Captive

by R. J. Lewis

  “Were you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “I was worried…”

  The doors opened to the ground level. Neither of us turned just yet. He looked down at me like he had so much more to say, and I looked up at him like I wanted to hear it.

  “You going to the basement?” he asked, extending his arm out to keep the doors from closing. “I can walk you there.”

  “No,” I answered. “I’ve got a dinner reservation at the Bistro around the corner.”

  He pressed his lips down hard for a moment. “With Nixon.” It wasn’t a question, but he looked at me for confirmation.

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Right, well…after you, then.” He waved me out, and he even made that look gentlemanly.

  I stepped out. We both walked to the end of the hallway. We stepped into the impressive marble foyer and looked at each other as we branched off in different directions.

  “See you later, Vixen,” he murmured with a heated look.

  My steps faltered. Shit.

  He shouldn’t have looked at me like that. There went my knees again, wobbling. I swallowed and looked away from him.

  I hurried to the restaurant, my eyes scanning the ceilings, catching notice of the cameras.

  Sir, we noted she did not look back at him. I repeat, she did not look back at him. Crisis averted.

  I puffed out a breath when I entered the Bistro. The young hostess immediately noticed me and hurried to catch up to my pace.

  “Let me show you to your table,” she said breathlessly.

  I shot her an annoyed look. “I know where it is, Beth. It’s the same fucking table.”

  “I’m just doing my fucking job,” she gritted back under her breath, smiling at me in that fake friendly way.

  I instantly slowed down and gave her an apologetic look. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  “Is he here?”

  “He is.” She made a tense face.

  I frowned, reading her expression. “Mood?”

  “Uh, well…let’s just say everyone’s on their best behaviour.”

  Oh, dear. I wondered what awaited me. Nixon could be an asshole when he was in a foul mood.

  There was a private area with booths in the back of the restaurant. The booths were further apart than the normal placements. Nixon was seated in the far back, in our usual booth. The lights were already down, and a candle was lit in the centre of the table.

  Funny that after two years my pulse still jumped when I saw him.

  As I approached, I noticed very quickly how wrecked Nixon looked. His face had more lines than usual. He was staring down at the screen of his phone, reading with deep concentration.

  Jeez, he looked intimidating. He was dressed in a heavy black sweater and dark denim jeans. His hair looked like it’d been raked through at least a hundred times. The stubble on his cheeks was getting thicker by the day. It was rare he let it grow out.

  “You sure you want some company?” I lightly asked, coming to a stop.

  He immediately looked up, all attention to the phone instantly lost. His tired eyes looked me over, and his expression morphed to hunger and…relief?

  “Baby, you look ravishing,” he remarked. He stood up and wrapped his arm around my waist, escorting me to my seat. He liked this shit. It made him feel good to seat me. I didn’t get why. Had never asked. But it was sweet and made my stomach warm.

  I instantly forgot why I hated him. I was seething just minutes ago, and now I was just so glad to feel that familiarity between us.

  This was what I meant when I referred to him as a bad habit.

  A crack addict could damn his drug all day long, but the second he took it, he was on cloud nine and didn’t fucking care how unhealthy it was.

  Nixon was like that.

  Not that I ever tried crack or anything.

  Okay, so it was a shitty comparison.

  He sat down across from me, his focus right on me. The phone was utterly forgotten. I was all he wanted to look at, and fuck, that did things in my chest I tried my best to ignore. I caught the way his body sagged into his seat and I knew something was up.

  Nixon wasn’t himself.

  “How are you, baby?” he asked warmly.

  In an effort to lighten his mood, I smiled brightly and said, “I just told an old man you kidnapped me.”

  His brows shot up. “Did you?”

  “Yeah, I did. I even told him I’d appreciate it if he forwarded the details to the local authorities.”

  He chuckled deep in his throat. “How are you liking your chances?”

  I pretended to think. “Well, he was more fascinated with my tits and, oh, he’s a secret basement dweller, which means he’s probably got a lot of illegal shit to hide as it is. My chances are pretty low.”

  He smiled broadly. “That’s a shame.”

  I shrugged, nonchalantly. “One day, Nixon, and it might work.”

  He considered that for a moment. “You’d have to kill me first, baby.”

  It was funny in the moment, but sad because it was true. Nixon’s death was the most certain way I’d ever gain my freedom.

  And I wasn’t sure I wanted him dead.

  “You never worry someone will notice me and know who I am?” I wondered just then, staring at him seriously. “A person just doesn’t disappear without a trace.”

  Nixon’s smile turned soft. “It’s not that hard, Vix. The world’s –”

  “Dark and cold and doesn’t give a fuck about me,” I finished, rolling my eyes. “I know.”

  He shook his head. “Not just that, it’s…not as hopeful as you think.”

  What did he mean by that? I tried to discern him, but he was mercurial and impossible to read. But I had a feeling he knew something I didn’t. Something that might depress me. Well, that was fine. I had a long list of shit that depressed me, what was another thing to add?

  Beth intervened by placing an ice-cold pitcher of water on the table and two cups, and then she promptly disappeared. She knew the drill. Nixon didn’t like to be interrupted unless it was to take our orders.

  “How were your appointments?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I answered, though I felt like my insides were being crushed just thinking about them.

  “Dr Sullivan give you a check-up?”

  I ground my teeth for a fleeting moment, thinking of my wonderful appointment. “Oh, yeah, she gave me a check-up alright.”

  He narrowed his eyes curiously. “And?”

  And she told me about numero uno, Nixon. What happened to her? Did you let her go? Was I your rebound captive?

  I smiled coolly. “All good. We aren’t making babies anytime soon.”

  If I was trying to stun him, it didn’t work. He just smirked at me, pouring us a glass of water each with this amused expression.

  Not.

  One.

  Fuck.

  Given.

  “Now you respond,” I urged him, tightly. “I just made a comment about babies, Nixon.”

  “What sort of reaction do you want me to give?” he questioned, picking up on my mood. “I’m happy to oblige.”

  “Well, you can tell me that babies are not ever on your agenda, and that you’d sooner have me buried in a ditch with all the other girls you’ve fucked and kidnapped.”

  I studied him, searching for a hint of these previous women in his expression. But he was looking more amused by the second.

  I thought he was in a dick mood. Why was he so fucking chirpy?

  “Okay,” he replied with ease. “I’d sooner have you buried in a ditch with all the other girls I’ve fucked and kidnapped.”

  My mouth parted. Oh, my God. Was that an admission? Or was he being a smartass motherfucker by simply repeating what I’d just said?

  He was good. Oh, he was real good.

  Still smiling in that fake ass way, I nodded, mimicking his – and everyone’s – fucking chirpiness today. “
Well, you don’t have to worry. The birth control’s been lodged in my arm. I’ll be a moody bitch the next few days. Because that’s what us women do, Nixon. We just take on the hormones, we bleed a week every month, we fuck you so you can just explode in our pussies and not have to worry about a damn thing.”

  “Your sacrifice has not gone unnoticed,” he dryly replied.

  “Are you ready for my mood swings?”

  “Would be cruel not to be when you live through mine.”

  I leaned over the table a bit, smiling sourly. “What’s your excuse for being an asshole, Nixon?”

  He didn’t pause. “I hate people, Vixen.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What do you hate about people?”

  His smile wavered slightly as he thought about it. And when he thought too hard about things, he usually flicked his tongue out and slid it along his bottom lip. Just like now. It was too fucking sexy to ignore. “I hate the way they look, the way they smell, the utter shit they spew. I hate that they want you when they need you, and they’d gladly watch you drown to save their own skin. I hate people with a fucking passion.”

  I winced in surprise. The vehemence in his tone was unexpected. “Ouch, Nixon.”

  The way his eyes glazed over I knew he was thinking about something personal. “The truth ain’t pretty. You should know. The world didn’t cloak you in sunshine either.”

  I stiffened, not wanting to think how close to home those words hit. “Not everyone’s a user. There are good people out there.”

  “Good people become victims. They’re just prey.”

  “To predators like you?”

  This time he did pause, watching me with a strange expression I couldn’t decipher. It was like…he was surprised by my response. “Am I the predator, Vix?” he wondered aloud, searching my eyes. “Is that what you think?”

  I laughed bitterly. “Are you suggesting it’s the other way around, Nixon?”

  He didn’t answer that, choosing to respond instead with, “Do you sleep better knowing I’m the villain in your tale?”

  “I hardly sleep,” I replied with ease. “I get fucked.”

  “And you like it.”

  “No.”

  His smile was sinister. “Oh, baby.”

  I felt uneasy, like he was calling out my bullshit. “You kidnapped me. You are the bad guy in my life. You know there are good people because you prey on them every day. You are exactly what you loathe, Nixon, and you should know better.”

  He continued watching me intently. “Are you about to school me, Vix, about these good people?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Where’s your compassion?”

  His eyes hardened. “I don’t have any. Everyone’s got their own agenda, Vix.”

  I stared at him soberingly. “What’s yours?”

  With an unyielding look, he said simply, “You.”

  You. The way he said it. Just straight and to the point. And so blindingly honest. He may as well have said I was his whole focus, his whole purpose.

  My body felt like it was heavy with tender emotions. I fought the smile on my lips. I shouldn’t have felt warmed by his response, yet I did. Conversing with the jerk made me content. He never drew away from me. He never hid behind vague responses. He answered the hard questions, confronting what he did every time I brought it up. And this attention he was giving me now? It was consistent. It was starting to be the one thing I could always depend on him for.

  I looked around the room, at the dark corners, at nothing in particular, because if I looked at him, I would break into that smile I was struggling to suppress. And maybe I’d feel a little more than I was prepared for. Inside my being there were corners I resisted turning into for fear of feeling that achy splinter inside my soul. Curiosity to explore my emotions was gateway behaviour to the truth that lurked inside me.

  I resisted.

  But some days the temptation drew me closer to the edge.

  Some days I wanted to remember how we began.

  To remember there were emotions I was unwilling to confront.

  “I missed you today, Vix,” he said suddenly, his tone low and serious.

  I returned my sight to him. He was staring down at the glass of water, a fleeting look of sadness shrouding him. I stilled. I’d never seen that look before in all the time I’d been with him. As my gaze lingered, I watched him effortlessly conceal it. He raised the glass and took a big gulp.

  “I have a feeling you’d rather a stiffer drink,” I noted softly.

  His blue eyes met mine. He looked me over, his gaze lingering around my cleavage and slowly up my neck where my pulse thrummed impossibly quick. “I’d rather be sober tonight.”

  I resisted squirming, but I felt the heat between my legs. He masterfully reduced me to this speechless mess. My brain went mute. I was all out of wittiness tonight.

  “You thinking about it?” he asked, bluntly.

  “About what?” I returned, my voice low.

  “About fucking me.”

  I resisted looking away from his eyes. It took so much effort to pretend he had no effect on me. “I’m thinking about a lot of things, Nixon.”

  There was no amusement in him. “You’re thinking about it, I know it.”

  “I’m also thinking that I’ve had a long day –”

  “You’re thinking of how good it felt when I slapped your tits, when I forced you down, when I filled every inch of your pussy with my cock.”

  I swallowed, feeling my cheeks heat. “Okay, so I have been thinking it. Haven’t you?”

  His gaze was heavy. “It’s the only thing keeping me from the dark.”

  “The dark?”

  “A very bad place.”

  My brows came together. I felt a flutter of concern as I asked, “How close are you to the edge?”

  “One step, baby.”

  “Pull away.”

  In a whisper, he said, “Help me.”

  I blinked rapidly, too stunned to respond. I also felt panicked. I didn’t like seeing him look so misplaced. I felt the urge to lean over, to grab his hand, to tell him it was going to be okay.

  But I didn’t.

  I physically couldn’t conquer the fight in my bones.

  I couldn’t confront the pain in my heart, so I buried it.

  I buried it and didn’t help him.

  He was the first to look away, to pretend he didn’t just plead for my help. I felt swamped with guilt.

  “Nixon…” I whispered.

  Just then, Beth returned with a wary stare in Nixon’s direction. She must have gulped half a dozen times before building enough courage to say, “What’ll we be having tonight, sir?”

  Nixon watched me, waiting for my response.

  I’d been so caught up in us I hadn’t stopped to look over the menu I’d practically memorized. I lifted it up and pretended to read, but my eyes kept flickering up to Nixon and the way he was staring at me. I couldn’t decipher him. It was driving me mad.

  “You’re not very hungry, are you?” he said, cutting through my thoughts.

  I shook my head slowly. “Not chomping at the walls or anything.”

  He stood up, throwing down the napkin I hadn’t realized he’d had wrapped around his knuckles. My vision spotted the colour red and I looked back at his dominant hand, at the knuckles that looked split open with cuts. My breathing slowed as I questioned the kind of day he’d had.

  “We’ll head out,” he said, approaching me. He offered his other hand out for me to take. When I did, he pulled me up and wrapped his arm around my waist, leading me past a wide-eyed Beth and out of the restaurant.

  “Are you sure?” I asked him. “You could have eaten.”

  “I have a different appetite,” he replied, squeezing my waist.

  We strolled to the foyer. By reflex, I began to turn in the direction of the elevators, but Nixon tightened his hold of me and had us moving in the opposite direction.

>   To the exit.

  17.

  Vixen…

  Shocked, I looked up at him, dumbfounded.

  “Nixon?” I let out, feeling my heart jump out of my chest.

  He didn’t respond. His jaw was tense, his expression stern and uninviting. He led me to the exit and opened the heavy glass door. We stepped out under the entrance awning. The crisp October air hit my face and I took a huge gulp of it.

  Nixon let me go and gently pushed me away from him. I spun around to look at him. He stood still, hands in his pockets, watching me carefully.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him quietly.

  Truth be told, I was frightened. This wasn’t part of the norm. This was all wrong and my gut was telling me something bad was about to happen.

  But Nixon just stood there, harmless. “You told me to trust you,” he said warily. “So, walk then. Have a bit of fresh air. Then come back to me. I’ll be waiting.”

  I didn’t budge for a long minute. Was this a trap? I looked around. The sidewalks were empty. The street had the random car coming and going. It was kind of like sensory overload. The colours were different than when you looked through a glass window. It was brighter, more vibrant. I could smell the flowers in the entrance garden and a delicious doughy scent coming from a bakery down the street. I looked up, mesmerized for a moment at the darkening sky; it felt like it could swallow me whole.

  “Is this a trick?” I breathed out in a tiny voice.

  He looked inscrutable, but he shook his head, softly replying, “No, Vixen. It’s not.”

  I still hesitated, though. I couldn’t be sure if he was telling the truth. My instincts said he was. Nixon wouldn’t play around with me in this manner; he wasn’t cruel in that way, but then what the hell did I know these days? If someone was capable of surprising me, it was him.

  “Go on,” he insisted.

  I didn’t have a choice, and I didn’t want to miss this opportunity, either.

  I looked down the street and took my first step. I stared down at my heels on the sidewalk, absorbed in the unfamiliar sound of it clacking on the asphalt.

  I looked behind me after my second step and into Nixon’s eyes. He looked stiff. He slowly removed his hands from his pockets and settled them against his sides. Kind of like he was getting ready to chase me. His fingers twitched when I took another step, and his jaw tensed impossibly.