Chapter 5
Steele withdrew a set of handcuffs from his front coat pocket. He jerked the brunette’s hands behind the seat and cuffed them there. She hard-blinked several times, her left cheekbone turning an angry red, but she didn’t seem to be seriously hurt.
Her skin looked so soft and strong. It reminded him of buttermilk and canvas. It reminded him of his mother’s skin as she lay in her casket. It also brought to mind his father standing next to the casket, weeping, and the fake tears that had burned Steele with anger. If it hadn’t been for his father allowing her to work herself to death, she would still be alive. He was an emasculated, passive man who forced his wife to work. Steele loathed him.
He told his father as much.
“Her death had nothing to do with her working,” his father said. “People have heart attacks. People die. It’s no ones fault.”
His father tried to hug him then, but he pulled away, picked up a chair, and broke it over his father’s head. Then he stood over his father and cursed him for the murderer and failure he was.
“You were the one who should have died,” he said.
The next day his father shipped him off to live with his grandmother. It was the only time his father took control. The only thing he ever did right.
Steele wanted to touch the brunette, to touch the skin so like his mother’s. He yanked her dress up and ran his fingertips over her uncovered thighs. She wasn’t wearing any hose so he could get right to her long, soft legs, her perfect skin. She was definitely the one. Steele reclined her seat. Then he pulled a small black box from his coat pocket and popped it open. A gleaming straight razor lay inside.
He cut each shoulder strap of her dress, slit it from chest to hem, and pulled it off. Her bra and panties were a playful light blue with polka dots. With the tips of his fingers, he caressed her smooth firm stomach and a feeling of warm contentment came over him.
The brunette’s cell phone had fallen to the floor. Steele picked it up and shoved it in his lap.
No car stopped or even slowed down to check on the black Mercedes sitting on the shoulder. Vehicles rushed by, ignoring them as if they were panhandling vagrants. Steele accelerated back onto the Interstate whisking her away from her old life, taking her into a life she’d never believed was possible.
She shook her head, looked at him. Her brain had finally made a connection back with her body.
“What hap--,” she began.
Steele brought his hand down hitting her below the ribs with the heel of it knocking the wind from her.
“Shut up. You do not speak unless I speak to you. Do you understand?”
She coughed and sputtered, tried to catch her breath.
He slapped her across the face. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“Good.”
Steele lowered the driver’s side window and tossed her cell phone out. He watched in the rearview mirror with some satisfaction as the phone bounced across the concrete until a car ran over it, blasting it into a million plastic fragments.
Exiting off I-35 and onto Highway 9, they traveled in a long, eastward curve. Whenever a semi or tall SUV with a good view into the Mercedes passed by, Steele looked up to see if anyone was looking down and happened to notice the nearly nude woman reclined in the passenger seat. Would they think she was relaxing in her bikini as they drove to one of the nearby lakes? Such a sight wasn’t uncommon, especially at this time of year, and he would find it entertaining to watch them gawk at his prize without realizing what they were really seeing. Steele studied the faces of people as they passed by, hoping for some double-take or sign of recognition, but none ever came. When they did look, they only saw the Mercedes and not his prize.
Within a few miles, Steele exited again, and they traveled south over rolling hills towards the town of Slaughterville. The brunette sobbed quietly but didn’t speak. She was clearly confused about what was happening, had to be wondering why he was doing this, what she might have done to provoke him, what she could do to free herself.
Steele turned up the stereo. Track eight “Sorry Is A Sorry Word” filled the interior, effectively drowning out her sobs.
Traffic quickly vanished as they traveled south, and it wasn’t long before Steele turned onto a two-lane blacktop that had once been a gravel road. He’d paid to have it paved back when he’d bought the property.
Red Cedar, Hackberry, Blackjack Oak, and Redbud trees crowded the road as if pushing in to watch them pass by. A half mile later, Steele turned up a long driveway. He stopped next to a small security keypad mounted on a pole in front of a tall, black gate.
He felt curiosity in the brunette swelling up, pushing her to speak. She’d stopped crying, built up her courage. She wanted to know why. She wanted to know where. She wanted to know what he planned. So many questions. Some things are best experienced without complete understanding. Some questions are better left unanswered.
He put the car in neutral, set the emergency break, and waited for her to ask. The wait was short.
She raised her voice over the still loud music. “May I--”
He slapped her hard on the top of her thigh, hard enough that his own hand pulsed with the sting of the blow. She howled in pain, and he slowly turned down the music.
“Do not talk over the Temptations,” he said.
A red handprint materialized on her leg.
“Do not speak unless spoken to,” he said. “You indicated earlier that you understood. Now either you lied or you deliberately disobeyed me.”
“Edward, please, what’s happening? Why are you doing this?”
Steele clamped his hand over her nose and mouth. She twisted her head away from his hand, to free her face from his grip, but with her hands cuffed behind her the attempt was futile. She opened her mouth, working her jaws to bite his hand, but he kept his grip firm so her teeth found no purchase. He was much too strong for her. He held her fast.
“There are much worse things I can do to you,” he said, giving her time to let a few possibilities sink into her imagination while she struggled to breathe.
“I don’t want to do those things,” he said. “I want to be civil. Will you let me be civil?”
Her struggling slowed. Stopped. She studied him, and he let her. He even smiled at her before letting her go.
Gasping for breath, she began sobbing again.
He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, pushed the rebellious lock of her hair back behind her ear.
“Everything will be just fine if you do exactly what you’re told,” he cooed to her. “Now nod your head so I know you won’t disobey me again.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
He opened the car window and tapped his security code into the keypad. The black iron gate swung open, and he pulled the car inside.
His home sat on one hundred and sixty acres. Thick woods and brush surrounded the property. Bradford Pear trees stood in a row in front of the house while enormous Pecan trees lined the driveway. The house had been built atop a red rock ridgeline overlooking the tops of the trees. His studio, The Tomb, had been carved into the rock beneath the house. The view from his living room gave anyone the impression that the house had been built on the tops of the trees. Steele had the best view in the county.
When the Mercedes reached the top of the steep driveway, Steele pulled around near the back of the house. He parked on a concrete slab in front of a door. A detached four-car garage stood further behind the house and a gnarled Sycamore tree climbed out of the earth between the two buildings.
Steele got out of the car and walked around to the passenger door. The brunette watched his every move. She had stopped crying. Obviously, she still had her questions, and he could understand that.
She looked angry. Her brown eyes had narrowed and her lips had thinned. He looked forward to her anger.
From his coat poc
ket, Steele pulled out a wide, locking leather collar. The brunette’s eyes moved from his face to the collar. He opened the car door.
“I’m going to put this around your neck.”
“Why are you doing this? Why did you hit me?” She attempted to be authoritative, but her voice betrayed her with its trembling.
“Me?” he said. “Hit you? Are you sure?”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“I have? It seems to me that it’s right here,” he said, tapping the side of his skull with his index finger.
He brought the collar to her throat, and she ducked her head in an attempt to prevent him from putting the collar on her. Steele shoved her head back and slipped the collar around her neck.
“Stop,” she cried, thrashing about in the seat. “Don’t.”
He buckled the collar. He then strode to the Sycamore tree, picked up a thick metal cable bolted around the trunk, and dragged it back to the car.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he fastened the cable to the collar and removed her handcuffs.
“Get out,” he demanded.
She didn’t move. Her eyes searched the inside of the car.
Steele violently yanked on the cable forcing her head to whip back and then forward. “I said get out.”
She latched onto the seat with one hand and the car door with the other then braced her feet on the concrete.
To keep her off balance, Steele pulled the cable tight to keep tension on it. He then stomped the hand she held the seat with. She let go with a cry. Steele wrapped the cable around his arm and dragged her out of the car. He enjoyed the physical work of it: The way his muscles tightened with each pull, the pressure of the cable around his arm.
The red mark on her face had already started to blue and blacken. Her voice choked with desperation.
“No... Please... Don’t do this...,” she begged, clutching at the door.
Steele jerked hard, and she lost her grip, fell to the concrete. She scrambled back to her feet, but slipped and sprawled to the ground again. He pressed his advantage grabbing a handful of hair and dragging her off the concrete and through the dirt to the gnarled sycamore.
The brunette wailed. She kicked her feet and desperately flailed her arms until she caught one of his ankles. She tried to bite him.
Before she could sink her teeth into him, he kicked her in the stomach and she rolled into a fetal position gasping for air. He wrapped her hair in his hand and kissed her on the cheek before she recovered. She tasted of sweat. She was full with fear. It poured out of her. And he loved it.
She heaved for breath. Dirt and tears and sweat stuck to her skin. She would have to be washed, and he looked forward to washing her, to cleaning and preparing her, to exploring her skin without any interference. She looked up at him then, defiance bright in her eyes, and he blew her a kiss. Then he slammed his fist into the back of her head and watched her slump over, unconscious.
A Perfect Canvas Page 5
