by Jesse Joren
"Then how did you have access to a private chat?" I asked.
"Talent?" he suggested with a grin. "I watched as every would-be Romeo in the room approached you. I sensed you were bored and about to leave. So I messaged you, and you joined me. Why?"
His question caught me off guard. In all of our chats he'd never asked me that. I remembered vividly, but I didn't want to tell him.
"I guess I just felt like playing that night," I said, trying to sound flippant.
"Like I said, you're a terrible liar," he grinned. "So you joined me in private chat, and suddenly that spark was there. We never even got to the sex. You were such a smart-ass, but so smart and sweet and wistful all at once."
"That wasn't what got my attention. It was because somewhere behind all that brightness, there was a streak of pain so deep and bitter that I could almost taste it. It…intrigued me."
"After you left, I looked into that blank screen for a long time. I'd missed my flight, and I didn't even care."
"Fifteen minutes later I knew your name, your address, your Social Security number. Just so you couldn't slip away from me."
For a moment he was quiet. The fire in the stove hissed and popped.
"The whole story isn't for tonight," he said at last. "You're not ready, and the most interesting part isn't written."
I was holding my breath, caught up in the story he'd started to weave. How casually he spoke of invading my life, completely unconcerned about considerations like laws or common decency.
With effort I made myself focus. It would be the worst kind of mistake to get pulled deeper into whatever this was.
"You didn't answer my question," I said. "Why did you bring me here?"
"You had three questions to ask me," he said, counting on his long fingers. "Is there city water? Yes. Where we are? Georgia. Where exactly in Georgia? Near Savannah. I've provided three answers."
"You said answers." I said, struggling to keep my voice level. "Nothing was said about only three questions."
"You work in an office full of attorneys. Don't you know that you have to be careful of any negotiations with a potentially hostile or unknown party?"
Slowly I absorbed the meaning of what he was saying. I'd sweated my ass off for hard miles on the bike, squandering them over a stupid little word game. I wouldn't make that mistake again.
"What other hidden clauses are there?" I demanded. "Supper was poisoned? You're not going to let me keep the clothes after all? No bath?"
"Now you're thinking like you should be," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Supper was just food. Zero poison. You can have the clothes for tomorrow. Wrapping up in a towel won't cut it."
I considered every nuance of what he'd just said. The food part seemed okay, but there was something not right about the clothes.
"What about clothes?" I persisted. "I earned them. Do I only get a robe?"
"I left a few other things for you upstairs," he said. "You can have them until this time tomorrow. Complete the new task and I'll bring you a fresh set. Otherwise I take them all away, and you're back to square one."
My legs silently groaned at this news.
"How long are you planning to keep me here?" I asked, ignoring the squealing panic that was trying to take root inside of me.
"If I were you," Hex said, "I'd seriously consider making that one of the three questions you might earn with tomorrow's performance."
Tomorrow's performance. Who the hell did he think he was? Sharp anger boiled up into my mouth, driving away the lingering sweetness of the cheesecake.
"I'm going to see you in jail for this, you fucker," I said. This time my voice sounded like I really meant it.
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't try," he said.
CHAPTER TEN
The thick rope hung silent and forbidding in front of me, swaying like a pale python. I stared at it, wondering if maybe this was one of those crazy dream-within-a-dream experiences.
Oh, it's real enough, sister. You're just lucky you didn't wake up hanging from it. Like by the neck.
I was wearing the clothes Hex had left for me upstairs. Fresh underwear and socks. Soft black yoga pants. A pink athletic T-shirt that fitted me perfectly.
A pair of gloves had been at the bottom of the pile. Actually they were half-gloves, and I had a vague idea they were for golf.
I'd tried golf once and hated every minute of it. As far as I knew, there were no plans to visit the country club today, so I ignored the gloves.
When I'd descended the stairs, my legs quivered enough to make me clutch the bannister on the way down. The rubbery feeling in my thighs and butt reminded me all over again of the hellish bike ride the day before.
Hex had been busy while I slept. A small fire burned in the stove, keeping the kettle steaming on top. A fairly large cardboard box was on the table.
And of course, there was this damn rope. My eyes followed its path upward. A loop fastened it to one of the thick wooden rails that framed the edge of the bedroom balcony. It was long enough to touch the floor down here, a series of knots tied along its length.
Whatever it was for, there wasn't going to be a performance today. I didn't stop to open the box, or the envelope marked EVA on top of it.
Instead I headed through the pantry and down the dark stairs to the basement. The only way out of Walden seemed to be the door and windows that I'd seen last night.
I was going to have a shot at rescue. To escape if I could, and save my self-respect at the very least.
An hour later I was sitting on the bottom step in the basement, alternately drying my eyes and glaring at the door and windows. My arms were exhausted, and there was a sharp pain between my shoulders, but I was no closer to escape.
The deadbolt had defied me. I didn't have a convenient paperclip, so I tried picking it with what I could find. That turned out to be a paring knife, but it only bent the thin blade.
I'd searched for something heavy, but an iron skillet was all I could find. I'd bashed it against the glass until I could no longer lift it.
The glass hadn't broken, but there was a white, crushed-looking pattern where I'd struck again and again. I doubted if Hex would believe that the window spontaneously tried to explode.
I had no doubt that the windows upstairs would yield the same result. Unless there was some other secret door, or unless the roof lifted off, there was no other way out of the cabin that I could see.
Wiping my eyes one last time, I forced myself to climb the hated stairs to see what was in that box. The rope still hung there, waiting for me like a bad dream.
I opened the envelope with slow fingers. Inside was a single handwritten sheet, the writing bold, black, and brief.
Today's work is all upper body.
Hang on the rope for an hour. All at once, a minute at a time, your choice. Use timer to track. I don't believe in honor systems, so the rope is sensored.
Your head is part of your upper body. Write a five-hundred-word essay in French. Your choice of topic. If acceptable, same rewards as last night.
Mistakes will have penalties.
I opened the box with caution. My stomach was already rumbling at the hope of food.
It wasn't disappointed. A large plastic container held croissants, brioche, and butter. Another held a huge portion of chopped papaya sprinkled with toasted almonds. Still others contained a large wedge of vegetable-stuffed quiche and a massive green salad.
There was a layer of foil under the food. Below that was a spiral notebook and pens, along with several books.
A French-English dictionary. A book of French grammar. Several books by Voltaire, Camus, Dumas. None of them were in English.
The promised timer was tucked into the bottom, along with a French press, a packet of coffee, and two bottles of Perrier.
There was another item too. I pulled it out and looked at it in disbelief. A wool beret.
"
Very fucking funny," I muttered. Maybe an irate Frenchman would seek revenge on Hex for the honor of his country. I hoped it would be soon.
I opened Candide. The words were beautiful even though I didn't understand most of them anymore.
Il avair le jugement assez droit, avec l'esprit le plus simple; c'est, je crois, pour cette raison qu'on le nommait Candide…
So Hex had broken into the transcripts of my first two years at Georgia Tech on an international affairs degree. He was thorough. You could say that for him. At least I'd earned A's before I quit.
One more mystery was solved. I knew what the gloves upstairs were for now.
At least it wasn't golf.
Following my breakfast of croissants, fruit, and coffee made in the press, I stood looking skeptically at the rope. What little upper body strength I had was gone thanks to the skillet-bashing session on the window downstairs.
I had to try. Somehow Hex was very aware of what went on even when he wasn't physically here. I wasn't eager to wear a towel again.
I clicked on the timer, then put my foot on the lowest knot. With effort I swung myself up onto the rope with my hands. It swayed violently, almost throwing me off. It was like trying to ride a cooked noodle.
After a little while I figured it out. The key was to tighten my whole body and become the support that the rope couldn't offer.
I could tell that the soreness from the bike was going to be nothing compared to this. My legs were used carrying me and had some strength. On the other hand, my arms got tired from carrying in a few bags of groceries.
This was going to take forever. And there was still that damn essay.
All of my focus was on my aching arms, my straining muscles. I desperately needed something else to think about, or this was going to be an even worse ordeal.
Then on one of my remounts, the topic for my essay came to me. Just like that.
Mental distraction was a dire necessity this morning. And didn't they always say that Necessity is a mother?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hex read my essay without expression. The French had come back to me with surprising ease. My mind had never been the out-of-shape part of me.
The remains of the dinner he'd brought were still spread out across the table. Coq au vin. Small new potatoes. An éclair that had melted on my tongue. Even a very good Bordeaux.
A clichéd French meal for sure. That cliché had tasted pretty damn good going down.
Hex didn't look French. He just looked too sexy for his own good – or mine – in his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt. I hated to think of the effect he'd have if he was really trying.
As always, I was ill at ease when anyone read anything I'd written, no matter what the language. The chair seemed too hard, making me fidget, then stand up to pace.
Finally he set the paper aside. He glanced at me, and there was the twitch of a smile at one side of his mouth.
"Do you really think you'd be able to drop me into vinegar after the coyotes finished with me?" he asked. "There might not be much left. You did tie a pork roast to my head."
"You said write about whatever I liked," I said in a sugary tone. "It's not my fault that my thoughts aren't full of rainbows right now."
My little revenge fantasy en francais had kept me sane as I clung to the rope like some half-assed rock climber. I thought I deserved points for creativity.
It occurred to me yet again how strangely comfortable I was with him. After everything that had happened, I should be afraid to make him angry.
How easily and naturally I became the sassy, mouthy girl he'd known me as online. That part had always been the real me, and he brought it out even in this bizarre place where I found myself.
"My French must be pretty good if you got my meaning," I said, fishing for a compliment. I deserved it after today.
"It is," he agreed, pushing the paper to me. "Even if your handwriting is horrible. Now read it to me. I want to hear your pronunciation."
That caught me by surprise, but I did the best I could. My rhythm was off on some of the unfamiliar words, but the cadence mostly felt right.
"Excellent," he said, as though he really meant it. "Why did you quit?"
"You know everything about me, so why don't you tell me?"
"I have my theory," he said, "but I prefer to hear it from you."
My good mood took a nosedive. There was a brief silence.
"There didn't seem to be any point," I said at last. "Probably I would have ended up in some crappy job that had nothing to do with my degree. Why bother?"
"That's a bullshit excuse if I ever heard one," he said.
His matter-of-fact tone seemed calculated to goad me.
"Is it?" I said, rising to the bait. "People make plans all the time that never come to anything. It's better just to see things like they are and that way you don't get –"
I stopped myself, but only barely. That second glass of wine might have been a bad idea. Too late now.
Hex's eyes met mine. He knew exactly how I was going to finish that sentence. He was no amateur when it came to putting pieces together.
All at once, I was close to tears. I set my jaw and blamed it on too many challenges today. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't.
To my relief he didn't press me further.
"Something tells me you have things to ask me," he said, "unless you have all the answers already."
He was right. Even as I was hanging on the rope and struggling with the essay, part of my mind had been planning what I'd ask. I wasn't going to be tricked again.
"No," I said. "Just don't try to cheat me out of my five answers."
"Nice try, but you know it's only three," he said. He was about to say more, then caught himself with a laugh.
"Good move," he said, raising his glass in a toast.
I smiled to myself. No way I was going into this again without knowing exactly what I was buying. Not after last night.
"When are you planning to let me go?" I asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"When I know that you're safe," he said.
"Safe from – "
I caught myself just in time. He wasn't going to sidetrack me into wasting my questions. At least it sort of indicated that he didn't plan to kill me.
"You said you have enemies," I pressed on. "If that's so, then they might kill you. Or people have accidents. What happens to me here, locked up here if something happens to you?"
"You've noticed that this place is more than it seems," he said. "There's a code I enter once a day. If three days go by and that code isn't entered, the door automatically unlocks."
"If I'm away from you for longer than that, then you can assume that I'm dead. Once the door opens, getting back to Atlanta would be very easy."
It was more answer than I expected. Hex was smiling at me.
"Don't get any ideas about murdering me," he teased.
"That's not a bad idea," I muttered, wishing I'd thought of it first.
"One more question tonight," he reminded me, taking a drink of wine.
"What's your real name?" I blurted.
He actually paused, looking at me with an intensity that made me drop my gaze after a moment.
"What's real?" he asked. "I go by a lot of names. It's better that you don't know any of them. But I'm Hex to no one else on this planet besides you."
It wasn't the answer I hoped for, but there might be other chances on other nights. After today's battle with the windows and door, I wasn't going anywhere.
"I hate you for not giving me a real answer to a real question," I said, trying not to sound like a petulant teenager.
"Tomorrow you'll hate me even worse," he said. "You're going to be a lot more sore than you realize. Delayed onset muscle soreness. DOMS. I kind of like that."
"So no challenges for tomorrow," he went on. "You'll get clothes and food, maybe a question if I feel generous. The Frenc
h may get tiring, so here's something else to amuse you."
He reached behind his back came up holding something that he presented with a flourish. A dog-eared and stained paperback copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales.
My insides went cold at the sight of it. That wasn't from my apartment. It should still be on another shelf more than a hundred miles from there. The one in my old bedroom at my mom's house in Alabama.
Maybe it's not the same.
I hoped not. If it was, that meant that Hex had been even more invasive than I'd originally thought.
My fingers shook a little as I turned to the fly leaf. There it was, in childish script from my own hand long ago.
Property of Evangeline Bright
"Thanks," I said through very dry lips.
He stood up and came to me. Something in his eyes made my heart begin to pound.
Disturbed or not, he was the sexiest guy I'd ever seen. My attraction to him seemed to be going the wrong way, growing hotter and brighter each time I was with him.
Hex cupped my face in his hands, his long fingers creating a soft cage that held me still. His eyes searched my face with slow deliberation, and then he leaned over and pressed his lips to mine.
His mouth was exactly what it promised: firm, and sensual, all at once. The soft whisper of his breath caressed my lips, hinting at the deeper taste of him to come.
The tip of his tongue touched the bow of my upper lip, tracing it. A tiny groan came and went inside my throat, and he took it as the invitation that it was.
"Sweet Evangeline," he said into the almost-kiss.
His tongue gently pried between my lips and found mine, mixing the taste of him and the wine. My head began to spin, and I realized I was drunk not from wine, but the sheer sensuality he was pouring into me.
My hands came up on blind instinct, finding the crispness of his short hair. For an endless moment as we were fused together, I couldn't tell where his lips ended and mine began.