by Soto, S. M.
Percivale smiles down at me like he knows better—like the bastard can see right through me—and much to my relief, he turns around and gets inside the shower, only, he doesn’t pull the shower curtain around him to save the water from splashing to the floor or cover himself modestly; no, he leaves himself bare so he can watch my every move and so I can watch him too. In complete, infuriating agony.
While he squirts soap into his palms, I try to think of a way to sneak past him without him noticing. But even if I did manage to get away from him and this shady room, do I really want to be out, in the middle of nowhere, by myself, with no protection, in a place like this? Why do I feel like staying with him seems to be the safer option? But that can’t be true, because deep down, I know this man doesn’t plan on keeping me alive. I see it in his eyes. His resolution. I just don’t know why he’s dragging it out. He’s had so many opportunities, hasn’t he? So why wait?
I cock my head to the side and watch him. He tips his head back under the spray and rubs a hand over his head, shaking the strands so the suds can come loose. His muscles flex with the movement. My mouth dries as I watch the suds slide down his body, rolling over every crevice and rivulet of his abs. I clench my eyes shut and shake my head, trying to pull myself together, but in doing so, images play behind my lids. Images of me and Percivale in that bed together, rolling around, legs and arms entwined, his firm length sliding in and out between my legs. My stomach dips at the thought, and my body feels warm, feverish.
I think about the possibility of giving myself over to this man and what that would mean for me. If I let him have his way with me, for one night, what would happen? What would the next morning bring? And like being doused in cold water, all the heat that was just swirling in my body vanishes. I can see it, clear as day: if I give my body to him—even if I don’t—I can see him taking my life when I least expect it. Probably while I’m asleep next to him. Maybe that’s why he chose this place?
It’s seedy enough as it is. Women are probably murdered and their bodies left to rot here all the time. And that’s why he’s brought me here. That’s why he chose this place, the room with one bed. To keep me close. He’s going to kill me while I least expect it, and I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
With a renewed sense of strength, I open my eyes and instead of admiring his body like I once was, I glare at Percivale and start plotting. Tonight…tonight I’m getting the hell out of here. Even if it means running into another world of danger. That’s a chance I’m willing to take.
Escape
Blossom
When Percivale finishes with his shower, I try to act normal. I keep my distance and leave my eyes downcast, not wanting him to see what I’m thinking or recognize the calculating gleam in my eyes. He doesn’t talk to me, hardly even looks at me, actually, which makes it a whole hell of a lot easier.
We climb into bed, and I do so warily. I run my hand over the sheets and lift the comforter all the way down, checking for bugs or any kind of stains. Thankfully I don’t find any. That I can see.
I can’t help the way my body tenses when Percivale climbs into the other side of the bed. His body is big and long, and even though the bed is a decent size, he takes up so much freaking room, it’s going to be impossible to keep my distance. His leg lightly brushes mine, causing my breath to hitch. His elbow accidently grazes my side, and I stiffen on the uncomfortable springs. I can’t get away from him or his touch. I feel the warmth of his body everywhere. It’s claustrophobic. As subtly as I can, I scoot my body closer to the edge, anything to maintain at least a respectable amount of distance between us.
A part of me hopes he’ll click on the TV and fall asleep to the background noise. Any extra noise while I escape will be helpful. If the room is dead silent, that’ll only make things harder on me. But of course, that’s too much to ask. He doesn’t bother with the TV, and he flips off all the lights, dousing the room in complete darkness. The only light is that from the moon and the burnt-orange glow from the parking lot lamps shining in through the window drapes.
I lie stiffly on my back, staring up blankly at the ceiling. Every once in a while, I shift my gaze from the ceiling to the digital clock and note how slow the time is passing by. I wait, with slow rhythmic breaths, until I hear him breathe deeply and I know he’s fallen asleep. To stay safe, I wait a little longer, wanting him to be in a deep sleep. My eyes are getting heavy from lying in the dark, but I fight my body’s need for rest. I can sleep once I’m safely away from him and this motel. Slowly, I twist my head to the side to look at him, my vision now well-adjusted to the lack of light in the room. He’s flat on his back, one arm tucked underneath the pillow behind his head and the other splayed out along the firm planes of his stomach. The sheets are pulled up about halfway, to his midthigh, just enough to inhibit his movement and slow him down if he does wake up while I’m trying to escape.
I run over the plan in my head one last time and try to keep my breathing under control, but it’s an impossible feat. My heart is pounding, and my stomach keeps folding in on itself. The sound of my pulse pumping is so loud, it reverberates in my head, thumping in my ears. I can feel the blood, the adrenaline, percolating through my veins.
Sucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I clamp down with my teeth, holding my breath. I roll over onto my side, pretending I’m asleep and acting like I’ve just changed positions. I stay like this for a while, straining to listen for his breathing or see if I notice any change on his side of the bed.
There’s none.
Slowly I reach for the sheets, and as softly as I can, I lift and swing my legs out from under them, using my ab muscles to hold me upright and keep me steady. I raise my body up from the bed and rest my feet on the carpet one by one. I glance over my shoulder and watch Percivale for a few more minutes. When I’m certain he’s still asleep, I use my quad muscles to lift me from the bed and softly lay the sheets back down in place. I shift my gaze toward the pillows, thinking about propping one of them to the side so it still feels like there’s someone lying next to him, but I worry that it’s too close of a call. I don’t want to risk moving the pillow and waking him, so I decide to leave it.
I inhale a shaky breath and force myself to calm down before I take my first step toward the door. I don’t have shoes on, and I’m dressed in the same dirty clothes as before, but none of that matters. The second I make it out of that door, I’m going to run. Hard and fast.
I tiptoe toward the door, trying to stay light on my feet. Every once in a while, the floor creaks beneath me, and I know it’s because this place is so freaking old. Even with the worn carpet eating up the sound, I still pause each time and glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s still out.
Tears spring to my eyes once I reach my exit. My body is trembling so badly, I’m afraid to grip the knob and make it rattle, that’s how out of control it is. It’s a ruckus. I’m on the verge of hysterics. So close to the finish line I can practically taste it. The giddiness thrums through my body, but so does dread, because anything can still go wrong. I take one last look over my shoulder and try to ignore the twinge in my chest as I watch him sleep. I tell myself it’s because of the fear, but I know it’s not.
Grasping the handle in my hand, I use my other hand to turn the lock. The sound of the mechanism inside unlatching is deafening, and I wince. Tension curls my shoulders inward, prompting me to pause. I listen intently for any movement from the bed, but when I don’t hear anything, an urgency like never before settles in my body. I push back the deadbolt and turn the knob. It squeaks around the hinges, but I don’t care anymore. I pull the door open and poise myself to run. A cool blast of air slaps me in the face just as my bare foot makes contact with the chilling concrete.
But I’m too late.
A scream gets lodged in my throat the same time a hand is slapped over my mouth and a fist tightens in my hair, yanking me away from the door. Using his foot, Percivale kicks the door closed, my escape slamming shut before
my very eyes. The sound of it is like the heavy doors of a jail cell clanging shut. Tears swim in my eyes and spill over, cascading down my cheeks.
When he slams my back into the wall, my vision goes in and out for a few seconds, pain radiating in the back of my skull. Once I’m able to see clearly again, I find him staring down at me with fire in his eyes. He places something cold against my temple, and it takes me longer than it should to realize what it is. A sob cracks through the air when I realize it’s his gun resting against my head. He leans into me, his free hand wrapping around my neck, cutting off my air supply.
“How stupid do you think I am, Blossom? Did you really think I didn’t know you were awake? Did you really think I didn’t know what you were planning the second I walked out of the shower, huh?” he seethes, digging the barrel into my skin. I cry harder now. His grip around my throat tightens, and black dots start to dance before me, threatening to steal my vision.
“Keep pushing me, pretty girl,” he whispers coldly. “I enjoy the chase. And what’s more? Once I have you bleeding, bent to my will, you’re going to wish I killed you the second I laid eyes on you, because what comes next won’t be pretty.” The threat in his tone is clear, and the effect it has on me is astounding. Ice floods my veins and my body goes cold, like my organs have already shut down and my body is already being deposited in the cold soil, six feet under. I try to gasp for air, but my chest tightens, and my lungs burn instead. My tears course down my face in a steady stream as I try to force the words past my lips.
“I-I’m sorry.”
Percivale smiles. It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen, his eyes glinting with a murderous rage. “You’re not, Blossom. But you will be.”
He suddenly lets go of my neck, and instead of crumpling to the floor like I know I should, I bolt, trying for the door again. But he’s there. And the last thing I see coming toward my head is the butt of his gun, then all I feel is pain.
Then…nothing.
* * *
When I come to, there’s blinding rays of sunlight streaming in through the window. I shift on the bed, trying to sit upright, but the movement causes pain to shoot through my skull. I raise my hand, trying to rub what I assume is a lump, but my arms won’t move. Actually, I can’t move anything. My eyes widen and I dart my gaze down to my body, my lips curling in anger.
That bastard.
My hands and legs are zip-tied, again. I twist left and right, trying to find a way to slip my hands out of the plastic or to find a way to cut through when his voice makes my heart skid to a screeching halt.
“Don’t.”
My breath gets lodged in my throat, fear snaking its way through my veins. Slowly, I lift my eyes up, surprised when I find him sitting casually in a wooden chair. He’s fully dressed, decked out in his leather jacket, dark jeans, and shirt, with another cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He has one of his legs crossed nonchalantly over the other, leaving his big black boot on display. In his one hand, he’s holding a cup of steaming liquid—I’m guessing coffee. I make the mistake of meeting his eyes and flinch at the hatred reflected back at me. Not even when we were back at the diner did he look at me the way he is now…it’s almost like he wishes I was dead, and for some reason it makes my chest tighten and has my eyes stinging. I hate that I feel like I’ve let him down. Like I’ve made him angry.
Jesus, now I understand what Stockholm syndrome does to people. And I haven’t even been with him longer than a few days.
The rest of his face is stoic, devoid of any emotion, but his eyes, they’re burning holes right through me, incinerating me in the worst of ways. I duck my head down and dart my gaze away, anything to avoid that look in his eyes. It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize. I know I shouldn’t have to, especially not after he hit me. But I feel like I need to. So I close my eyes and hold my breath until I feel dizzy enough to fight the urge and forget it.
The sound of a cell phone ringing cracks through the tense air, and my eyes snap open. Percivale, who looks calm as a cucumber, smoothly pulls a phone out of his jacket pocket. Without looking down at the caller ID, he brings it to his ear. Whoever is on the other line starts speaking immediately, and Percivale keeps his face blank. With his eyes, he dares me to open my mouth, to scream or do anything, and I know immediately if I follow out on that dare, it’ll be the last thing I ever do. He glances at the time on the digital clock once before he nods, mostly to himself, like he’s cataloguing whatever information the person on the other end of the line is giving him.
“I’ll get it done. I should be in New Orleans no later than Saturday.”
New Orleans? Is that where we’re going?
Percivale ends his call without saying anything else. He just slips the phone back in his pocket and pushes to his feet. With a frown marring my features, I watch as he looks through the peephole of the door, noticing the way his lips thin. Before I can even try to process what that’s supposed to mean, he strides across the room toward me, and I can’t help but shrink into myself a bit, worried he’s going to hit me again. Or worse, kill me. When his hands raise toward me, I flinch away, and he pauses. Something flashes in his eyes briefly. It looks a lot like regret, but I know it can’t be that. I must be seeing things. Before I can examine it further, his face is back to that stoic, cold mask, and much like last time, he flips open his knife, cutting through the binds, only he doesn’t let me walk on my own. He yanks me up from the bed, his fingers digging painfully into my skin, and he slaps his hand over my mouth. I shoot my gaze to his, and almost like clockwork, there’s pounding on our door. It’s unnecessarily loud and doesn’t sound the least bit friendly.
Percivale doesn’t waver or flinch at each bang of someone’s fist against the wood like I do. I search his face, his eyes, trying to understand what’s happening, but the cold mask of indifference gives nothing away. The pounding on our door eventually stops, but my heart is still beating in time to that rhythm. Percivale doesn’t move his hand away from my mouth. He also doesn’t move. The only part of him that moves are his eyes. They’re darting between the door and window, narrowed into thin slits.
We stand like that for a while, until finally, he removes his hand from my mouth and tugs me along after him. I want to ask what’s happening or where we’re going, but I keep my mouth shut instead. Even when he urgently drags me to the car, throws his duffel in the back seat, climbs into the driver’s side, and peels off. I don’t ask where we’re going or what’s happening. It isn’t until we’re driving along a deserted road and he abruptly veers off into an opening between the trees that my heart rate spikes.
I dart my gaze around us, and my stomach churns with realization. There’s nothing surrounding us but endless miles of trees and dirt. This is where he’s going to do it. He chose to kill me in some random place in the woods so he can dump my body where it will never be found.
Sweat trickles down my back, and bile rises up my throat, threatening to spill in my lap. I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and bite down hard as I try to stifle my impending sobs.
“Percivale,” I choke out, turning toward him. “P-please. Let me talk to my parents just one last time,” I sob, tears now streaming down my face. His lips thin and before I realize what’s happening, he jerks the wheel to the side and the car skids. There’s the screeching sound of someone stepping on their brakes, and I realize much too late, it’s not us. Before I can process what’s happening, Percivale throws the car in park and reaches for something behind his back. Gripping a fistful of my hair, he yanks me down in my seat.
I cry out in pain, trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening, but it’s useless.
When he throws his door open and hops out with his gun in hand, I scream. I scream even louder at the sound of popping gunfire. I duck all the way down in my seat, quickly realizing Percivale didn’t pull in here to murder me; he pulled in here because someone was trying to get to us—well, probably him.
I slide down the seat, onto the mat
on the floor, and huddle into a ball. I squeeze my legs into my body, and every time the sound of bullets penetrate the metal of our car, I wince.
When the popping stops, I slowly lift my head, trying to peer out the window and the side mirrors. I can’t see or hear anything. It’s quiet—too quiet for my liking.
Nibbling on my bottom lip, I debate on whether or not I should stay put and wait it out or use this time to run. I don’t know where he is, or if he’s even coming back, but this might be my only chance. Unable to help myself, I climb out of the small foot space and maneuver my body over the center console into the driver’s seat to look out the door that’s still hanging open. Not seeing anything, I slowly step out, one foot at a time, now slightly worried about Percivale.
Where is he? What happened to him?
Inhaling a deep breath, I push away from the car and follow what sounds like voices a few feet away, between the trees. My stomach churns when I glance around overgrown pines and see two men dead on the ground. I freeze in place, and my face pales when I see Percivale standing over a man on the floor, his gun aimed at his head.
“Perc—”
He pulls the trigger.
“Oh god,” I choke out and clutch a trembling hand to my stomach. Percivale swings his gaze to mine with a look of surprise etched on his features. The splatters of blood on his face do me in, and the contents of my stomach empties, right here at my feet.