by G. , Whitney
Comment from InLovewithBooks: Ugh. These indie authors are getting on my damn nerves. Stop promoting your book blurbs on other author’s book pages! (And why would you post this as a 1-star?)
Comment from TheDNF-Queen: She left out, “Help me, I’m poor! Please BUY MY BOOK!” I’m sure that’s what she was going for with this pandering-ass review/blurb. SMH. (She probably posted it as a 1-star since those are the ones we all read first BAHAHA!)
Comment from RomanceHeart: I hope you’re not going to buy her book, TheDNFQueen! And I’m with InLovewithBooks. What is it with these newer indie authors? #theaudacity
Comment from TheDNF-Queen: I just googled the woman who she’s claiming to be and this Thatchwood woman has been missing FOR REAL for eight weeks. Like, she’s using a real-life tragedy to sell her book. SAD. I’m blocking this author.
I stop reading the comment thread and scream as loudly as I can into a pillow. I’m tempted to throw the cell phone against the wall, but I’ll only be hurting myself.
The phone is a “gift” that Michael left on the table for me last week, but there’s nothing to thank him for. It can’t make calls or send text messages, it has no email or web search functions, and there is no way for me to turn off the restricted controls, snap pictures, or even check the damn time. What I have left is the super basic version of Netflix, access to a curated YouTube, and the ability to post reviews (but not comment or message) via Goodreads.
I also have access to seeing a delayed version of Gillian’s Instagram, but it brings me to tears each time I load the page.
Every other day, she posts a different picture of us when we lived together—along with a long and beautifully worded caption, and I know that she’s still crying herself to sleep.
She’s had to turn off all the comments, since her fans only want to know about her next book. I’m pretty sure the comment that sealed the deal was from mmrr025 two days ago: Can you give us an idea of when you THINK you’ll be normal again? With all due respect, I think Meredith would want you to publish that new book! She was your FAN, too!
Even with these new glimpses that I’m allowed to take of the outside world, most of my free time is spent wandering through this gilded prison—looking for new ways to get the hell out of it.
I may cry myself to sleep here or there, spend a few hours longing for the days when my husband would fuck me with his mouth during the afternoons with an unparalleled passion, instead of staring at me blankly from across a chessboard, but I refuse to feel sorry for myself.
I’m going to get away from him within the next couple of weeks. Come hell or high water.
Grabbing my watch and my journal, I walk over to my bedroom’s locked balcony and look up at the cameras that guard the terrace.
9:05…9:06…9:07…Left balcony camera shuts off and restarts. Right balcony camera doesn’t pick up the slack for twenty-one seconds…
I move to the hallway and wait for fifteen minutes, writing down those camera patterns. The cameras above the winding staircase are too high for me to see, but I’m willing to bet that they’re on the same schedule as the ones in the main living room.
When I make it into the kitchen to check the cameras above the cabinets, I stop at the sight of Michael standing in front of the stove. Dressed in all-black, with the sleeves of his button-down shirt pushed up to the elbows, he’s staring intently into the skillet—looking sexy as fuck.
His shirt is clinging to his muscles in all the right places, his perfect, chiseled jawline is freshly shaved, and from here, I can smell a hint of his intoxicating cologne.
I notice that he has a new tattoo on his left hand—a grey spotted spider that’s far smaller than any of his other ones. He’s also wearing a new watch, a Patek Phillippe that costs what my entire inheritance is worth. It’s almost as if he’s making a statement.
Noticing me, he turns around and smiles, sending unwanted butterflies fluttering against my stomach. He stares at me for several seconds, looking me up and down—fucking me with his gorgeous green eyes.
Suddenly, images of late-night sex in my condo, kissing him in the back of a cab, and his daily flower delivery from before invade my mind. My heart swells at the memories, but the frames quickly dissolve and give way to the darker pictures of our story: Him stuffing me into a van after our honeymoon, him lying about loving me, and his insistence on keeping me here.
I hate to admit it to myself, but this man can still turn me on and wet my panties within seconds. Criminal kidnapper or not, he’s still the sexiest man on the planet, and he knows exactly how to look and what to say to get under my skin.
“Good morning, Meredith,” he says. “Did you sleep well last night? Have you completed the daily swimming laps that I now require you to do?”
I don’t answer. I head toward the breakfast bar and lean against the counter, looking at my phone. With any luck, the breakfast box that drops via drone every morning will be here soon, and I can return to my room.
“Anything interesting happening in the news lately?” he asks. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t access those things. If you’d like, I can update you on where the police are on your case.”
Don’t react to him, Meredith. Don’t react. I suck in a breath and open my Goodreads review to read more upset comments about my post.
“It’s such a shame,” he says. “Some of the people on social media are starting to think that your husband has something to do with your disappearance. They don’t seem to care that the cops have cleared me, and there’s evidence to the contrary.”
I grit my teeth and keep my eyes glued to the screen, as he steps closer to me. He gently grabs the phone from my hands, forcing me to look up at him, to stand up a bit straighter.
“I’m not sure I’m a fan of this extended silent treatment, Meredith,” he says, looking into my eyes. “It’s not really fair, given the circumstances and all I’ve done for you.”
I bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying, “You haven’t done shit for me,” but I can feel the words begging to be freed.
“We have to leave here in a few weeks,” he says, his voice low. “So, it’s in your best interest to—”
“Talk to you?” I cut him off, unable to hold in my emotions anymore. “You honestly expect me to talk to you and act like this shit is normal? Like I’m actually happy to be your wife?”
“You should be, but I’d probably use the word ‘lucky’ over ‘happy’, if I were you.”
“Bullshit, Michael.” I try to push him away, but he grabs my hands, holding me still. “You are a fucking criminal, and I don’t care how big of a ‘monster’ you think you can be, or how well you think you can torture me by holding me here in pain anymore.”
“You have no idea what real pain is, Meredith,” he says as a vein begins to swell in his neck. “You’ve lived a life where your biggest issue is overcoming your own fucking emotions.”
“I beg to differ.”
“You have no fucking idea what true captivity is.” He prevents me from pushing him away again. “You can roam freely in this house. You can eat whatever you want, do whatever you want—whenever you fucking want.”
“I can do everything except leave,” I hiss, feeling my chest heave up and down. “Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that you’ve now started forcing me to swim one hundred laps every evening, for no goddamn reason.”
“How terrible of an existence.” His voice is flat. “When this is all said and done, I can guarantee that you’re going to see how much I’ve helped you.”
“I’d rather see it now,” I say. “If that’s so true, I’d rather see it now.”
“I’ve told you…” His voice trails off for a few seconds. “Once you beat me at a chess game or two, I’ll consider answering whatever questions you have. You’re getting quite good at it.”
“I’d rather play twenty-one questions instead.” I swallow, stepping back against the granite countertop. “I feel like that’s only fair, since it’s not an
automatic win for you.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Is that okay with you? Can you attempt to tell me some of the truth by playing twenty-one questions on my terms, instead of yours?”
“You’re already down to nineteen.”
“Are you aware that you’re going to prison for this? That I will testify at your trial, regardless of the fact that I once loved you?”
“You still do.” He smirks. “Eighteen.”
“That’s not how this game works,” I say. “I ask a question and you answer. Then you ask a question, and I answer.”
“I don’t have anything to ask you.” He runs his fingers through my hair, igniting every nerve in my body, making me react against my will. “I know all the answers already…”
Silence.
“Don’t touch me.” I push his hand away. “Since I’ve decided that I can’t trust a single word or fact you’ve ever told me, what’s your real name?”
His lips turn up into a small smile, but he doesn’t let it stay. “Michael.”
“Are you really an only child? Do you have any other family members?”
“No one that you’ll ever get to meet…”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I glare at him. “Why would you ever lie to me about something as simple as that?”
“I wouldn’t waste the remainder of your fourteen questions on silly things like this, if you want to get anywhere.”
“I know how to keep count,” I said. “At what point did you decide to become a fucking liar instead of the man I fell in love with? Was this all part of some twisted plan from the beginning?”
He doesn’t answer either of those questions. He just narrows his eyes at me. We’re still standing toe to toe, the tension between us as thick as ever.
“For the record…” I say, debating whether now is the right time to say this. “I fell out of love with you the moment you brought me here and threw away the keys.”
“I never threw away the keys,” he said, his voice menacing, yet soft. “I’m just keeping them from you, for a reason you can’t yet see.”
“I was trying to pick a metaphor.”
“Then try to pick a better one.”
“I fucking hate you. How about that one?” I pushed a fist against his chest. “I hate everything about you. I’m no longer attracted to you, I no longer want you, and it’s in your best interest to just let me go.”
“That’s not a real question.” He ignored my fist hitting him again. “I think we should just pause this game at eleven.”
“So, you can regroup and get more of your fucking lies together?” I shake my head, decide to ask the only question that actually matters. “Are you ever going to let me go?”
“You know what?” He clenches his jaw and presses his forehead against mine. “I don’t appreciate being called a fucking liar, Meredith.”
“That’s not the answer I’m looking for.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re looking for,” he says, his lips nearly brushing against mine. “That’s your main problem. You have no idea what’s going on around you.”
Before I can fire back, his lips latch onto mine and his hands grip my waist. My arms instinctively wrap around his neck, and I can feel his cock hardening against my thigh.
I shut my eyes as his tongue darts against the crease of my mouth, demanding immediate entry.
Giving in without thinking, I arch my back against the counter—moaning as he kisses me so deeply and roughly, that I completely forget what the hell we were arguing about. Then I suddenly remember what it’s like to be touched by this man, completely owned and pushed near the edge by a single kiss.
Fuck…
Whispering my name, he slides a hand under my shorts—slipping two of his fingers against my soaking wet slit.
“Your pussy is pretty fucking wet for someone who’s no longer attracted to me,” he says, biting down hard on my bottom lip. He teases my clit with the pad of his thumb before jerking his hand away.
“Who’s the fucking liar now?” He steps back, leaving me breathless and wanting. He looks me up and down with a scowl—as if he’s the damn captive. Then he grabs his coffee cup off the counter. “I’ll be back soon.”
“I can guarantee that I won’t be here waiting.”
“You’re plotting to get away again?”
“If at first you don’t succeed—”
“You’ll fail and fail again,” he says, walking toward the eight-car garage. He looks over his shoulder. “If it’s any consolation for your wasted time, I’ll always find you, Meredith. Always.”
Michael
Now
One day later
This woman is out of her goddamn mind…
I stare at the live security camera footage of the living room, watching as Meredith attacks the floor to ceiling windows with a fire poker. She runs back several feet, takes a few deep breaths, and then charges forward with the poker aimed at the perfect angle for damage.
Sweating and screaming in utter frustration, she falls backward onto the rug once the poker fails to pierce the glass, but she doesn’t stay down for long. She charges at it again and again, repeating the exact same thing she’s tried with the crowbar, the metal base of a lamp, and a wooden table leg.
Today’s escape attempt is by far the most entertaining—especially since I’ve had every window reinforced with steel. Last week, she attempted to get away by starting a fire in the indoor pool area. (It took her five hours to realize that the room—just like every other room in the house, is practically fire-proof. The sprinkler system is wired to turn on if it senses the slightest temperature change.) And yesterday, she attempted to rile up a group of readers on Goodreads.com for escape. The thread so far has over two thousand comments and not a single person believes her. (They’ve turned her plea for help into a controversy with its own dedicated hashtag: #FakeAuthorGate)
She’s a fucking fighter. I have to give her that, and a part of me wishes that we had met under different circumstances.
Then again, I would’ve never reached out to her again, if she’d been a mere one-night stand. She would’ve been a distant memory the moment we reached our climaxes and said our goodbyes.
“Mr. Anderson?” A female voice interrupts my thoughts. “Mr. Anderson?”
I turn off my cell phone and roll down my car’s window. “Yes?”
“Um, are you planning on coming inside the station to talk with the sergeant, or do you want him to bring everyone out here?”
“I’ll be in a few minutes.” I roll up the window, expecting the young redheaded officer to walk away, but she simply stands there. Blushing and staring at me like a high school crush.
Sighing, I lean over and lock my phone in the glove compartment. I pull down the visor and take a quick glance at my reflection. The red eye drops are definitely in effect, and I look like I’ve been crying all night.
Stepping out of the car, I follow the redhead’s lead into the station. I expect her to lead me to the interrogation room, but she shows me over to a desk.
“I know that since your wife is gone, that you probably haven’t had any real intimacy in weeks…” She picks up a foil covered pan and holds it out to me. “So, I took it upon myself to make you the most intimate treat of all: a cherry chocolate pie. I’m also including my phone number, just in case you need someone to cry to late at night. I’m also willing to come over, if a phone call won’t do.”
I blinked. “Is the sergeant coming now or later?”
“A man who looks like you should never sleep alone.”
“I’m insanely devoted to my wife.” I actually mean those words. “I would never cheat on her.”
“If she’s dead, it’s not cheating.” She lowers her voice, and slowly bites her lip. “You can’t make love to a cold corpse.”
“No, but I’m tempted to turn you into one, if you don’t stop flirting with me…”
“Huh?” Her eyes widened. “What did yo
u just say?”
“Over here, Mr. Anderson.” Sergeant Ware finally shows up and saves me from saying something much worse, and the redheaded officer storms away with her unwanted pie.
“Officer Sheffield takes it upon herself to bake pies for most of the men who are in your unfortunate position,” he says, sighing. “She thinks a home-cooked treat will somehow make you forget about things for a few minutes. Don’t take it personally. Between you and me, you’re not missing much of anything.”
“I already assumed that.”
“Right. Well, I’ll take you to the room for now, and leave you there for a bit before presenting a few things to you.”
He leads me down a long hallway and into a small grey room, where Meredith’s father and aunt are sitting at a square metal table.
I stop at the sight of her aunt pressing a handkerchief against his eyes.
“It’s okay, Leo,” she says, her voice cracking. “She’ll turn up soon. I’m sure of it. Don’t cry.”
I clench my jaw and resist the urge to strangle him on the spot.
“Good to know I won’t be alone to hear whatever news they have,” I say, forcing them both to look up at me.
“Hey there, Mike.” Her aunt says, giving me a weak smile. “You did say that I can call you, Mike, right?”
“Michael will suffice.”
“Sorry.” She presses the handkerchief to her own eyes. “Mr. Thatchwood and I were just talking about you.”
“I bet.” I look at her father. “I noticed a commercial from your campaign on TV yesterday…I could’ve sworn Meredith said that you’d dropped out of the race.”
“Well, that was before all of this,” he says. “I decided to stay in to give me something to keep me going, you know?” He lowers his voice. “I’m up in the polls due to people giving me the sympathy vote, so it’s nice that something good will come from this tragedy, right?”
I don’t answer that.
“If you’re ever in need of any investors for your little nightclub, I’d be happy to reach out to some of my top donors and let them know,” he says. “Family has to stick together in these tough times.”
