by Fiona Cole
The thought of Parker only added to the nausea.
My heart cracked deep and wide. Why hadn’t he waited for me? Why had he left?
The man sighed and slapped his thighs, making me jump. “Later,” he promised. “Right now, I need to get my pet some food. I had everything else planned, but in my excitement, I forgot to get nutrients to help us keep our energy up for all the work we’ll be doing later.”
The way he said work hammered another blow against my strength, and all I wanted to do was crumble and beg to be set free—beg for this not to be real. With all my effort to not fall apart, I forgot to stay silent.
“I’d rather die,” I gritted out.
He frowned. “Don’t say that, pet. I promise I’ll make you like it.”
“Fuck. You.”
“When I get back. I promise.” He winked like he was being funny, and I imagined clawing my nails down his face.
He edged his way back out to the foot of the bed, and I could almost breathe again with him on his way out, but he stopped and turned back, studying me. “Show me your tits.”
My eyes bulged, and I coughed, choking on my own breath. “No,” I growled.
One hand moved to the wall, and the other rested on the mattress, leaning in closer. He was still too far away, but the intention of intimidation was not lost on me. “Show. Me. Your. Tits,” he ordered, his calm veneer slipping even more. Simple brown eyes vanished, and a wild darkness took their place as he stared at the part of my chest my knees couldn’t cover. “I just want a little teaser. You don’t always wear a bra, and I’ve done nothing but stroke my cock all day, imagining what they look like. They’re so small, and I just…I need to see what color your little nipples are.”
His voice edged on a hysterical desperation that scared me more than anything up to that moment. When he started closing the gap, taking small steps to come back to me, I broke my silence and screamed. I lashed out with my feet, hoping to scare him from getting too close, and screamed as loud and wild as I could.
“All right. Fine. Shut the fuck up. Jesus,” he shouted, backing out again. “Just stop fucking screaming.”
I did once he passed the bed and was two steps closer to the door. I could only imagine how I looked—a feral animal with my hair wild and teeth bared.
“I’ll make sure to get some duct tape while I’m out,” he grumbled just before he slammed the door.
It wasn’t until the creaking of the steps stopped and the front door slammed that I even considered relaxing a single muscle—too scared that if I did, I’d fall apart while he could still come back and find me weak. A car door slammed, and the engine faded. Only then did I allow myself to fully sink back against the wall, and it was as if I’d been holding a tsunami back. As soon as I stopped giving it everything I had, it crushed my weak defenses, and I crumbled.
Sobs wracked my body, and as mad as I was that Parker left me, all I wanted was to be with him—to have him come storming through the door to my rescue. Anything. I just…I needed him.
I needed him even when he hadn’t been there.
I needed him.
I needed him.
It was all I could think of, crammed in the corner, losing faith I’d make it out of this. Wondering if I did survive, who I’d be on the other side.
“I’m going to die here,” I mumbled through cracked lips.
My stomach cramped in on itself, and I curled around it, wishing the hunger pains would stop. They had to stop eventually, I reasoned. Eventually, my mind would give me the blessing of blocking out the physical pain because the mental one was enough.
My captor left and hadn’t come back. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I’d had water. The first night, I’d cringed while giving in to drink the water from the flower vase. I’d almost thrown it right back up, but I’d been desperate and didn’t know how much longer I could wait until he returned.
If I’d known he wouldn’t have come back at all, I would have saved the water, making it last.
I had no idea I’d be left chained to this bed for who knew how long. I’d lost track. I knew it hadn’t been that long, but I was so tired, and my body ached. Sometimes I passed out, not knowing for how long. Did I miss a night? Did I miss two? How long could a person go without water? Five days? Or a week? Or was that food? I tried to remember the obscure facts I’d seen on a TV show somewhere, but I could never focus long enough to figure it out.
Not that it mattered anyway.
Because I was going to die here.
I’d been grateful at first when the man hadn’t come back. More time between me and misery. More time for me to think of a way to escape. I’d thought about dragging the bed to the closet in hopes I could find something to get free—only to find it bolted to the floor.
I’d stretched to reach the window, hoping to discover neighbors close enough that I could get help from—only to find nothing but land. I wondered if I was even in the state of New York anymore. It hadn’t stopped me from getting it open and screaming. I’d screamed until it hurt to breathe, the air too rough for my raw throat.
I’d wriggled my hand, forcing it into the smallest shape possible to slide free of the cuff, only to result in a raw wrist. I’d considered breaking my thumb like I saw on a show one time, only to figure out there was nothing I could actually use and that I was too scared to pull it off.
Now, laying here in my own waste, I didn’t care about fear, but now I was too weak to break a cracker, let alone my hand.
Now, I just wanted the earth to have mercy and let me pass out for good.
Now, I just wanted to quiet my mind, frustrated with the pendulum of hope, too scared, too desperate, too angry.
After the first night, I almost hoped to wake up to the sound of his steps coming up the stairs again. I hoped maybe he got caught by the police, and they were questioning him, and I just needed to hold on a little longer.
When I woke up the day after that, and he still wasn’t there, a hesitant form of acceptance crept into my mind, spreading as the hours passed. I took the time to wonder why? Was it all a joke? Did he kidnap me just to scare me and leave me here? Did he have multiple personalities and his other side came out and forgot about me? Did he die? Did he just change his mind? Or was this his plan all along? Or was he waiting until I was desperate enough to be grateful for his return?
Not a single idea filled me with anything but angry fear.
And through the hours and waiting and thinking, one person stayed on my mind more than anyone else: Parker.
That was a whole other kind of pendulum. Missing him and needing him. Doing nothing but imagining him bursting through the door, apologizing as he crumbled at my feet and saving me. Hating him for lying. Hating him for leaving. Screaming my anger as if he had been standing in front of me instead of this horrifying shade of gray and white.
All of that, only to crumble all over again and beg for him to find me because I loved him, and I needed him.
I closed my eyes, imagining him on his knees, begging me to forgive him for being so selfish and leaving me to talk to some producer. I imagined telling him it was okay and falling into his arms, but even my daydream stuttered over that, tripping over the resentment. I hated that I thought it but hated it even more because it was true. Sometimes I almost laughed at the irony of being left behind by a musician who forgot about me to follow his dreams. Maybe this was my destiny.
Another sharp jab like a knife cut through my abdomen, and I rolled to my side, my other arm aching from being held in the cuff.
A thud sounded, and I couldn’t tell if it was my blood sluggishly attempting to pump through my veins or my imagination. Whatever it was, I ignored it. Why bother when I was going to die here.
But then a louder crash came, impossible to put down to not being real. Especially when it was quickly followed by shouts.
“FBI,” a deep voice bellowed.
It reached up the stairs and pumped one last push of adrenaline throug
h my body, and I struggled to sit up. I pushed to my elbows and shouted, barely managing a squeak. Trying to swallow was fruitless, my mouth like sandpaper, but I tried again.
This time I made a sound, and I did it again and again and again until I heard the same noise that started all this—thuds of steps coming up the stairs one creak at a time.
It wasn’t until a man in a jacket marking him as FBI came in with his gun drawn that the wall came down, uncovering the hope I’d blocked off. My body shook with sobs even though tears didn’t come.
Everything moved in a blur. They got my wrist free while barraging me with question after question. Other footsteps moved around the house, but I kept my eyes on the stairs just beyond the door. Freedom. I needed to get out of this house.
They had to carry me, but I would have crawled to see the sky. I’d never been so grateful to be outside—to feel the cool night breeze on my skin. I was loaded in the back of an ambulance and faded in and out, catching snippets of them telling me I was okay, that I would be okay.
But I was pretty sure that even now that I was free of the house, I was never going to be okay again.
And despite being free of my cage, the pendulums continued to swing.
I couldn’t wait to rage at Parker for not putting me first.
I couldn’t wait to see him, to find safety in his arms.
I couldn’t wait to slap him for not waiting like he promised.
I couldn’t wait for him to hold me.
I couldn’t wait to scream at him for leaving me.
I couldn’t wait to tell him I loved him.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
I wasn’t sure which side I’d settle on. All I knew was that no matter if I had anger or hope, I needed him there.
I needed him to not leave me again.
Twenty-Nine
Nova
It’s amazing what the mind can convince itself we’re capable of.
Sure, I could bungee jump off that bridge. I put myself up at the top, imagine myself looking down, and taking a deep breath past my fear. All I’d have to do was take one tiny step forward, and I’d be in it, exhilarated and brave.
But then you’re up there, and we didn’t prepare for how strong our body could react. We didn’t prepare for our nervous system to throw us into fight or flight mode so fast our legs almost give out. We didn’t prepare for our body’s reaction to reach out at the very last second and latch on to the safety we know, no matter how much we told ourselves we’d be fine, that the platform was boring, and we’d regret not taking the jump.
None of it mattered when your heart pumped so hard you were sure you’d pass out. Right then, nothing else mattered but feeling safe, solid, known ground under our feet.
When I strolled out of the bedroom the next morning after my night with Parker, a smile on my face, ready to refuel after all the work we put in, I was still on the platform. I was still hopeful, already strapped into my harness, still brave and ready to jump into the future with Parker.
But then I saw Aspen pacing behind the table, looking less put together than I’d ever seen, in yoga pants and band shirt, her hair in a messy bun. It was like staring at the edge of the platform that led to the abyss—the first tingle of something not quite going as planned.
I tried to backtrack, not wanting her to catch me strolling out of Parker’s room in just a robe. But before I could get far, she tossed her phone on the table, and her eyes snapped to mine.
Her expression was hard to place. Disappointment, frustration, pity? Not a single one had me wanting to figure out what was going on. The guys sat around the table, all pushing food around their plates, looking like someone kicked their puppy. Ash’s eyes popped up to mine, and despite the dread creeping its fingers around my neck, heat from last night clashed with it, bleeding into my cheeks.
He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smirk—no, this one almost held an apology.
Sensing the abyss waiting for me, the first drop of adrenaline kicked in, and I stepped back, only to collide with Parker.
“Hey, Aspen.” His rough morning voice that had woken me moments ago, filling me with warmth and so much love I’d burst, now stood like a wall blocking my escape. I wanted to turn to him and beg him to run and hide with me—nothing good waited for us out here. “What are you doing here so early? We still have a couple hours until practice.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have prepared,” she jumped right in.
“Told you what?” he asked.
“That you two are fucking. I knew you had a thing between you, but I didn’t realize this much.”
“We’re not just fucking,” he argued.
She didn’t even acknowledge what he said because the fact that we were fucking was the least of her concerns. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me the full story about what happened to her before I pulled her on board like a PR nightmare,” she snapped, pointing at me.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“They know,” Ash cut in, his voice weighted and tired. His muscular arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in the seat, staring at his full plate of food. Slowly, his gaze lifted to mine, and he explained the apology I noticed earlier that had nothing to do with last night. “A photographer got a photo of Nova last night coming out from you guys’ date. It was a head-on photo, so they were able to dig deeper into the hippie-redhead that Parker switched model-Sonia for.”
“Fuck,” Parker muttered.
“No,” I breathed.
I stood on the edge of the platform, eyes squeezed tight. My flight response told me to bolt, run, hide. My fight told me to open my eyes and look. Knowing it would only make things worse, I stormed over to the table and snatched the computer Aspen had open, clicking through the tabs. One after the other, the depth of the fall loomed in front of me, growing with each picture of me smiling at the photographer before climbing in the back of the SUV last night right next to one of me leaving the hospital almost six years ago with broken posture and hollow eyes.
Parker Callahan, from The Haunted Obsession, Caught with His New Love Interest: The Last Victim of the Serial Killer, The Backstage Slicer.
* * *
Leaving the five-star restaurant, Kovoks, Parker was spotted climbing into the back of an SUV. Before this mysterious redhead climbed in with him, she posed for a photo, appearing to be none other than Nova Hearst. Sound familiar? It should. Her case made headlines as she was the last victim, and only one to survive, in the clutches of the notorious serial killer, Hank Dalton, also known as the Backstage Slicer. He was known to capture his victims at concert venues and keep them for prolonged periods, only to leave them out in the open months later with their throats cut and hundreds of incisions at varying stages of healing, leading investigators to believe he sliced into his victims each day.
* * *
A horrid fate Ms. Hearst was lucky to escape from when Mr. Dalton died in a car accident the very next day after taking her.
* * *
It looks like Hearst’s luck didn’t run out just yet as she’s nabbed the attention of the lead singer and guitarist of Grammy-nominated band, The Haunted Obsession. After his recent split with long-time girlfriend, Sonia Caravin, it’s hard not to compare the two, especially with so many similarities. I guess it’s obvious Parker has a thing for redheads.
The article went on, but I’d read enough.
I should have kept my eyes closed. I should have turned back.
All of a sudden, every light I’d avoided for years shined brighter than ever, leaving me nowhere to hide. Everyone who wanted to would be able to stare and gawk and wonder and constantly ask questions, poking and prodding at my past—a past I desperately fought to move past—to not talk about. But the population had a sick fantasy with gore—fear mongers wanting to be a part of your terror to validate their fears. Because the knowledge that things happened wasn’t enough—they wanted it to be theirs too.
I knew the victim
of the Backstage Slicer. We were so close it was like it was my experience too.
I hated it. I hated talking about it.
I knew I couldn’t hide forever. I never wanted to. I never wanted it to dictate my future. Each step I worked towards being better and the steps over the last month to show my face—to show the real—had all been calculated so I could control how it came out.
Now, it slipped from my fingers in a chaos I had no hope of controlling.
This was it.
I stared down at the abyss, fully strapped into my gear, my muscles coiled tight. All I needed to do was let go of the bar and fall, having faith that the panic-filled vision of me crashing into the ground wasn’t real and the bungee cord would hold me.
This was it.
I looked over my shoulder, taking Parker in. His hair rumpled from where I ran my fingers through it this morning when we still lazed naked in bed. His defined shoulders and biceps decorated with bits of ink that I’d traced with my tongue. The blue eyes I loved to watch darken with pleasure. But there was no pleasure now. His lips pulled down. His brows scrunched with frustration.
This was it.
I told him I could do this—that I wanted this.
I asked him to take me bungee jumping.
I still wanted this. I just couldn’t do it alone. So, I reached my hand out and took my first breath when he slid his fingers through mine.
Parker wouldn’t leave me to handle this alone.
“I’ve been on the phone with PR all morning, and we have a plan,” Aspen explained, back to pacing.
I jerked my attention to her. “A plan?”
“Yes. We need to spin this.”
“I don’t-I don’t understand.”
She looked to Parker, and he stepped close to my side, running his free hand up and down my back. “She’s good at this,” he explained to me.