I wish he'd learn to take a hint. I jot on the pad. Too busy now. Look at me. I come home covered in paint and plaster every day ready to sleep. Give me a few weeks for my projects to die down.
“You keep avoiding us, we're gonna come here for dinner,” he says. So entitled. And smug. Like everyone else, he thinks he's smarter than me because I sound stupid. I love the fact that he doesn't know who I really am. I love getting one over on him in particular, probably more than the entirety of society.
There are worse brothers than Scooter, but he's not a particularly good one either. And ever since mom died, and dad's been dead for years now, he's appointed himself patriarch of this family, the glue that holds us together. I wish he'd just let the shit crumble. We were a family, but we were on two distinct sides of an ongoing battle. And even when the weapons have been surrendered, battle wounds don't disappear. God, does he look like dad. Right down to the mannerisms.
Now that it's just us, he's always on my ass. Suddenly, he's the big brother who always wants to be around. The successful family man who has so graciously accepted the unsolicited task of checking in on his bachelor brother.
I point at myself and make a sleeping gesture. Me tired. You, get the fuck out.
“Alright, alright. I'm checking in with you every week. So save me the effort and pick up the phone.”
I nod with a tired eye roll. I thought mom's death would give me freedom, but he's worse than her. At least she'd disappear into her room for a few weeks here and there.
I point at myself, make a phone gesture, then point at him. Me, call you.
I stand up, another nonverbal cue (I am very fluent in them), and he follows suit.
We walk to the back door that exits directly from the kitchen of my Sacramento bungalow, the city where we lived as kids. “I'll have Katie make you some real food. Can't believe you're eating oatmeal. That's one thing I don't miss about the bachelor life. You know, you don't have to watch out for mom anymore. You should get out there. You're a good looking kid.” He grabs my bicep, the one that doesn't look like it was gone over with a cheese grater, and gives it a squeeze. “You've got money and a good job. Women lap that shit up…Katie has friends.”
His disingenuous saccharine pep talk is unwelcome. He knows what happens when I get around women. All they want to fucking do is talk. I prefer to pay my women to fuck and stay quiet. He's spewing bullshit and he knows it.
He has no idea how much I get out these days. Besides, I have my woman. The one who I handpicked like a lone flower from a barren bush.
I wag my finger in the air and take a deep breath. “No.” I manage that monosyllabic word like a big boy.
He releases my bicep, gives my shoulder a too-hard slap. “Well, see you soon.”
I nod, edging him to the door. I watch him get into his car and pull out before taking a deep breath. If I hadn't come back to my place tonight, he would have gone to the fucking ranch. That was too close of a call. This is why I don't do—didn't do—kidnappings.
Five minutes after I am sure he's gone, I grab my things and drive back towards the ranch to finish Vesper's new home.
Working on a client's front porch this morning, I can barely keep my eyes open.
“Awww Sam, you look exhausted,” Ms. Dawkins says. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
I shake my head no, but then I put my finger up and shrug. No, thanks. Wait, I've changed my mind. You know what? Sure. Usually I make an effort to talk, but I've done work for Emilia Dawkins for years and I really don't have the energy for conversation. The stuttering gets worse when I'm nervous or overly tired. In her case, it's the latter: Mrs. Dawkins is old enough to be my grandmother. Even if I was attracted to her, I'm smart enough to never go after a customer. But normally, on a clear day like this, I'd be keeping an eye out for women at home while their husbands or boyfriends are at work, trying to narrow down who'd I'd like to hunt.
Ever since I took Vesper, however, I am the one being hunted. Conveniently, Ms. Dawkin’s house is just minutes by car from Vesper’s home. It’s the perfect excuse to drive by on the way back and see what the police are up to — if they are finished combing the house for evidence, if there are patrol cars still sitting outside her house. I know how this all works. I just have to wait it out, let things cool.
Fuck it. The truth is, all I can think about is getting back to Vesper. Everything else, including keeping an eye on the cops, is just a distraction. I spent the entire night finishing her new home. I got maybe an hour of sleep. I just need to add some finishing touches. I can't wait to see her again. I have new gifts for her.
There's a school across the street and they've broken for recess. The quiet playground erupts with screeching children. That sound still makes me uncomfortable. I know it doesn't seem like it, but I had a soft spot for Johnny, mainly because he doesn't have a voice. I know what that's like. Well, at least until he decided to have a conniption fit. I don't blame him though. If I had a Vesper at his age, I wouldn't want to lose her either.
I glance over at the children playing. A group of them have formed a circle and are running in the same direction.
I stand in the middle of a circle of my schoolmates. My stomach hurts. I hate recess.
“Stu-stu-stu-stuttering Sam!” they chant. I nervously fidget, my eyes dart around looking for Scooter. He's playing with his own friends. Most of the time he doesn't talk to me at school. He has lots of friends; the older crowd. I think he's embarrassed by me. So at lunch, I usually sit alone. “Stu-stu-stu-stupid Sam!” some of the others chant.
Just before we broke for recess, Ms. Juniper called on me to read out loud. She said she wouldn't treat me differently. That my dad insisted on that. The class waits for me to get out a few sentences. It makes my stomach hurt. I'm afraid I'll pee in front of everyone because when I'm nervous it makes me have to pee. I pee the bed almost every night, and it makes dad angry when he finds out. When the kids giggle at me reading, Mrs. Juniper scolds them, but it just makes me more embarrassed. They wait and they wait for me to get through the paragraph. This time I didn't finish until five minutes into recess. This makes the kids really mad at me. At lunch, they like to call me names because they know I can't answer fast and they like to hear me struggle. It's easier to pretend I don't hear them.
When they tease me at recess, I stand there quietly, the pain in my stomach getting worse as they laugh and shove me.
When there's a break in the circle, I make a run for it. They all chase me around the playground, but I am fast. Faster than any kid at this school, even the older ones. I run past the teachers and off the playground. No one can catch me as I run into a yard and climb over a fence. I keep running and running, until the sounds of the school yard disappear.
I stop to catch my breath in someone's backyard. When I look up, I am facing a window. A woman is standing there, holding a baby. She's looking down at it, rocking it back and forth. I duck behind some bushes. I don't want her to see me and send me back.
She's wearing a white dress. It's loose and stops at her knees. After a while, she pulls down her top. She has big ones, and I feel something in my stomach that's not pain. She lifts the baby to one of them, and I watch the baby suck. I wish I was in there in her arms, but this is almost as nice. Quiet. No one making me talk. Alone, but not alone.
“Here's some iced tea!” Mrs. Dawkins hands me a glass. “I'm going to run some errands now.”
I give her a thumbs up. I like my work. I am good with my hands and it allows me to keep my hobbies since I make my own schedule. I don't need the money. I just like being productive. These days, there's so much new construction in these developments, the bigger companies contract me aside from my own personal gigs. People trust my work, and my stellar reputation precedes me.
I can tell that people feel good about hiring me. Like it's charity, helping the guy who stutters. People assume I'm slow despite the fact that I can build a house with my bare hands. All because I'm different. Sometimes people recog
nize my last name and they ask about it, but I don't like to talk about my family. I think some of them assume I've been left out of the will and work to support myself. It's none of their damn business anyway.
Sure, they're happy to have me fix their things, renovate their kitchens, but that's as far as it goes. I'm still an outsider. I'm still that kid in the middle of the circle, it's just that adults have to act a little more civilized, and I'm a bigger boy these days.
A whistle blows, the kids form lines and are lead back into the school again. Quiet.
Now that I have Vesper waiting for me—I'm alone, but not alone.
Two times the sun has left and the basement has turned pitch black. Two nights have passed since the man came in, cleaned me, fed me, and showed me the outside world through a television screen. Then he left without a word. I don't know when he's coming back, and that scares me. The food and water is long gone and only gave me enough energy to continue existing. But I'm still starving and thirsty, and he's the only way I have access to more food.
Hunger and boredom is a maddening combination. It makes you pray for anyone's presence to make you feel human again. At least when he's here, my body courses with adrenaline. It makes me feel alive when I don't have the energy from nutrition. It's the waiting that has become torture—not knowing my fate, suffering and growing weaker.
Sometimes there are footsteps and my heart skips with a jolt of excitement and dread. But then the house will go quiet again. My mind and body is constantly confused by this man who terrifies me but is also the person on whom I must depend for survival.
This time, when the footsteps come towards the door, it opens. My mouth produces what little saliva it can, like a Pavlovian dog, in response to his presence.
He comes down the stairs, a milk crate stuffed with random items in his arms. The smell of food instantly hits my nose and my heart rate accelerates. I try not to smile and look too eager. It makes me feel pathetic. But my eyes steal the attention from my nose when it follows the bare arms, slick with sweat, to a naked torso, up a muscled neck and to a masked face. He's wearing jeans again, torn up like the last time. He has streaks of dirt and paint on him, and his skin has a reddish golden tint like he's just been working out in the sun. What I would do to feel the sun on my skin again. I hate that despite all the horrible things this man has done, I can't help but notice his taut, athletic body. He makes another trip with a soapy bucket of water.
I watch in skeptical suspense as he goes about this business without acknowledging me.
Once he's settled, he lifts a gallon jug of water in front of me. I nearly dance. I nod frantically, my throat clenching at the thought of moisture.
He points at the wash bucket.
“Yes—Yes,” I submit without hesitation.
He walks up to me with the bucket, his frigid, golden-flecked turquoise eyes on mine as he rubs the soap along my body. I'm scared. Of my fate. Of what Johnny and my family are going through, but I'm not scared of this. He's done it once before and it wasn't the worst thing he's done to me. It's actually nice to be clean after being in a dingy basement.
Being more relaxed, my body betrays me as he cleans between my legs. Last time, I turned my face away in protest. Consumed with fear and rage, I was able to ignore the physical sensations. But being naked and alone for days on end, with nothing against my skin but cold concrete, his warm hands heat up every part of me they touch. His jeans smell of paint, but on his skin is the sweet aroma of salt and grass, and it reminds me of long days in Tahoe.
I act unfazed, but when I take a deep breath to calm myself, it skips nervously.
He rubs me everywhere. My body is conquered land; there are no secrets from him.
I take in the arm with the scars and see they run all along that side of his body, up his torso. Thick ropey marks crawl up his neck. The other side of his body is pristine.
He pours a jug of warm water over me to rinse off the soap, using his hands to assist the rinsing. My captor makes his way back between my legs, guiding the clean water to make sure it rinses all the filth away. And while his touch was soft but clinical before, this time, he rubs, letting his fingers go past the outer lips, but not breaching the entrance. Testing. Teasing. My stomach flutters with contempt and arousal.
“Stop it. Please,” I beg as my knees weaken. He goes for a few more seconds, his hand invading me, but still nothing like the night we first met. Flashes of the feeling I had that night fill me with shame: How I let this man almost take me to orgasm, and how now, despite my resistance, if he wanted to again he likely could.
But he stops on his own accord, rinsing me off and toweling me. He hands me the water and I chug down as much as I can without getting sick. Instantly, life returns to my body.
“Can I watch more TV?” I ask.
He doesn't answer.
“I just want to see if my brother is okay. He wasn't at the news conference.”
He shakes his head. TV is not on the table today.
I suck back a sharp sob, I don't want to cry in front of him anymore.
He walks over to the milk crate and pulls out a thick blanket. Softness. Texture. Warmth. What I wouldn't do to be able to sleep on that tonight. The floor is so cold and unforgiving. I've lost fat and with that, cushion, and my bones ache.
“What do I have to do? Just say it. I don't understand why you won't say it.”
He walks over and lays it on the floor behind me. Then he comes back to face me, close, and that's when I see the bulge in his pants. It's menacing and I'm scared and yet the area where he last touched lights up. He leans in close enough for his hardness to graze me.
“I'm gonna taste your pussy,” he whispers in my ear. His voice is gritty and low, the auditory equivalent of gravel.
I shake my head. I won't do this. This isn't who I am. He can strip me down, starve me, isolate me, but I am still Vesper Rivers.
He shrugs, pulling the blanket off the floor. Tossing it in the milk crate, going through the motions for a grand exit. It's so unfair, this is all nothing to him, but this basement is my world. That blanket could be my bed. It could shield my naked body so I can maintain a shred of dignity. It could hug me. A simple hug, even from a blanket would be a lifeline right now.
A sense of panic rises in me as he walks towards the stairs. He's the only person I can talk to or touch. I don't want him to go. I don't want to sit in this endless boredom, staring out the tiny window that is far out of reach. I've run out of things to think about. I've slept away more hours than I can count. I don't know how much longer I can keep going without food. I feel like I'm hanging onto my sanity by a hair. I have to stop him from leaving me in here.
“Wait! Can we bargain? Can I have one more thing?” He stops, but doesn't face me. He's listening.
“Food. I'm so hungry. I can't keep going like this. The blanket and the food. I know you have some. I can smell it.”
He's silent for a few moments. Probably to fuck with me more than trying to mull it over. Then he shakes his head.
“Oh come on!” I shout, hot tears falling down my cheeks. I'm so angry I'm letting myself cry over such mundane items. I've been reduced to an infant, relying on someone for my most basic needs and unable to communicate through anything but tears.
He comes over and stands a foot away from me. Without a word, he looks me up and down, scanning my naked body like it's a meal. I've gotten somewhat used to the nudity, but the way his eyes scour me feels more intrusive than the bathing.
“You'll have to let me lick your cunt for the blanket. But if you want to eat food, you'll have to swallow my cock first.” He reaches down and unzips his pants, pulling out his thick, engorged penis. For some reason I salivate, causing me to gulp. Sustenance, company, sex, it's all becoming intermingled. One associated with the other.
If I had to guess, I've been here for many days, maybe weeks. I've had one high calorie meal, but my hip bones are jutting out. I am weak. I am tired. I've had just enough wat
er to keep myself alive and I wonder if my kidneys might go soon. The blanket is nice. It's a luxury. But food, food is life. And I am going to do anything I can to survive.
I don't have any more energy to bargain or even speak, simply nodding in consensus.
“Can I just have a bite? Just something to start? My head hurts.” His crystal eyes, strong and unwavering, meet my sunken light brown ones. “I'll do a better job for you if I have energy.” In case he doesn't have a human side, I appeal to his carnal one.
He walks over to the milk crate, his hard dick still hanging out, bouncing as he walks, and pulls out something. I stand taller with excitement. It's a bag of potato chips. He opens it and takes out a handful, then folds the bag, placing it back in the crate before walking over.
He bobs his head at me and I open my mouth. He feeds me one chip and my mouth bursts with salty goodness.
“Mmmm,” I moan shamelessly. I think I see his lips curve into a smile that he quickly fixes. Another. Another. I get ten chips. Ten glorious, salty, crunchy chips. Enough to make my mind think it's getting more food and trigger a second wind. The small dose shifts my mood, putting me in an unlikely post-snack high.
But the feeding is only a minute, and now I have to work on the down payment I collected.
He points to the blanket.
I lie down, watching him stand over me, making me feel so small. He finishes undoing his jeans and lets them fall to the floor. He's not wearing underwear, and now he's completely naked. His legs are thick with muscle, though not as tanned as his upper body.
You're still Vesper, I remind myself.
But am I? I've traded sexual favors for a meal and a blanket. That's not who I am. I clench up, thinking about my family and Carter. Carter who I am betraying by agreeing to this. I should have fought more. Now that I have a little bit of energy from the food, I should fight this raw deal.
The man, completely naked, except for the black balaclava, rests his hard body against mine. His cock presses against me, and I wonder if he's going to penetrate me instead of following our agreement.
Take Me With You Page 7