Backwoods

by Jill Sorenson

  “What did he say?”

  “That he’d call the cops on me if I touched you. He threatened to plant a bag of pot in my car and have me arrested. He also said he’d cut off my balls, but I assume that was an exaggeration.”

  Brooke curled her hands into fists. “If he ever did anything to hurt you, I’d never speak to him again.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters! It’s not fair.”

  “He’s right about us, though. You and me...it’s not a good idea.”

  She flinched as if he’d struck her. “How can you say that?”

  “Because it would change things between us. I care about you too much to fuck up our relationship. I get frustrated when we wrestle around, but I like touching you. You shouldn’t feel bad about touching me.”

  “Why would you fuck it up?”

  “I’d drag you down, Brooke.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is, and you know it is. You’re going somewhere. I’m just...getting high.”

  She sat next to him on the bed again. His drug habit concerned her, but she wouldn’t scold him. “Don’t listen to my dad. He might be rich and successful, but he’s barely human. Instead of judging you, he should look at himself.”

  “He won’t.”

  “We don’t have to tell him.”

  He shook his head, denying her. “Maybe after you finish school. For now, you should have fun. Date other people.”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking her in the eye.

  She supposed it would be more reasonable to take a rain check. They were enrolled in different colleges. He was planning to spend a semester abroad. Their parents might get a divorce. They should wait for a better time instead of starting a furtive, long-distance relationship. But patience wasn’t one of her virtues. Leo’s confession about the pool-party photo had turned her on. He wanted her. She wanted him. They were alone in a hotel room. Why shouldn’t they do what felt natural?

  “We can still be together,” she said. “Just this once.”

  His eyes darkened at the suggestion. “Just this once?”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, toying with the leather cord he wore. It was attached to an antique Japanese coin, which lay at the hollow of his throat. She’d given him the pendant for his birthday last year. “I want the closeness you talked about, just for tonight. You don’t have to be my boyfriend.”

  Although he hesitated, he didn’t say no outright. His pulse throbbed beneath her fingertips. When she moistened her lips, his gaze lingered there for a few seconds. Then he opened his mouth, as if to try to dissuade her again.

  She shut him up with a kiss.

  That was the end of his resistance. He kissed her back with enthusiasm, exploring her mouth in silky strokes. He tasted hot and minty and eager. She’d wanted to do this for so long. The last time, in his car, she’d been drowsy and uncertain, lost in a marijuana haze. Now she was fully awake, fully aware. She straddled his lap and pressed closer, threading her fingers through his dark hair.

  He was already aroused, throbbing against her, but he didn’t rush anything. They kissed until she felt drenched in him, her mouth melded to his. She took it to the next level by tugging off his shirt and staring, lust-struck, at his beautiful chest. When she pulled her top over her head and released the clasp on her bra, he groaned.

  She cupped her hands over her breasts, suddenly shy again.

  He frowned at her in confusion. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m...small.”

  “So what?”

  “If you had a small dick, wouldn’t you be embarrassed?”

  His gaze lowered to the apex of her thighs. She’d been rubbing on his erection for at least thirty minutes. “Your tits are sexy,” he said, digging his fingernails into her hips.

  She relaxed her hands a little. “They are?”

  “Fuck, yeah.”

  Her nipples jutted forth, demanding attention. He was watching her intently. She stroked the sensitive tips, wiggling back and forth on his lap. This action sparked a stronger reaction than she’d anticipated. With a low growl, he flipped her onto her back and yanked off her shorts. Her panties came down with them. Then she was completely naked, breathless with excitement. He kissed her mouth again, his hands roving over her body. He squeezed her bottom and swirled his tongue around her stiff nipples. By the time he worked up to touching her between the legs, she was slick with desire.

  That seemed to please him. His nostrils flared as he slid one finger inside her, very gently. Then he withdrew, using that fingertip to stimulate her in slow circles. She moaned at the sensation, biting down on her lower lip.

  He studied her face, seeming enthralled. “Is this good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I go slower?”

  She didn’t know how to tell him what she wanted, so she covered his hand with hers and showed him. He adjusted his rhythm easily, increasing pressure. She realized that Alex had never bothered to learn her body. After a token effort to arouse her, he’d declared her ready and climbed on top of her.

  Leo was more attentive, more imaginative. He paused to dip his fingers inside her and resumed strumming at a steady pace. He also sucked on her earlobe in a manner that was blatantly suggestive of oral sex.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, gripping his wrist.

  His breath fanned her ear. “Like this?”

  She came with a sharp cry, exploding in pleasure. The climax hit her like a freight train and went on forever. He kept stroking her tingling flesh, gentling his motions but not stopping until she quieted.

  “Wow,” she said, feeling boneless.

  “I told you there was nothing wrong with you.”

  “I guess you were right.”

  He made no move to unbuckle his belt, so she did it for him, pressing her palm to the front of his shorts.

  “We don’t have to—”

  “I want to.”

  She thought his injured leg might get in the way, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He put on a condom and positioned himself over her. When he slid into her, it felt so much better than she’d expected. Hotter, slicker, sweeter. She wrapped her legs around his waist, transported. He kissed her as if her lips were honey. Although he rode her slow, it was over fast. Burying his face in her neck, he found his release with a low groan.

  Somehow, she managed not to whisper I love you.

  Afterward, they got dressed and watched TV. She clung to him, wondering if they’d ever cuddle like this again. Maybe it would be awkward to see him on Thanksgiving break, hoping he didn’t have a girlfriend.

  He was right—sex changed everything. Their relationship would never be the same. She’d risked losing him for a few minutes of pleasure. Mind-blowing, toe-curling pleasure, but still. Now that it was over, she felt greedy and selfish.

  She didn’t voice those concerns, although they weighed heavily on her. Leo had given her one of the best nights she’d ever had. He’d also warned her of the consequences before he touched her. Instead of listening, she’d kissed away his protests. What would he say now, besides I told you so? He’d been an active participant, but she was the clear aggressor. She had to take the lion’s share of the blame.

  Leo didn’t seem to want to talk, either. He took a pain pill—now his leg was hurting—and turned off the TV. Brooke dimmed the lights, snuggling closer to him. His breaths grew steady and even with sleep.

  Her cell phone rattled about an hour later, startling her awake. She sat up and grabbed it. There was a short text from her father:

  pleas come to cabin i hurt my back

  Rubbing her eyes, she tried to call him. He didn’t pick up, so she texted a quick reply, asking i
f he was okay. Again, no answer.

  Damn it.

  Her father wasn’t a tough guy about injuries. He was a board certified surgeon. He’d send for an ambulance if he needed one. It was unusual for him to make this kind of request from her, but who else could he ask? Lydia had thrown her ring at him. He was hundreds of miles from his friends and family. His current paramour couldn’t help him.

  The text itself was odd, too. He made abbreviations on occasion, but rarely misspelled words or ignored capitalization rules. Maybe his batteries were dying and he had to text fast. That would explain his lack of response.

  She rose from the bed, careful not to wake Leo. Shoving her feet into flip-flops, she put on her Baja hoodie. Ella and Paul had gone to the cabin to retrieve their belongings earlier today. Ella had driven her mom’s SUV back. The keys were sitting on the table.

  Brooke scrawled a quick note to Leo and slipped out the door. As she walked down the hall, she considered waking up Paul and Ella. She didn’t want to bother them, so she decided against it. There was no way she’d interrupt her mother and Nathan.

  She could handle this. She needed to talk to her father anyway. He’d reached a new level of callousness with his latest gift. Those tickets were like a precancelation of their next trip. He was no longer available for vacations with her.

  It would serve him right if she let him suffer at the cabin all night. One of her mother’s favorite jokes was to take a picture of Brooke flipping him the bird. She’d pretend to send the image and they’d laugh.

  Brooke relished the thought of replying to his text with a middle finger. Or this message: Sorry, Dad. I’m not available to be your daughter anymore. I hired a replacement daughter with some of the money you gave me. She’ll be handling all of our future interactions. Frowny face.

  Her mom’s SUV was in the parking lot. Brooke opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. The whole way to the cabin, she alternated between regretting what she’d done with Leo and reliving every moment in graphic detail. No wonder her friends liked sex, if it was that good even a fraction of the time.

  She was definitely not a lesbian.

  When she arrived at the cabin, she parked beside her father’s Bentley. The front door was unlocked. She opened it and stepped inside, glancing around. The living room was dark, but the lights in one of the bedrooms were on.

  “Dad?” she called out, walking down the hallway.

  Before she reached the light, someone grabbed her from behind and clapped his hand over her mouth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BROOKE’S SCREAM WAS muffled by a sweaty palm.

  When her attacker locked his arm around her waist, she kicked out with both legs, trying to knock him off balance. Her head rocked back against his chin. He stumbled and went down to the carpet with her, grunting in pain.

  His grip loosened. He lacked either the strength or the determination to hold on to her. His body felt skinny beneath hers, not physically imposing. She could get away from him if she struck now. Before she could elbow him in the gut, he shoved her aside and got up. Even though the hallway was dim, she recognized him.

  “Wyatt,” she breathed. “You’re alive.”

  A crease formed between his brows, as if he didn’t expect her to be pleased. But she was sincerely happy to see him instead of his father. He grabbed a shotgun from the corner of the hall and slung it over his shoulder, saying nothing. The gesture spoke volumes. As did his attempt to grab her, however halfhearted.

  “Where’s my dad?” she asked, swallowing hard.

  “He’s in one of the bedrooms.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “I thought you didn’t like him.”

  Chills traveled along her spine. Maybe Wyatt wasn’t the harmless, homely boy she thought he was. He’d drummed up the nerve to kill his own father. Had he done something terrible to hers?

  “I don’t like him,” she said, her voice quaking. “I love him, though. I can’t help it.”

  Wyatt seemed to understand this sentiment. His expression softened a little. “He’s bound and gagged, but he’s okay.”

  “Can I see him?”

  He didn’t answer. “Stand up and walk to the last bedroom.”

  She scrambled to her feet, heading toward the open door at the end of the hall.

  “Go slow.”

  Heart pounding, she approached the lighted room with careful steps. It was one of the guest bedrooms, not the master suite. Her father wasn’t inside.

  “Get on the bed,” Wyatt said.

  Fear rushed through her blood, making her dizzy. Was he going to rape her? Should she fight now, before it was too late?

  “See that notebook? I want you to write for me.”

  There was a yellow legal pad and a pen on the corner of the mattress. The items seemed incongruent with a murder plot or sexual assault attempt. She moved forward to pick them up with shaking hands.

  Wyatt locked the door behind them and pulled up a chair. He looked pale and exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes. The bones in his face were more prominent than ever, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. She didn’t know how he’d managed to get here. He must have hiked for twenty-four hours without stopping.

  His hair was wet and matted. He appeared to have showered and changed clothes. The ribbed undershirt and expensive trousers he was wearing probably belonged to her father. He’d tucked the pants into his own beat-up army boots.

  Brooke sat down on the bed and opened the notebook, her pen poised like a receptionist waiting for dictation.

  “I need you to write down everything I tell you.”

  She studied him for a moment, afraid to ask why he couldn’t do this without her help. “Can you write?”

  “I can read and write, but I’m slow. It would take me days to fill up a page.”

  She nodded her understanding.

  “You write what I say, word for word, and I’ll sign my name when we’re done. Then I’m going to kill someone.”

  His casual threat made her flinch. He was planning to kill her—or her father. She gripped the pen tight, trying not to tremble. “Why me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father can write fast.”

  He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. “You’re easier to talk to. Prettier to look at. You’re also the only one who escaped.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. She wanted to beg him not to kill anyone, but she couldn’t form the words. So she stared at the yellow paper and waited. He began in clipped sentences. The things he told her were horrific. He gave detailed accounts of his father abducting and torturing young women. He knew the victims’ names. He remembered their identifying characteristics and what they’d been wearing. There were four, not including her.

  The most difficult part for her to write was about the third victim’s capture. This woman had been taken on a hiking trail with her dog. The protective animal had bitten the hell out of his father’s arm. Nash broke its neck, but a nasty infection ensued.

  “I could have killed him then,” Wyatt said. “I could have let him die or helped the girl. Instead I nursed him back to health.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Brooke wiped the tears from her eyes and kept writing. Wyatt described the atrocities the victim had endured under his father’s hands. She’d been the most combative captive and suffered the most abuse. A year later, she used a rope to hang herself.

  Wyatt had been deeply disturbed by this experience, like any normal human being. He’d found the courage to help the fourth victim escape. His father had hunted her down and shot her. Wyatt had spent three days with her dead body in a stone pit.

  Brooke’s handwriting was smeared and shaky. She turned another page, scribbling about the fifth victim
—her. They’d used a remote-operated deer call to mimic the sound of a woman screaming by Echo Lake. Wyatt had left a trail of wool threads for her family to follow. She owed him her life.

  His voice grew hoarse as he continued. Nash had become furious with Wyatt during the search for Leo and Nathan. He’d turned and pointed his rifle at Wyatt’s chest. Wyatt raised his crossbow and pulled the trigger.

  His father missed. Wyatt didn’t.

  When they were finished, he signed the paper and handed her a map with four X marks. They were burial sites, she realized.

  “Why did you come to this cabin?” she asked.

  He returned to his chair and sat down. “When we searched through your backpacks, I saw a note with the address.”

  “You memorized it?”

  “I’m better with numbers than letters,” he said. Taking the shotgun strap off his shoulder, he held it over his lap. “You can leave the room now.”

  Her stomach dropped as she realized who Wyatt was going to kill: himself.

  “No,” she said, dismayed. “Don’t do this.”

  Over the past few hours, he’d recounted the entire story. There was no indication that Wyatt had ever participated in rape, torture or murder. He’d assisted in the kidnappings against his will and done his best to thwart them. He’d shot his father in self-defense. He’d helped Brooke the only way he could.

  At worst, he was a victim. At best, a hero.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I can’t live with what I’ve done. What I’ve seen.”

  “Your father was a monster, not you.”

  “I’m a monster, too. I feel worse about killing him than kidnapping you.”

  “You saved me.”

  “Did you mean it when you said you’d run away with me?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t run away with him, but she had to stop him. How could she stop him? “You need to eat something,” she said, putting the pen and paper aside. “I’ll make you a sandwich and you can sleep for a few hours. I’ll stay right here with you. In the morning, you’ll feel better.”