I slowly come to my knees, so that I am nearly face to face with him.
“I can't read your mind. I don't even know your name. But I feel like I know you—like you know me—more than anyone I've ever known.”
I raise a trembling hand to his face, to the side that was hurt a long time ago. It's a risk. This could all backfire terribly, but I don't know any other way. I only know how to care for people. It's always been my instinct. I've seen the power tenderness has. If there is any sliver of a soul inside of him, he craves it somewhere deep inside. Maybe that's why he took me: underneath all the animus was someone who just wanted what he saw through each of those windows.
I move my hand so slowly, there are moments I wonder if I'll ever reach him. I wait for him to slap it away and storm out, or to throw me on my stomach and take whatever he wants. But he's frozen as my palm and fingertips rest on his cheeks.
“I don't know what I'm doing,” I confess. “Please tell me you do. Because I'm not supposed to want this, but your face…” I say, dipping close, so my lips graze his. “You terrify me, and yet I could look at you all day long…”
I plant a soft kiss against his pillowy lips. He's stern, and I stiffen, confused by his lack of response.
“No,” he says.
“Oh, I—” I stumble on my words. Feeling embarrassed and exposed. Rejected by the man who stole me. Maybe there is nothing inside of him that craves to be needed like I had hoped.
I pull my hand away but he snatches my wrist. I gasp.
“No—” He yanks me towards him in one sharp movement, so that my body, cool from the damp nightgown presses against his hot chest. His cock is pressed against me, everything about his body is a yes despite his words. “I…don't know what I'm doing,” he confesses.
He grabs my ass so hard I gasp, launching me off of the bed and into his arms. I wrap my legs around him, letting him carry me away from the bed. The smell of man and sex and whiskey overtakes the stench of the old breakfast across the room. The pale walls and floors fade into a blur as the colors of his skin, hair, and eyes sharpen. He kisses me so hard, my lips sting and I kiss back just as hard, trying to return the pain he makes me feel: Agony doused with pleasure. Sin blended with deliverance. Captivity leading to a type of freedom I never had outside of these walls.
I wrap myself around him, touching him, trying to get as close to him as I can, so that I can become a part of him, a part he could never destroy, but at the same time, I want to keep watching him. He's more than the fantasies I imagined when I thought about who would be under that mask. His face tells a story. I want to know it. I want to know him. Then I could make sense of this all.
He thrusts me up against a wall, expelling the breath from my chest, as he bites and sucks on my neck and shoulder. I graze my lips against his lips, his cheek, his temple, the salt of his glimmering summer skin seasoning each kiss. It's messy and desperate, but it's so good to be on his side. When he wants me, he wants me wholly and completely. I thought being loved was the most gratifying feeling. No, it's being obsessed over. It's having someone so infatuated with you that they would risk everything to have you. That is a high that love can't touch. Love is a slow burn, a stockpot simmering to soften the heart. But this—this is a flash flood, it's the smoke billowing when a steak hits a hot pan. It's threatening, but its fierceness is the very thing love dilutes.
He pulls away roughly, taking a sudden breath, like he has just snapped out of a trance.
I give him a questioning look as I catch my breath. But it's not even a second before he is spinning me against the wall and slamming me so hard against it, my cheek throbs from the impact. He's trying to set things back. To before that night in the shower, or just minutes ago when he showed me his face. He's trying to deny this. I have so many times bowed to his will without resistance. I've bent over, sucked, gagged, and braced—a passive participant as his prisoner of lust. I came, I dreamt about it, I waited for it through hours of soul-crushing loneliness. Part of that allowed me to hold on to the old Vesper. I could say that despite it all, he took, and I reluctantly abided. But she's gone now. I want more. I can finally admit that. In order to truly survive, I have to be all in. I have to get past the facade of this entire thing. For him to show me the hand he's been hiding, I'll have to show him mine.
As he peels the damp dress away from my backside, I twist away from the wall, to face him again. I glare into those eyes that are so clear they don't reflect my image. The act of rebellion sets him back just long enough for me to grab him and pull him into me, assailing his lips with mine. He lets out a heavy breath as he reciprocates for a moment, but then he pulls away again. I can feel it—his muscles tensing under my grip, nearly trembling, trying to stop himself from going down the path. The one where we truly see each other.
He turns me again, this time pressing his forearm against my upper back, frantically unbuttoning his jeans with the other hand. But I wrestle his confinement, my slick skin allowing me to slip out, again facing him. I push his arm to the side and weave my hand through his hair, pulling him towards me.
“No—” he says.
I suffocate the word with my mouth. He twists and moans into the kiss before sharply pulling away again. This time, picking me up and throwing me down on the bed, face-down.
I am a woman determined. He'll have to render me unconscious if he wants it this way. I know that inside of him he doesn't. I can taste it in his frantic kisses. I wriggle underneath him and twist onto my back as he tries to pull himself out.
This time, he lets me go, only to give himself enough time to take off his pants, so the next time he comes for me, he'll have two free hands. I struggle onto my feet in those moments. In seconds, he is standing across from me, the bed dividing us. He is completely nude, his tanned, muscled curves, leading to a frustrated erection. This headless body I have seen many times before, seems so different now that it is part of a person. His shining, heaving figure lurks, like a jungle cat waiting to pounce. But this time, instead of waiting on him, I run across the bed at him, pouncing him fearlessly, so that he has no choice but to catch me in his arms. He spins and stumbles back onto the bed, underneath me. I pull off my dress, exposing my already-swollen breasts to him. He sits up, wrapping one hand around me and the other bracing our weight against the bed.
“Don't,” I whisper. “Let me see you.”
“No…” he says, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. Normally so verbal when he fucks, he's almost silent during this frenzy.
I slip my tongue through his boyish pout and slide him inside of me. It's effortless and breathtaking at once. We both exhale into each other's mouths. I wrap my legs around him, pinning him to me, claiming victory over his stubborn attempt to fight this.
He's as deep in me as any man could ever get, and I grimace and moan at the painful filling of my pussy.
“Oh god,” I cry. “I can't hold on.” It's too much, he's too far inside of me.
As his hips weave against mine, he slides his hands up my nape and tugs my hair, pulling me away from him. For a moment I think he's going to come in for a last second maneuver, throw me on my stomach and fuck me in the ass, leaving me without an orgasm as a punishment. But instead, he watches me—my face, my body—riding him. In that moment, I get that chill, the one only he can give me, where I am singularly coveted. I am the only woman on earth. I am his. I don't have to compete with anything or anyone for his gaze.
He sits taller and slides both of his hands under my ass, boosting me up, so that he can worship my breasts. My breaths skip as his lips glide over the tender nipples. They ache, but his mouth finds a way to give them relief and draw out pleasure. It's impossible to hold on any longer as the pulsing deep in my core grows to a crescendo. I let out a series of wails, wrapping my arms around his head, smothering his face in my breasts. His cock thickens against my spasming walls, and a flood of his warmth releases inside of me. He collapses underneath me. My body goes soft, as if gripped and constri
cted until the moment of death and then released to see another day. I wither on top of him, skin to skin. Our bodies breathe like two parts of one living being.
He keeps his head turned away from me. I know he's confused. I know he's upset that he let it all get this far tonight.
I reach over and play with his tendrils. I've wondered for months what I would do if I ever got to see all of him. All I want to do is this simple ritual, a way to stay connected after something so intense and confusing. Until this point, every time he fucks me, he walks away. It feels like I'm being thrown overboard, left to fend for myself in a harsh, unforgiving sea. But this small act, it keeps me above water. And, if my gut is right, it's doing the same for him too.
He's still here. Hours ago he was a terrifying nightmare in a mask, and now he's lying next to me, asleep, his golden wisps of hair and gentle expression marred with a fissure like that of a wounded angel. I had dozed off by his side, I'm not sure how long ago, but his arm finding a way around my torso woke me.
Once the initial grogginess wears off, I realize that the door to the cabin is unlocked. It can only be locked from the outside and he's still in here with me. This could be my chance, to slip out from under him. If he startles, I can tell him I was just going to the bathroom. If I could just free myself from his grip, I can quietly slip out the door and get a head start.
But something is holding me back. Well, many things.
What will I do when I get back? I'm not so sure I want to get rid of this baby anymore, but the idea of facing the world—facing Carter—with another man's child, no relationship could survive that.
Guilt. He's beside me, suddenly looking so vulnerable, and—I can't believe I am saying this—he finally trusted me. Let me see him. And I would be betraying him. If he caught me, which is likely, I would never get that chance with him again.
But I have no idea what life holds for me in here. Of course nothing is certain, but I can't just stay here in this shack forever. I have a brain. I matter. This can't be my life. Maybe last night changed things. If I can win this small battle, I can keep winning little ones until I can figure out what I want to do next.
I stare at the door, fully torn, paralyzed with fear and indecision. I should leave, but it's a fool's errand if I do. I wouldn't make it far, and if I did by some miracle, I'm not ready to face my old life. There will be a better time.
Just to test, however, I slowly slide from under his arm. He doesn't even flinch. When I creep towards the bathroom however, and the floor creaks, that's when he shoots up. I can barely make out his frantic silhouette as feels the bed for me.
“I'm here,” I whisper, softly putting my hand on his shoulder. “I have to use the restroom.”
He stills, but I can't see the details of his face. He finds his flashlight and scans it around the room.
“Are you leaving?” I ask. It was nice to have someone sleeping beside me.
He doesn't respond.
“You should stay. It's already very late.”
He flashes the light up and down at me, I shield my eyes, then he shoots it over at the mess on the floor. Now that the alcohol has dried, it stinks. I've gotten used to it, but apparently he hasn't.
“We can use the shop vac. You did bring it all the way out here.”
He doesn't say anything, but he hands me the flashlight, guiding my hand towards the mess. He pulls off the suction hose and switches it on. I shine the light on the mess at first, but playful instincts take over. He has to have a sense of humor somewhere in there. So I flash the light on his butt instead. Frustrated, he turns to scold me for my lack of focus to find me giggling. He looks down and sees where the light is aimed. He rolls his eyes, but I can tell he's not really angry, and points back to the mess.
“Okay,” I say.
Once he starts again, I move the light, at his heavy penis, flapping to and fro as he manipulates the vac.
He stops again, widening his eyes and thrusting his hands towards the mess.
“What? It's pretty!” I chuckle.
He just looks at me deadpan, like he can't believe my immaturity at this moment.
“Fiiiine,” I sigh. “Killjoy.”
I shine the light on the mess. He nods and mouths thank you before finishing up.
When he's done, he rounds up his stuff. In the midst of that, he hands me a bag of something. Jerky. I devour it while he finishes his work. I'm sure he's leaving, but I've already suggested he stay and I won't beg. He places all in his things in front of the door and takes the flashlight from me. He points the beam to the bed, to me, to the bed.
Get in.
I slide onto the bed.
He jerks the flashlight to the other side of the bed.
Move over.
I do.
He gets into bed. I pretend not to be shocked. He's just tired and doesn't want to hike back. I glance toward the door. His stuff is a blockade. He wasn't planning on leaving.
I lie down, and stare up at the dark skylight. This time, he drapes his arm around me. Not an accidental gesture during sleep, but a conscious choice. I could tell myself it's affection, but I know better. This time, if I move, he'll wake up instantly.
We've been in mom’s room for two days. She won't let me leave. Some weeks she's normal, then others, she gets a signal and we have to hide. Then she just sews and sews. I asked why once, and she said it's all she can do now, it makes her feel less scared. She says the sewing machine drowns things out.
When she's calm, she reads to me, makes me do math and history, just like school. I get to play outside in the forest for hours. But when she's like this, when the people are getting close, she just gives me books and makes me sit in the corner on the floor, so in case they can see through the fabric and paper, they still won't see me through the windows.
Dad used to come every weekend with Scoot. But they started arguing more and now he only comes once a month.
“Mom, I'm hungry.”
“You still have food, don't you?” she asks without looking up.
I look at the plate strewn with crumbs beside me on the floor.
“You have to pace yourself!”
“I'm bored.”
She sucks her teeth and stops the machine. “I'm sorry you're bored. But sometimes we do things we don't want to do, and this is one of those things.”
Sometimes I don't believe that people are coming to get me. We've been here for a year and I haven't seen or heard of anyone. She won't let me make friends or go to the neighbors. The few times she's let me leave the ranch was with her and we don't speak to anyone, we just go to the stores to get what we need.
“The animals, m-m-om. They need to be w-w-watched.”
“They'll be fine. Now here, read your book,” she says, passing me Green Eggs and Ham. It used to be my favorite. She would read it to me before bed and tickle my nose when it was my part to say “Sam I am.” It was the first book I could read aloud the whole way through without stammering. But now, she just gives it to me when she needs me to be quiet.
I flip through the pages and roll my eyes. I can recite the book backwards and reading it is pointless now. I begin to get angry. I want to scream. I want to go out and play. This isn't fair.
“I do not like it in this r-room. I do not like it on the floor. I do not like this anymore!” I scream.
Mom scurries over to me and sits next to me. “Shhhh! You have to be quiet.” She rubs away my tears. “Heeey, that was so good what you did there. Did you just make that up?”
I nod.
“That was a good poem!”
“When's Scoot com-m-m-m-ing?” I ask, my mouth quivering with sobs.
“He's—oh no,” she mouths, jumping up to her feet, looking through all her materials. “Do you have your composition book in here?” she asks.
I hand it to her. She goes to the back, counting the days on the calendar.
“Crap. He's coming today.” She glances at the clock. “He'll be here in an hour. I need your h
elp Sam, we need to fix this mess up and get everything back to normal,” she says.
I'm happy to have dad and Scoot back, and to be out of the room, so I begin cleaning up the scraps. Mom doesn't like dad to know about the times we hide. He gets angry and threatens to take me back to Sacramento. But I know he never will. He doesn't want me around all the time like that.
We run around the house, cleaning, vacuuming. I put on my boots and run out to tend to the horses and goats. They made a mess and have run out of food. As I walk out of the stalls, I see my dad pulling up in his pickup truck with Scooter in the passenger seat. I stand there with a bucket in my hand, waiting for them. Dad stops the car and Scooter jumps out of his side and runs at me.
When he gets close, he punches me in the shoulder. “Ewww, you stink.”
“I-i-i-it's t-t-t-he ami-ami-ani-mals,” I say. I want to sound perfect for dad, and it always makes me worse.
Dad walks over. He's not wearing his uniform today, just a pair of blue jeans and boots with a striped shirt. “Hey, son,” he says, rubbing my head. “Mom inside?”
I nod.
“Looks like she's put you to work, that's good. You can't just read books by yourself all day. We have to keep working on our project, okay?”
“What project?” Scoot asks.
Dad pats him on the back. “Go get your mother, will you?”
He looks at us suspiciously but runs towards the house.
“How's mom been? Acting strange?”
I shake my head. I need to protect us from spies.
“I worry about you here.”
I look down at my feet, at the bits of manure stuck on them.
“Alright, well, I won't force you out of here. But you should tell me if she's hiding anything.”
I can't tell whose side he's on.
“Let's get in the house. You need a bath. Have you eaten?”
I shake my head.
“Well, then you need food too. You are gonna need all the energy you can get for tonight.”
He's locked me in again. The room has no trace of evidence of the previous week's insanity except for the crack in the bathroom door. I thought I had at least chinked his armor, but every day is like a new one for him. I never know who will be walking through that door. But before I can further analyze my predicament, hunger burns through my belly. The bag of dried meat he gave me was just enough to hold me through the night. Just as always, I know nothing. I don't know when my next meal or visit will be. Time doesn't exist here.
Take Me With You Page 18