Captive

by R. J. Lewis

  I couldn’t recall a single moment of inner reflection.

  I couldn’t recall ever confronting my faults.

  I couldn’t recall ever forgiving myself for ignoring Mom when she needed me the most.

  I was going to die not ever knowing myself.

  I felt like my heart had collapsed in my chest. I buried my face in the snow and cried hard. I stopped crawling. My body was too stiff and so cold, I couldn’t even feel the cold anymore.

  This was it.

  I couldn’t go on.

  The wind battered all around me, and I shut my eyes, surrendering to the elements.

  36.

  Nixon…

  He found her straightaway. Had followed the tracks in the snow to her body. She’d run, then fallen, then crawled, then…stopped.

  Nixon felt his heart tighten in his chest when he came upon her still form in the snow. He stopped over her. A tremor wracked his body at the sight of her frozen body.

  She was still like death.

  Her skin was white as snow.

  Her dark hair was splayed out around her; such a deep contrast it was amongst the white.

  Her lips were pale, her face covered in a thin film of fresh snow.

  He thought it unnatural to come upon a being so angelic. This land was too beastly, too unfeeling. You could disappear into the trees and never be found again. The land did that; it swallowed you whole, it made you become part of itself.

  He thought, even dead, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  But she wasn’t dead.

  He’d trudged behind her right after she’d fled the cabin. He’d seen her at a distance. He’d sensed her chaos as she desperately sought an escape.

  But it wasn’t an escape from this, he realized, as he looked down at her.

  She was aware he was here, yet she stared ahead, unblinking. She wasn’t trying to run from him.

  She was trying to run from herself.

  This small body had been warring with itself long before her abduction.

  Something about that realization stirred him on a deeper level. He looked down at her empty face and felt an overwhelming urge to remove her sadness.

  Was she as empty as he felt? He wondered. Did nothing stir in the depths of her? Did she toss and turn every night, lost in apathy? Did she loathe waking up in the mornings because it made her confront how vacant and purposeless her life was?

  He’d seen hints of pain in her brown eyes when she’d looked at him the first time. He’d only turned away from it because those sorts of encounters should be fleeting and impersonal. You don’t get to touch upon someone’s life over one look. Yet he’d stood close to the doors on that bus, feet from where she sat, desperate to look at her again, desperate to feel that stir of something deep inside him. Something he thought he had lost a long time ago. Something he felt was recently killed in its entirety just a short week ago.

  Nixon scooped her body out of the snow. She shivered in his arms, which was a good sign. Hypothermia struck wild and fast here. He watched her carefully as he trudged back to the cabin. Saw the fresh tears fall from her eyes, and he wanted to ask her, “Where does it hurt the most, little one? Is it your heart? Does it still beat? Is it your soul – do you still feel it humming beneath your skin?”

  He took her into the cabin and slammed the door shut with his foot. He settled her down on the bed and knelt to her level. He grabbed at her wet clothing and removed them one by one. She looked so tired, her body was weak and red in places. Stripped to her bra and underwear, he grabbed at several blankets and wrapped them around her. Five layers later and she was still shivering. She needed more heat.

  “Stay awake,” he told her.

  She watched him through bleary eyes as he returned to the woodstove and reignited the fire. It was such a bitch to do when the fire died out, and because the wood was still moist, the fire was extra smoky.

  Nixon was frozen, too. His fingers were stiff and painful. He was covered in dried blood and he still had two bodies not far from the cabin he needed to dispose of much further away. The last thing he needed were predators to come poking around.

  No, he’d dump them a good distance away and then he’d tell Hobbs where they were when he came. Hobbs would do a proper job of disappearing them for good, and then…

  Nixon glanced over his shoulder at the girl.

  Then what?

  The girl was a motherfucking complication.

  She had tried so hard to capture his attention, to plead her case. And he had tried his hardest to distance himself from her because he didn’t want to know. For her sake, he didn’t want to explore her layers and feel the pulse within him surge.

  Better to let the feelings taper.

  To let the moment go.

  To not feed into the mad compulsion he felt in his bones.

  He couldn’t have her.

  He couldn’t.

  But those brown eyes held him captive when she looked back at him.

  They made him do stupid things.

  They made him demand in a deprived sort of way, “Tell me your name,”

  Victoria…

  “Tell me your name,” he snapped at me. His gaze was piercing. He was looking at me like he was trying to figure me out. Or maybe trying to figure out what the fuck to do with me. I couldn’t be sure.

  “Victoria,” I managed out weakly.

  “Victoria,” he repeated thoughtfully, staring into the flames now. My reaction was immediate – my chest stirred, and my heart raced. “I don’t know what to do with you, Victoria,” he admitted, closing the firebox door.

  He returned to me, this mammoth of a man, covered in blood and cold, kneeling down to my level. He raised a hand to my face and pressed it against my cheeks. I could hardly feel him. Then he grabbed at my blankets and began opening them. Too weak to fend him off, I had no choice but to let him, watching him carefully as he touched at my bare arms with a frown. He began rubbing away my goosebumps, looking into my eyes at the same time.

  “You’re not warming up,” he said. “I need you next to the fire.”

  I shook my head weakly. “I don’t want to move.”

  “I’ll move you.”

  “Please, don’t.” I grabbed at the blankets and stubbornly wrapped them around myself again. “I’ll be fine. It’s just my hands that are cold.”

  He didn’t look pleased by that. “You’re irritable because you’re experiencing hypothermia.”

  “I’m irritable for other reasons,” I snapped suddenly. “And I think they’re obvious reasons.”

  He watched me for a few moments, blinking slowly. Maybe he was shocked by my tone – I sure was. This guy could so easily snap me in half. He didn’t seem the patient type.

  “I think I’m irritable,” I amended quickly, worried now. “I’m just really cold and tired.”

  “Give me your hands,” he told me.

  My heart spiked. “Why?”

  “Not going to hurt you,” he assured me.

  I had no choice, did I?

  I was completely at this man’s mercy.

  I slowly let go of the blankets and offered him my hands. I eyed him warily as he took them gently into his own and tucked them under his black sweater. My heart jumped in my chest as he pressed them flat against his stomach.

  “Keep them there,” he told me, letting my hands go. I felt his abs flex as he grabbed the blankets and wrapped them tightly around me.

  As he waited for my hands to warm up, I kept my eyes directed to his chest. He was too close for comfort, but I didn’t mind it when I felt how blazing hot his skin was. My hands felt like they were thawing, and it hurt. A lot. It was almost unbearable.

  We didn’t speak. I was aware he was watching me, though. Every time I willed myself to look back at him, I caught his expression. He was deep in thought as he studied me. I could have begged for my life now that I had his full attention, but it seemed utterly pointless.

  It was apparent
at this stage he was in complete control.

  I thought of what Beckett had said earlier. I see the way you look at her. You want her for yourself. It troubled me to think that might be true.

  If he did want me for himself, there would be no one to stop him.

  “How do your hands feel?”

  I shrugged weakly. “Like they’re going to fall off from the pain.”

  “Okay, keep them there then.”

  Panic tore through me suddenly. I gave him a bug-eyed look. “Do you think they’ll fall off?”

  He gave me a blank stare. “What?”

  “What if I have frostbite?”

  “I think I got to you before that was possible.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  His lips flickered up with amusement. “I’m sure.”

  I caught the hysteria in my tone and looked away, feeling overcome with embarrassment. “Is paranoia another sign of hypothermia?”

  “I think that’s just you.”

  I went quiet for a few minutes. My hands were finally warming up and now I felt stupid.

  I let out a slow breath as I reflected on the two men he’d killed. “Were they really going to kill you?” I asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “They had it all figured out.”

  “When were they going to do it?”

  “It would have been soon.” He said it so casually, his whole demeanour composed.

  “That didn’t surprise you?”

  “No,” he said. “Not when you’re living this kind of life.”

  Of course. How could you pit monsters together and expect them to play nice? They were all, in their own right, horrific.

  The blood on his cheeks had dried, some of it flaked off with his movements. The coppery stench of it was in the air around us.

  Just above the collar of his sweater was fresh blood oozing from the cut Roz had inflicted on him. The gash looked deep, but the blood didn’t seem to be flowing out of it any more than a papercut.

  Of course. Only a man like him could make a cut like that look so minor.

  It was so shocking to think two souls had died feet from me. Just like that. That the man I was touching was responsible for it.

  It was vile.

  This man was vile.

  He felt my trembling. He watched me as I fell into a bout of despair, and he didn’t look sympathetic in the slightest. His blue eyes hardened, and he leaned in a touch to say, “Best to refocus your energy on what would have happened had I been the one dead. What would they have been doing to you right now?”

  My breaths thinned as I gaped at him in shock. If he was seeking a reaction, he got one. I couldn’t help the jolt of anger coursing through my body. I said, “Beckett, sure, but I’m not sure Roz deserved to go like that.”

  He shot me a cold smile. “Were you fond of Roz, Victoria?”

  It was the third time he’d said my name, and my chest felt strange every time. “He begged for his life at the end. Said he needed to be there for his brother.” Fresh tears fell from my eyes as I thought of the plea in his voice. Oh, my God. What was wrong with me?

  “Roz was worse than Beckett,” Nixon simply said.

  I swallowed hard. “Because of what he did to that guy’s granddaughter?”

  “That was just one instant.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Nixon’s lips flattened. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Toby, and I’m not sure he’d like to talk about it.”

  I felt awful for the woman. “Was she drunk, like Roz said? Is that how he managed to take advantage of her?”

  “Maybe,” Nixon retorted. “Does it matter?” No, it didn’t. Before I could respond, he stood up, forcing my hands to leave the heat of his stomach. Without looking at me, he added, “She was twelve.”

  He stomped back to the fire and fed it more wood as I came to grips with what he said. There I was trembling again, but not from the cold. I was trembling from how disturbed I felt. I’d slept next to Roz, a predator who had preyed on a child. That poor girl. My stomach turned violently.

  Monsters.

  I crawled up the bed and settled in the very corner. I wanted to disappear into the wall. I wanted to rip the feelings out of my chest and mutilate them.

  This sort of fear was inescapable.

  It was life ruining, the extent of it so punishing.

  I wondered how anyone made it out of this sort of trauma alive.

  Until I realized, they made it out, just not in one piece.

  Present

  I gasped in shock as the memories surged through me at an alarming rate.

  Emotions I had buried for so long surfaced.

  It had taken so much mental strength to trek down memory lane, but the second I began the journey, I found myself rooted in the centre of my past, awed by the events.

  Awed by my strength.

  I remembered the apathy and the pain of losing Mom. I remembered the stark loneliness I’d felt every morning I’d woken up in that bed, dreading the day. I wanted to cry for that girl. I wanted to hug her to me and tell her to be strong because she was so fucking sad.

  More than that, I remembered the fear I felt. Such a unique sort of terror most don’t feel in a lifetime.

  It was fear and…something else.

  Something wrong…

  Something arousing…

  Beneath the thick layer of fear, there were other happenings.

  As the car sped along the uneven road, I shut my eyes, remembering the beginning of my deranged relationship with Nixon.

  37.

  Victoria…

  There was no reprieve – this day wouldn’t end.

  I sat, my spirits deadened, still cold to the fucking bone.

  Nixon had boiled water for hours and thrown it over the dried puddles of blood. He scrubbed it with dishwashing sponges that he’d found in one of the boxes. Then he used Beckett’s blanket to soak up the blood before disposing of it outside. I mean, it was a shitty job. The blood was still there, but it did feel better knowing the hardwood wasn’t so saturated. I also noticed that there hadn’t been a whole lot of blood where Tucker had died. I imagined Nixon had finished him off with his fists instead.

  It was all so fucked up.

  I’d only gotten up to use the outhouse. However, I needed to drink. I needed to eat something. I felt my body giving out, but I was too weak to move. I moved down the bed and curled into a foetal position. I covered my face and shut my eyes as Nixon moved around, his footsteps a never-ending rhythm.

  At one point he’d dragged something heavy across the floor, but I had mentally checked out and didn’t have it in me to turn around to see. I’d used the blankets like barriers to keep him out, even though it was so hot in the room.

  The sound of water sloshing followed and went on forever. Then it stopped and I heard Nixon’s heavy breaths replace the silence.

  When I heard more water splashing, my eyes opened. Curiosity was a bitch. I quietly turned around to look at what he was doing.

  He’d dragged the portable tub into the middle of the cabin and filled it up with water. There was a long black hose running across the room and out the door. He’d used his boot to prop the door open just enough to let the hose out.

  His solid back was facing me. He looked kind of funny because the tub was so small compared to the width of his body. But he’d managed to just fit in. I watched him dunk his head into the water. He scrubbed at his scalp and face. Then he grabbed at one of the kitchen sponges and rubbed a bar of soap to it before vigorously scrubbing his body.

  Just watching him clean himself made me feel grimy. I was so filthy and disgusting. I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet, hadn’t properly cleaned my girly bits. I felt like I might explode just thinking about it.

  He used his blade next to shave his beard. I heard the sound of it sliding across his cheeks from where I lay. It disturbed me to know he’d sharpened that fucker so good, it was probably better than a shaving razor.


  It was oddly satisfying watching him get clean. My eyes trailed his broad shoulders, noticing random bruising along his skin. This was not a guy that took it easy, I realized. The bruises were old and nearly faded, for crying out loud. Did this guy love violence?

  I thought of the four people he had murdered in front of me.

  Yes. I thought. He loved violence just fine.

  He made quick work of his body and then he stood up. I tensed at the sudden move. The water spilled over the edges of the tub and sloshed on the floor. My eyes were glued to his body, though, to the endless little scars along his back and sides, to more bruises along his bare thigh and legs.

  He was ripped. Of course, he was, I’d known that already, but actually seeing it was a whole other ballgame.

  It was a blunt reminder he was all man.

  He looked so much bigger without his clothes on.

  I guesstimated he was at least two hundred and fifty pounds. That was easily over a hundred pounds heavier than me, and it was all muscle. I could never, ever, ever in my wildest dreams overpower him.

  Hell, I wouldn’t have been able to overpower Beckett who couldn’t have weighed more than me by much.

  I was so fucked.

  Yet, I was still staring at his bare ass as he moved across the room to fetch a blanket from the floor. He used it like a towel, running it over his clean-shaven face. He looked good without the stubble. His fuckable hair fell over his forehead, damp and dripping water to the floor. He turned more in my direction, and I couldn’t help the trek my eyes took down his front.

  Okay, yeah, he was ripped from the front too, and big…Big, as in, big. As in, he had a third fucking leg, if you caught my drift.

  When I looked back up to his face, his head was already turned in my direction. His eyes met mine, and my heart jumped from the surprise of it. I threw the blanket over my face before I could think of a better move to make.

  And I could have made so many better moves than that.

  Oh, God, I wanted to die.