsteps stop, and I don’t hear anything further, but I’m barely even thinking about it as I open the door and step out.
There’s a gigantic, scruffy blond man in dirty jeans and a red baseball cap standing in the middle of the women’s restroom, grinning gap-toothed at me while my brain skips a beat. “Well, hello there, little lady,” he drawls, his calloused mitts flexing as he takes a step toward me. “We’re gonna have some fun.”
I don’t know where the scream comes from. I screamed a lot for the first year I was at the hospital, back when I was ten and still furious that my mother had thrown me into that hellhole. But after that, I got ... disciplined ... enough whenever I raised my voice that I stopped.
For the last few years, I’ve gone silent when I’m afraid, thanks to almost a decade of conditioning. But this time I let out a shriek that startles my would-be rapist into freezing briefly. With no way to get out around him, I dart back into the stall, slamming the door and leaning on it with all my strength.
Please let Aaron have heard me, please let him come look please please ...
The prick lets out an outraged yell and bulls forward, smashing into the stall door with such force that my teeth rattle together. “You stupid fuckin’ whore! You come out here right now!”
My brain feels like it’s about to shut off from terror. He slams into the door again—but between the sturdy metal and my leaning on the other side, he can’t force it open. That doesn’t stop him from trying though, slamming into it until the metal groans and my back feels like he’s kicking me right in the spine.
Then, to my horror, he crouches and tries to grab my ankles. His big hands claw at my skirt and past it, and I skitter backwards.
I’m screaming again, so hard my throat feels like it’s going to burst. He’s got his head and one shoulder in under the door while I stand on the toilet, and he’s reaching for me again when suddenly a familiar deep voice shouts, “Hey!”
The man freezes, a flash of fear dissolving the lewd glee on his face, and he yanks himself out of the stall to confront Aaron.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing to my girl, you hillbilly piece of shit?” Aaron demands as he stomps up.
I see the man straighten, and watch in horror through the crack around the edge of the door as he pulls out a large knife. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, boy.” He spits on the floor and waves his wea
pon slightly. “Besides, I figure that cooze ain’t yours if you can’t keep her.”
Strangely, Aaron’s response to this is to smile. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”
“Leave me to my business with this slut before I cut you,” the man snarls, lunging.
I don’t exactly see what Aaron does in response thanks to my narrow field of vision. I just hear a hard thud and see the man skid suddenly backward, wincing and holding his arm while the knife clatters to the concrete floor. “Fuck—!” he chokes out, sounding astonished.
Aaron’s shoe comes down on the knife and he kicks it behind him as the prick lunges at him again. I watch as Aaron backfists the man almost casually and bounces him off the back wall. “What was that?” he snaps. “You’re terribly sorry about the misunderstanding, and you’re going to run away now before I break your fucking neck?”
Dr. Orgasm (A Holiday Romance Collection Book 2) Page 3