by Nora Flite
Coughing, I turned away when he let me go. Blinking furiously, I silently admitted that my eyes felt much better now. One act of kindness didn't make up for what he'd done to me, though.
My vision was blurry as I looked back at him. Conway was crouched with his forearms resting on his knees. Then I noticed he was looking downwards. Following his gaze, I saw that the water had turned my white dress transparent. Chelsea had convinced me not to wear a bra because it was backless, and bra straps were “tacky” according to her.
I'd used the adhesive skin-colored pasties she'd given me. At some point they'd slid off, sticking to the inside of the dress but not at all hiding my obviously visible nipples.
Conway leveled his stare—we were eye to eye, silently studying each other in this new moment. It reminded me of years ago, sitting with him on a bed as we shared an erotic story.
I glimpsed his lust. He saw me glimpse it.
Suddenly he broke away, standing stiffly; a wooden soldier come to life. “Get comfortable. This will be a long drive.”
Flushing, I jerked my head to the side, taking my body with it. My arms and knees bunched together; I was a tight ball of humiliated fury. “You honestly can't believe you'll get away with this. Your dad didn't.”
Squeezing the edge of the van door, he hunched his shoulders. “I'm not my dad.”
Then I was alone.
- Chapter Six -
Georgia Mary King
The van ground to a halt.
There were no lights inside the back of the vehicle, just the smudged orange that leaked through the tinted windows after the few hours that had faded away. Hugging myself violently, I'd fought down waves of carsickness mixed with the effects of being drugged. Conway's swerving finally caused me to puke all over myself. It had mostly been water, but it still smelled awful.
He opened both doors, illuminating me in the darkness. Behind him stretched a wall of glitter; stars that winked at me, a sky I might never see again. Stop thinking like that. You don't know what's going to happen.
That was the worst part of all.
“Hungry?” he asked me.
I gestured at myself, feeling no shame. “I threw up everywhere thanks to your crazy driving. So no, not very hungry. I need clean clothes—and I need to pee.”
His arms stretched the doors open wider. It made his lats flex along his rib cage; I hated how good he looked. “I'm not asking for your list of demands.”
“Unless you want piss to join the mess back here, help me out.”
I couldn't read his face; his front was all shadow, his edges lit up from behind so that parts of his shirt became translucent, like a bird's wings as it flew too close to the sun. What was creating the source of light? “Don't try anything,” he said, half-stepping inside and reaching for me.
Scooting closer, I let him grab my arms. He was strong enough to lift me from the van—I was surprised at how gently he did it. The new Conway and “gentle” went together like peanut butter and sewage.
He balanced me at his side. Ignoring his closeness, I looked around, getting my bearings. We were the lone vehicle parked next to a small building with a single orange light bulb set in the overhang. It was surrounded by stiff grass, two vending machines stuffed in a corner by a faded restroom door-
a self-service rest stop.
Every state had them; it gave me no hint as to where I was.
“Come on,” he said, hooking me by the elbow.
“Wait!” Intentionally I let myself stumble; it was easy with my bindings. “I can't go anywhere like this.”
“Don't fuck around. Walk.”
Digging deep, I channeled my inner toddler and went boneless. Flopping to the ground, I scraped my knee, wincing. “You're asking too much, just untie my ankles. I can't use the restroom like this.”
He glared at me, his eyebrows scrunching together above the bridge of his nose. Conway looked over at the van and then at the sky—was he waiting for something? Then he shook himself, scooping me up and carrying me towards the restroom.
He's not waiting for someone, I realized with a start. He's hurrying because someone is waiting for him. My stomach knotted up as I imagined who it could be. What if it's not a person, but a departure time - a plane? Fuck, if he got me out of the States, no one would ever find me.
Shaking with paranoia, I was slow to notice how Conway was cradling me against his firm chest. His fingers were pressed into my shoulder and the top of my outer thigh.
Looking upwards, I studied his strong jaw bobbing overhead. His facial hair was the same sable color as his hair. It gave him a wild, devil-may-care appearance. If I brushed it, would it feel like sandpaper? Tingles I didn't anticipate flowed under my skin. No one had ever held me like this, it made me hot as an oven in summer.
But it didn't make me feel safe. Once upon a time, it would have.
Kicking open the restroom door, he set me down inside. “Go. And be quick.”
The room was made from mildew-coated tiles and flickering lights (the victim of sparse public funding). The soap container held more pink-residue than actual soap. Above the rotten smelling sink drain was a toaster-sized mirror that had a few major chunks missing. At least the toilet was clean.
Conway stared at me; I stared back. “Well?” he asked.
“I'm not going with you watching me.”
“After the stunt you pulled earlier, I'm not leaving you alone.”
“Stunt?” I laughed sourly. “Trying to save my life is a stunt?” He said nothing, just observed me silently. “Conway, I can't escape. This room has no windows. Stand outside the door. Give me a small bit of privacy. I deserve that much.”
His arms knotted over his chest. Whether he agreed or not, he must have realized arguing was a waste of time. “Be quick.” The door drifted shut behind him.
Dropping onto the toilet, I shut my eyes and sighed; I hadn't been able to hold it much longer. How is this happening to me again? If fate existed, it had a fucked up sense of humor.
Cleaning up, I waited to flush—I didn't want him to know I was done. I couldn't escape through the walls, but there could be something here that would help me later.
Moving around as quietly as I could on my tangled ankles and flats, my eyes throbbed from how intently I looked for something. Paper towels, toilet paper, a tiny garbage can... it wasn't striking me as helpful.
I caught my reflection in the mirror—smeared makeup, stained dress, tangled hair. Part of my face was gone where pieces of the mirror had been broken free to reveal the matte foil beneath. That's it. Anxiously I reached up, gently pulling at the glass.
Outside, Conway coughed. “Almost done?”
“Yes!” I managed, popping off a finger sized piece of glass. Hurriedly I wrapped it in layers of toilet paper. It didn't look like much, but to me, it was perfect.
I had a weapon.
Tucking the now safely contained shard into my underwear, I flushed the toilet. Walking would be a challenge but my tied ankles gave me a natural excuse. Conway wouldn't suspect a thing.
He came in as I was rinsing my hands. In the mirror, I saw him watching me. Could he sense my new confidence? Tossing paper towels into the bin, I faced him. “Okay. Now I'm hungry.”
****
I very, very carefully knelt down in the back of the van. Surviving would be much more difficult if I sliced myself open with a piece of mirror.
Conway handed me a bag of chips from the vending machine. Then he offered me a small bottle—lemonade. The wave of sorrow that drowned me caught me off guard. Lemonade. Had he given it to me on purpose? Reaching out, I closed my hand on the bottle, studying his face for... for any hint that this wasn't how it seemed. That kidnapping me was a ruse and he'd take me home. We'd worry about how to move on, but we'd do it. Somehow.
He let go of the bottle. “Drink up, we leave in three minutes.”
“What is this?” I whispered, clutching the lemonade.
“A snack.”
&nbs
p; I couldn't look at him anymore, so I stared at my fingernails. My voice was a fragile warble. “How can you be so cruel that you'd give me something to remind me of all the ways you protected me?”
Crickets sang outside the open doors. I wished for a car engine, the crunch of tires, but we were the only ones here. The van rocked when he stepped out, his boots disrupting the gravel.
My gaze was blurry with tears. Lifting my chin, I saw the back of his head—the hard lines that bridged between his shoulders and neck muscles. Everything was stiff, but didn't he always look that way?
“It's just lemonade,” he whispered.
I thought about throwing it at him, except I didn't know how long I'd be here, or when we'd stop next. My pride didn't extend past my need to survive.
But I didn't drink it until he was gone.
I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
- Chapter Seven -
Georgia Mary King
Why me? Why this again? Why him?
I asked myself those questions until they changed into a tangled mass of barbed wire that shred me where I was weak. I'd always worried about Facile slipping out of the shadows to capture me again. That fear had been an open wound inside of me, one that I'd been told to ignore by each family member and friend as they grew frustrated—ultimately giving up on me - all of them cutting ties.
But you don't fucking ignore when you're bleeding out.
I shouldn't have gone to that party, I berated myself. Wanting to live my life like a normal person was a mistake. In hindsight I saw the many paths I could have taken to avoid this. I could have told Chelsea who Conway was. I could have told her I needed to go to the cops. My regrets tugged on my wound until it became a cavern.
Why is he doing this? Could I have read him so wrong when we were kids?
Squeezing my eyelids shut, I drilled my memories, looking for any hint that the sweet boy who'd read books to me would one day become the monster driving this van. Conway had been a kind soul who did his best to keep his father at bay. He'd punched his own brother to protect me.
What had I missed? Because it had to be something.
If not... then there was another reason he was acting like this. God, I wanted to believe that. It was the same flickering hope I'd clung to nine years ago. I dug my nails into the softness of that wish; if I held too tight, I'd suffocate it.
At some point I fell asleep. I didn't know how long, but the light outside the windows had changed—become brighter. The van wasn't moving, was that what had woken me up? Conway ripped the doors open just as I got to my knees. The hard edge of the mirror dug into my inner thighs.
He nodded at me with his chin. “We're here.”
Here—there was a crisp finality to that word.
I'd tucked myself into the far left corner of the vehicle. He was wearing that shiny bomber jacket of his again. It made him bigger. Sturdier.
He wasn't going to ask if I was ready, or if I was coming; he expected me to go to him. I debated trying to slip the jagged shard out without him seeing—with my knees pulled to my chest, I could do it. I'd be able to slice his throat when he came to grab me.
Picturing his blood spilling all over me was too much. I was a fighter, not a killer.
Scooting on my butt with my legs folding up, then out, I moved like an inchworm. I felt about as brave as one, too. The mirror was wrapped in enough layers of paper that I was sure I'd be fine, but I was still cautious.
Conway slid his elbow around mine, helping me down to the grass. A strong wind wrapped itself in my hair. Salt hit my nose, then the ripe, tangy scent of the ocean. We were standing on a slope that rolled down to a sandy beach. It had a single, weatherworn dock.
Peeking over my shoulder, I saw the barely-there dirt road that vanished behind a large hill and thick bushes. A rusted wire fence circled off to both sides, multiple faded “Private Property” signs clung to it.
He kicked the van doors shut, then crouched, tossing me over his shoulder fireman style. “Hey!” I shouted.
Ignoring me, he took long strides down the slope. His boots echoed off the wooden boards of the dock. He was taking me towards the ocean, but I was looking at the white van as it became smaller. I'd missed so many chances to get out of this situation. How many more would I have?
My vision spun; he'd flipped me up and over too fast. Clenching my teeth to settle myself, I was relieved when I felt solid wood beneath me, instead of the icy waves. Conway sat across from me in the small boat; he scanned my face, eyebrows arching. “Did you expect me to drown you?” he asked.
“I don't know what to expect from you anymore.”
He untied the rope holding us to the dock with expert speed. He's done this before. Many times, I think. Gripping the thick oars, he grunted, rowing us out into the high tide.
Overhead, the sky was the color of pasty oatmeal. Seagulls shrieked, circling, barely flapping on the wind. Strands of my hair kept lodging in my lips and blocking my vision. I turned in place, taking every landmark in.
The boat wasn't meant for long distance travel. We couldn't be going far. Squinting, I faced Conway, searching beyond him. There was a dark blob on the horizon; the closer we got, the more I picked out. Some sparse trees... and rocks that angled upwards like dragon spines. “What island is that?”
He navigated without looking at the landmass we were approaching. “That's your new home.”
Shivering, I watched it come into focus. He pulled us up towards a new dock—I spotted another boat, and my heart soared. More boats meant more opportunities to flee. I noted the fence that surrounded the part of the island I could see. It was in the shape of a lopsided horseshoe, blocking all access between the dock and the land beyond.
Not far past that was a house.
“How many people are living here?” I asked, my voice getting higher. The old home belonged in an episode of Downton Abbey. It was far bigger than it needed to be for this single island. It was also ancient—missing roof shingles, peeling paint, boarded windows. Each time a big wave smashed against the cliff side, I expected the house to crumble from the impact.
His lips twitched into a frown. Suddenly he glanced at the island. I wondered if he wasn't capable of looking at me as he answered. “We'll mostly be alone.”
Our boat glided into the dock. Conway jumped out, tying it securely into place. Constant waves sent the vessel swaying side to side. “Come on,” he said, offering a hand.
I looked back at where we'd come from. With my limbs tied, I couldn't swim the distance. Was it a mile from here to the other shore? I might not be able to make it even WITH my arms and legs free.
“Don't,” he said sharply.
I twisted, catching the distrust in his eyes. And something else—a hazy tension that screamed fear. “What,” I said coolly. “Afraid I'll drown myself before you can have your fun?”
He grabbed for me; I bent away, staying out of reach at the rear of the boat. “Georgia, stop it. Take my hand.”
He's worried I'll do it. I looked down at the swirling water. It had to be freezing this time of year. “Why do you care if I die?” I stabbed him with a glare. “Are you not planning to kill me, like your dad would have?”
Conway's scowl showed off all his perfect teeth. “No. I'm not going to kill you. Now get up here, before we both get knocked into the damn ocean.”
He could have been lying. The little girl in my past said he wasn't.
I linked my fingers with his. Conway squeezed tight, as if I'd fly away into the sky. Pushing to my feet, I let him help me onto the dock. He held me a second too long, our hips touching, my face pointed up towards his like a flower in the sun.
He turned, the moment gone. “This way,” he mumbled.
With his assistance I made it up the steep path to the chain-link fence. He unlocked it, carrying me through, setting me down to close the gate back up. I watched very closely where he put the key—left rear pocket of his jeans.
His thick arm scooped aro
und my middle. Hugged against his warmth, the only thing shielding me from the salty wind, I let him half-drag me to the front door of the house. The closer I got, the more its worn out state became clear. This house hadn't been maintained for a long time.
We stepped onto the threshold, and as Conway reached for the door, it swung open.
The man who stood inside held the brass knob so tight his knuckles gleamed on his pale skin. It was made starker by his heavy, black sweater. The stranger was the same height as Conway, but he had lighter hair, eyes like stones abandoned at the bottom of a river.
I didn't recognize him until he smiled. The braces were gone, but it was the same, awful grin that had chased me through my night terrors.
“Welcome home,” he said sweetly.
Lonnie.
- Chapter Eight -
Georgia Mary King
“No,” I whispered.
Lonnie reached for me; I shrank away, leaning into Conway like I could merge with his body. His grin twitched on the corners. “Come on, is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“Don't come near me!” I snapped, watching him with one wild eye. The rest of my face was buried in Conway's shirt.
“Guess you kept that spine of yours all these years,” Lonnie said. He bent down, leveling his attention on me. “Can't wait to see it break.”
I'd begun trembling, the shaking so bad that my teeth chattered. No. No, this isn't happening. It can't be real. Lonnie had spent the least amount of time with me out of his whole family, but he'd scarred me down to my bone marrow.
And he was here-just a foot away.
Conway's arm came down, circling my shoulders. “Stop it,” he said, no room for argument in his tone. “You're scaring her.”
Lonnie shot his eyes up at his brother. Then he stood straight. “That's the fucking idea.”
“You're here to watch, that's all. Remember that.”
“I know what my job is.” Lonnie squinted at me. “I'm wondering if you're the one who's forgotten what he has to do.” Then he backed into the house, making room for us to pass.