His Hostage: A Dark Romance

by Penelope Woods

  “Well, I’m always here,” I reply. “I’m a good neighbor too.”

  The way I say those words should let her know what I want, loud and clear. I’m a very good neighbor.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, grabbing a bottle of Jack almost instinctually.

  I move closer to her and grab the bottle out of her hand. “It means, if you need any work done, you can call me,” I say. “I’m your man.”

  “Um,” she sighs, struggling to think of the right words.

  My chest is nearly touching hers. She smells like mesquite trees and wildflowers. Coupled with her rosy perfume, it drives me wild.

  “I like your perfume,” I whisper.

  There’s an awkward pause where I should kiss her, but I act like a gentleman instead.

  I reach and grab her bottle of whiskey. She flinch, but I don’t let go. “Here, I’m buying the same thing. It’s on me.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good ide—” she starts, but I cut her off.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not an asshole. I won’t hang a debt above your head. It’s like I said earlier. I’m just being a good neighbor,” I reassure her.

  “Good. ‘Cause I don’t know if I can return the favor,” she chokes, glancing back at the store clerk who’s gone back to doodling.

  “You don’t need to return nothing.” I smirk. “Maybe if I’m cooking dinner tonight, I’ll stop by to get some salt. Or, you know… a little sugar.”

  Her face turns bright red. She’s not calling me a cowboy anymore. She’s stunned by me.

  I back up and turn to the clerk. “I’ll take both of these,” I tell him. “And a pack of reds. Thank you, kindly.”

  The man slams a pack of reds on the table, and I hand him a bit of cash. “Keep the change.” I salute.

  I tip him ten bucks, hand her the bottle, and walk outside without looking back. She doesn’t have to walk with me. I’m fine, alone.

  I grab a cigarette and light it up, inhaling the fumes deep within my lungs. I know it’s a bad habit, but I’m full of bad habits. I doubt it’s going to be this one that kills me off.

  The jingle of the liquor store door rings behind me, and I can hear her light feet running against the dirt. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” she asks.

  “Home, I guess.” I shrug. “I have a bike to work on.”

  “Well,” she starts, but she cuts herself short.

  “You don’t need to say anything to me,” I say. “We’re just neighbors. I get it. You came to this city for some peace and quiet. Me too.”

  “Thanks for the bottle,” she says.

  “Sure thing.”

  For a few seconds, we just walk next to each other. It’s… nice.

  She breaks that nice silence fast. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Can you keep it down in the garage? The engine noises… they’re really loud, and…”

  There she goes. She’s sending me back to the flames again.

  “You got it, darling,” I say.

  I begin to walk away. I’m not someone who should be taken seriously. I’m just a grimy motor-head. I’ve got blood on my hands.

  I’ve received this treatment before. Deep down, I know she wants me. She’s just too scared to deal with the consequences.

  When I’m nearly a block away, I hear her clear her throat. “My name’s Caroline,” she calls out.

  Cock my head to see her one last time. “Like the state?”

  “Yes.” She rolls her eyes. “Like the state.”

  Nothing good comes from a woman with a hot temper. This is worse than I thought. She just told me her name. That’s the first step, right?

  When they tell you their name, it’s like an invitation. She might as well have told me, “I’m Caroline, would you like me to suck your cock?”

  I resist my temptation. Grinning like a fox, I bow.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Caroline. Have a nice day.”

  4

  Caroline

  The voice of my attorney is steady with an air of victory. “It’s final,” he says. “And he’s giving you thirty percent of his income for the next twenty years. Those are the terms.”

  My body stiffens. Time seems to stop. “Did I hear you right?” I ask him. “Thirty percent? That’s like—”

  “$12,000 a month,” he says. “Yes, you heard me right. We did it, Caroline. You did it.”

  “I’m free?”

  I feel a huge weight fall off my shoulders. My chest feels light, and despite the dust in the air, I can breathe freely again.

  “You’re free. Congratulations,” he says.

  When I hang up the phone, I feel like celebrating. I glance at the bottle of Jack on my table, still unopened. It’s practically begging to be emptied.

  I pour myself a glass and shoot the contents down, coughing loudly when it hits my throat. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted a drop of hard liquor, but this is the Southwest. I want something that goes with the setting.

  I take another drink and laugh. That guy, my fucking neighbor. What’s his name again? Oh yea, Rowan. Of course his name is Rowan…

  Maybe I’ve been too hard on him. I guess I just feel like all men have to pay, after what I just went through. All of the fighting with my ex-husband, Ron. The lies, the deceit, and his level of control was such an eye opener for me.

  It’s hard to trust a man with a cunning smile.

  But I’m thirty-five. I can’t hide out forever. I can’t be some lonely spinster who vanishes into the desert to find her inner-zen. I won my case. I’m a free woman, and I need to celebrate.

  After one more drink, I walk out onto my porch. I’m not sure what to expect. I just want to feel the warm fall air whip around my face. I want to listen to the sounds of the desert circle inside my ears.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I think I actually want him to be outside. Rowan. The greasy mechanic.

  The first thing I see outside is his rugged face.

  He lowers his head. “Howdy, partner.”

  I hear his voice, and I scoff, instinctually.

  “Partner?” I lean against my door and take another sip of whisky. It doesn’t burn as much as it did earlier. Everything feels lighter, now.

  He puts on a thick southern accent. “I’m a cowboy, right? Isn’t that what you called me?”

  He laughs, tipping an invisible hat on his head. He’s at the end of his cigarette, so he puts it out in an ash tray on the side railing.

  “Did I hurt your feelings?” I ask him, eying him carefully.

  “Miss, I’ve been crying all day because of you,” he says.

  He smiles and grabs another cigarette. I walk off my porch and take a deep breath, looking up at the sky.

  “It’s going to rain today,” I say, eyeing the dark clouds in the distance. “You can always tell by the smell in the air. I love that smell.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks.

  “No, I’m not,” I admit. “But I’ve been wanting to move here ever since I was a little girl.”

  Rowan steps down from his porch to join me. “Where you from?” he asks.

  He’s careful about his movements. It’s as if he doesn’t want to startle me, or something. Am I that snappy?

  Has this divorce made me a little crazy around men? Well, probably. But who could blame me? If he knew of my situation, he’d understand.

  “Pennsylvania,” I say. “Mount Lebanon.”

  “Never heard of it, but it sounds nice. Does it snow out there?” he asks.

  I nod. “Almost all winter. I’m glad to be away from that mess. No more covered driveways and no more falling on my butt all of the time.”

  He laughs and clicks the bottom of his lower lip with his tongue. “It must be nice falling on that thing,” he says.

  I cock my head. “What?”

  He eyes my body. “I just mean, there’s a lot of cushion to break your fall. It’s nice,” he says.

  I blu
sh and back away, feeling slightly confused. Slightly hot with desire. Did he really just compliment my ass? Is he really going for it?

  What a jerk.

  “Sure.” I laugh out of courtesy. “You going to offer me one of those or what?” I finally ask, holding out my hand.

  I never smoke, but tonight I’m living it up.

  He reaches into his pack and hands me a cigarette. “Finally,” he says. “We’re friends now.”

  “We’re not friends,” I tell him.

  “Best friends?” he teases.

  “We’re neighbors having a polite conversation.”

  He changes the subject. “Why don’t you run anymore? It’s good for you, you know.”

  I take another sip of my drink, and I hand him my glass. He takes a sip and gives it back. “I’ve decided that I’m too lazy to run. Plus, I think I read somewhere that running every day is bad for your heart.”

  “Bullshit. You just want to avoid me,” he says. “Admit it. You hate my guts.”

  “I don’t hate anyone’s guts,” I say. “To be honest, I never even gave you a second thought until now.”

  Until now? What am I thinking?

  “If you keep lying, your nose is going to grow into a tree,” he says, kicking at a loose piece of wood on the ground.

  His right hand is placed halfway into his pocket. On his left hand there’s a ring.

  I gesture toward it. “You’re married?”

  “Oh, this?” He laughs awkwardly and hides his hand by turning away from me. “Nah, I’m not married. It’s just something I’ve kept, from years ago.”

  I nod and crease my eyes. “Mmhm,” I say.

  “You?” I ask. “You married?”

  “No,” I mutter. I try to decide whether or not I should share more. “Not anymore, at least.”

  “But you were, right? What happened?” he asks.

  “That’s for me to know and nobody else,” I say.

  The more we talk, the drunker I get. The clouds soon roll in, and I’m left wondering why I’ve been so averse to being nice to this man. He’s not that bad.

  “It’s my tattoos, isn’t it?” he asks. “They scare you, don’t they?”

  I burst out laughing. “No, it’s not your tattoos,” I say.

  He takes a drag and chucks the embers onto the dirt. “It’s my good looks then. It has to be my charm.”

  “You have charm?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t answer that.

  The real answer is that he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m used to men gazing at me, but this man practically eye fucks me every morning. He doesn’t leave me alone, and then he has the audacity to call me “woman.” That’s why.

  However, right now, I’m drunk enough to put that all under the table.

  “I came out here to be alone is all,” I say. “I didn’t expect to live next door to a loudmouthed mechanic.”

  He appears shocked. “Loudmouthed? Look, honey. If you want, I can be real quiet for you.”

  He places his hands around mine for a brief moment. I feel my heart pound, and all of the blood that was in my body has now flooded downward, between my legs.

  When he realizes what he’s done, he quickly lets go and steps back a little. I’m too drunk to react, and I can barely get any words out.

  All I know is that whatever he just did made me feel real good. Too good.

  That’s why I can’t be here. That’s why I avoid him. I can’t end up in another situation like my marriage.

  Ron was a bit more put together than this guy, but I remember how he used to act. Cocky, with an attitude. He acted like the world owed him something. That all got old real fast.

  I take another hurried breath, but instead of smelling the rain coming in, his scent comes into my senses. There’s the slight smell of rubber and oil, mixed with a darker type cologne I’ve never smelled before.

  I’m taken aback. Somehow, his scent brings me back to a good place. Nostalgia creeps in. A good nostalgia.

  He sees me fluster.

  “What?” he asks. “Do I smell bad or something?”

  “No, you actually smell really good,” I admit.

  Oh jeez, just get me out of this situation. I’ve said too much. Abort, abort!

  “So do you, darling.”

  He smiles, moving closer toward me. My throat closes and I feel my body start to shake from the inside.

  Our lips are practically touching. Okay, they’re inches away, but they feel so close. My chest closes in alongside of my throat, and I feel as if I’m going to have a heart attack.

  I feel my eyes start to close, and God, he just smells so good. And his arms… his abs pressed against his oil-stained t-shirt…. The way he looks at me… fuck, what am I doing?

  I turn around and put out the cigarette on my porch. I turn and walk away.

  “Hey, where are you going?” he asks, cornered by my rapid decision to flee the scene as fast as possible.

  “It was nice talking to you, finally,” I say, unable to even look at the man.

  “Shit,” I hear him mutter and kick at the dirt. “Talk to you later, then.”

  I close the door and lean against the inside, falling slowly to the floor. I’m not in the state to do something like this.

  This is my neighbor. It’s a situation I don’t want to get in. I close my eyes and breathe, wondering how I could act so stupid.

  But that feeling he gave me — the one between my legs was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. Unfortunately for me, it’s still lingering.

  5

  Rowan

  The worst thing about hiding out is the lack of pussy around my cock.

  When I wake up, I’m harder than a woodpecker’s lips. My bottle of Jack is next to my pillow, mostly empty, alongside my loaded gun.

  “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

  I crawl out of bed, opening my eyes, despite the bright rays filtering in through my window. This has been my daily routine for the past six months.

  I fall asleep after drinking myself stupid, and I wake up with all the regrets pounding against my skull. I’m a wreck.

  Have you ever felt like your whole life has been stacked against you? Have you ever wondered where the hell you’re even going?

  Sometimes I wonder if my trajectory is just one big downward spiral. As of right now, there’s no hope left for me.

  Sure, I can flirt all I want with the woman next door. I can get my rocks off and have fun, but it doesn’t change shit. I’m still a lost cause. I’m still a nomad with no home in sight.

  I’m fucked.

  I close my eyes again and try to calm my anxiety. Worrying never helped anyone. It sure as hell won’t help me.

  I grab a cigarette and light it, walking outside. Stretching my arms, I bask my naked body in the healing rays of the desert sun.

  The desert has always been my home. I was born in the desert, and I’ll die here, too.

  “Seriously?” I hear that woman’s voice and turn, cigarette barely balanced between two lips.

  I smile and wave. “Morning.”

  “Jesus!” she yells, covering her eyes.

  I glance down at my cock and cover myself loosely.

  “You have neighbors now, you know,” she adds.

  “I have one neighbor,” I correct her. “And you don’t have to look if you don’t want to. Truth is, I think you do.”

  I grab a hat that’s been sitting on my porch, collecting dust. I put it over my very erect flesh. It covers me enough.

  “You happy? Out of sight, out of mind,” I say.

  “I’m not joking,” she says. “You don’t pull that crap while I’m living here. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  I turn around, showing the crack of my ass. “Does this angle suit you better?”

  “Oh my God!” she growls and turns around, heading back into her home.

  She’s wearing those tight yoga pants again, the ones that make my blood ci
rculate. I start to get worried I missed her morning jog.

  “Aw, come on. Have a sense of humor,” I yell, right before she shuts the door.

  “Shit,” I whisper, chuckling to myself.

  I take the hat off my dick, and let it fall to the floor. I finish my cigarette before heading back inside.

  The mornings always get to me. I’m hungry like a fucking animal. No, I’m starving for pussy.

  I haven’t gotten laid in months and there’s not even an escort agency in sight. Out here, I’m screwed, but not in the literal sense.

  You’d think a woman like her would be wanting the same thing. Unfortunately, she’s making me work for it.

  She doesn’t realize how much I like the chase.

  I close my eyes and think of her body. I trail her like a hunter. I imagine placing my hands slowly up her desert sundress. I think about what that would feel like, what she smells like, how she might moan my name: Rowan. Fuck me, Rowan.

  Soon enough, my hand is around my cock, and I’m spitting on my shaft. Am I perverted? Yeah, you could call me that. What man isn’t?

  In my imagination, she’s leaning against my rickety old porch. I’ve just finished working on my bike and I haven’t even gotten a chance to take a shower. She wants me that bad.

  She’s holding onto the wood, softly pushing out her backside, allowing me to run my hands over her cheeks. I explore her, finding out everything I need to know.

  I slowly spread those cheeks open and lean forward, until I’m face to face with those dripping lips. The scent alone thrills me.

  Her pussy opens for me, and I don’t have to taste her to know she’s ready for me. In this dream, I eat her for hours.

  I suck on her lips. I lick her clit. I do everything I can, until I can’t take it any longer.

  I need to be inside her.

  I open my eyes and glance down at my throbbing cock. I lose grip on reality and fall back on my bed. I shoot my load into my covers and sigh heavily, breathing irregularly, with haste.

  I grab my sheets. “Fuck,” I groan. I have to catch my breath before I can take a shower.

  The problem is that once I get an idea in my head, I can’t let it go. It’s like an addiction. I’m not stopping now.