by CLIFF, J. C.
“Tell me something.” He pauses to study me. “In our most intimate moments, tell me you didn’t feel the same spark of soul-connecting electricity as me. Tell me you felt the very same connection with Adam. I want to hear you say he made your heart race ten times more when he kissed you. I want you to tell me you wished he were your next breath to breathe at the mere sight of him. Tell me I’m lying about that, Jules.”
It’s a sight to watch this grown man soften his felonious eyes as he pleads with me. He’s twisting my heart all around, making an unsolvable puzzle in his wake. When I don’t answer, he leans in nose-to-nose, daring me to deny his claims as he hisses through clenched teeth, “Tell me, dammit! Tell me I’m wrong.”
I’m taken aback by the ferocity in his voice, and my stomach twists with angst. “I can’t do this. I just can’t. I can’t just jump in with both feet, Travis,” I hoarsely whisper as a lone teardrop leaks out of the corner of my eye. “I don’t know what awaits in your murky pool of lies, and I can’t see through the hordes of piranhas swimming around you, ready to eat me alive.” Another teardrop slips, and my eyes become blurry. “I had a life, you know,” I cry through clenched teeth. “I had a fiancé, and God knows what he’s going through right now. You just can’t erase my past like this, and then expect me to fall in line with a compliant smile on my face.”
I suck in a ragged breath, tears clogging my throat, both pain and frustration taking over my emotions. “You’re telling me my previous life as I once knew it is now over. You’re saying I have to stay with you, because you’re protecting me, but yet you won’t tell me why. You’re sugarcoating reality, and the actual reality is you’re holding me captive.” A pained cry leaves my lungs as I pound on his chest with my fists. “Everything is wrong with this picture, Travis! Everything.”
I slide my body to the side of his, trying to get away from him. I need some breathing room. He grabs my elbow to stop me, but I yank my arm out of his grasp and glare at him through watery eyes. “Don’t,” I hoarsely warn. The crushing weight of the combined stressors is too much to for me to handle. Anger and pain are thick inside my chest like the viscosity of saltwater taffy, causing me to gasp for air. “Just let me be.”
His eyes convey hurt, but I refuse to look at him anymore and have him affect me. I quickly slip off the bed and stop to grab a few clothes from the tipped over laundry basket. With my hands full, I make my way to the bathroom, and then lock the door behind me. I grab onto the sink’s countertop and close my eyes, stealing a deep, shaky breath. I notice my hands are trembling. I think I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. For all I know, maybe I’m having one now. A few more silent tears spill over my cheeks. My insides are torn to shreds.
Insanity hangs in the balance by a mere thread. The only thing keeping me from entering no man’s land is a tiny glimmer of hope. I have to keep the faith I will see my dad and Jake again, the only family and unconditional love I have left. I quickly slip on a t-shirt and panties. A firm knock sounds on the wooden door and it startles me. There is nothing he can do or say to ease my pain.
“Jules, open the door. You’re in distress, and I can’t have you shutting down on me,” he orders with a stern voice. “The things you’ve been through over the last forty-eight hours,” he pauses, and then softens his voice, “well…you really shouldn’t be alone and upset like this. I’m concerned, baby.”
Concerned? If he were concerned for me, he’d let me call home. Anger bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, and I’m glad for it. I’d rather pour my energy into anger than spend the time in a mess of self-pity, so I snap.
My lungs explode with vehement sarcasm, “What’s the matter, Travis? Did you run out of Blyss, or do you have a dose waiting for me if I open the door?”
A loud boom crashes into the wall on the other side of the door, and I jump back. Startled, my heart leaps into my throat. By the sound of it, Travis has punched a hole in the wall. I know what I said was a low blow, but I don’t care; he asked for it.
“Open the goddamn door, now!” he roars as he pounds on the door with a heavy fist. My eyes bolt open wide in alarm. He’s so enraged his voice and actions scare me. I back up a few feet, wondering if he’s going to bust down the door. Has he gone crazy? Why would I want to open the door to a raging lunatic who’s seeing nothing but red?
It sounds as if a herd of cattle are barreling into the bedroom, and then the next thing I hear is Stryker’s voice bellowing out, “What the fuck, man?”
“Get the fuck out, Stryker. This isn’t your battle,” Travis yells back.
Then I hear Quinn jump into the mix with his deep baritone voice. “You need to back off a minute and chill.”
“You don’t tell me what to do…” His voice is cut off as I hear a rustle ensue outside the door. Then Quinn’s voice emits an ominous tone full of such vexation it scares the crap out of me. “I said to back the fuck off, Travis. If you don’t, I’ll throw you in a set of handcuffs ’til you settle your ass down.”
I press the palm of my hand against my pounding heart. Quinn’s threatening tone would have me opening the door if he told me to, because I’d hate to know what he’d do if I didn’t. Thank God he’s on my side right now, providing me with a little distance from Travis.
Some very colorful words are exchanged, but the end result is a tremendously mad Travis slamming the bedroom door behind him, and then I’m left in ear-ringing silence. Well, that was exciting. I slide my body down to the floor, the cold tiles giving me a slight chill. I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes.
It’s times like this I wish I had some music to escape into. I would especially love a set of noise-canceling headphones right now. There is only one band in particular that can always be counted upon to soothe my soul, no matter the mood or circumstance I find myself in. I know Def Leppard doesn’t sound soothing or consoling to many people, especially in this type of adversity, but their music has always been able to reach me, providing an inner clarity like no other.
I close my eyes and imagine the band on stage, with the bright lights shining overhead as the crowd roars for another song. The music starts, and I hum along with the tune. I have every single beat memorized in my head, both forward and backward to my favorite song, “Hysteria”.
I’m imagining I’m the set of drums…no, not the drummer, but the drums themselves. I’m the Tom-Toms, the snare, the bass, and the cymbals all in one as I feel every beat of percussion vibrate through me. Totally immersed now, the calm beat and cadence envelops me, and I can breathe a little easier now. The feeling I get with music has to be equivalent to an alcoholic getting his first drink of the day; it’s indescribable.
Travis’ loud, thunderous voice suddenly erupts through every wall in the house as he yells at the top of his lungs, and then another door slams with a thunderous crash. My eyes pop open with alarm, and the trance I put myself in is gone.
His rage echoes through the bathroom, bouncing off the walls, and I can’t take it. I press my fingers into my ears, trying to drown out the shouting. I begin to hum again while methodically rocking back and forth, trying to calm my frayed nerves.
After a few minutes, I remove my fingers and find all is quiet and calm for the moment. Knowing the bedroom is empty, curiosity gets the better of me. I soundlessly open the bathroom door and hear Travis’ deep voice filtering through the wall of the next room. Carefully, I creep to the other side of the room that’s adjacent to mine and press my ear to the cool drywall to eavesdrop.
“Give her some breathing room, Trav,” Stryker tries to reason. It’s amazing to me how many hats Stryker wears as he seamlessly and effortlessly adapts to each situation he finds himself in. He goes from a hard-ass gun-toter, psychologist, happy-go-lucky surfer dude, to an all-business, hard-edged medic on the front lines.
“She’s in a fuckload of emotional distress right now,” he calmly states, and then suddenly raises his voice, startling me. “Back the fuck off. She just got her memory back
, killed a man, watched a couple more drop before her very eyes, and she’s still in your possession—by force, I might add. How the hell is she supposed to digest all that in two days?”
“She should know...”
Stryker interrupts him with a loud scoff. “You’re such a self-centered dick sometimes, Travis. Can’t you push aside your needs for one minute, and put yourself in her shoes?” His voice goes from displeasure to heated hostility. “Did you even stop to think how you’ve not only put her in eminent danger, but all of us too by letting your foolish heart get in the way? You decided what was best for you. You didn’t even consider us. You’re in the fucking slave trade business for God’s sake!” he roars. “And you’re not helping matters by scaring the shit out of her and punching holes in the wall.”
I surmised they all knew what Travis did, but to hear Stryker verbally confirm it has me going numb on the inside. It leads me to believe they all support his lifestyle then. Maybe Stryker and the others are involved too. A cold shiver runs down my spine. Who knows? They could’ve been the actual men who took me that fateful night. Everything was such a blur, it was dark to boot, and then they promptly knocked me out.
Travis’ voice lowers to a mumble, and I can’t make out what he’s saying. I give up pressing my ear to the wall and lower my head into my hands. I have no one to turn to at this point, and I really need someone to talk to. Better yet, I should find a way to escape, and for some stupid reason, a large part of me doesn’t want to. The thought of leaving Travis twists my heart like a wrung out rag. I shake my head at myself. I’m sure I have Stockholm Syndrome now, and I seriously think I need professional help.
My mind is like a piece of unclaimed luggage, thoughts endlessly cycling the same route on a conveyor belt, taking the same path over and over again. I have never in all my life been faced with such an odd internal struggle of this magnitude before.
I’m sure if I could separate myself from this entire situation, I could process and sort my mind out. The thought of being in my dad’s and Jake’s arms again makes my heart speed up with anticipation. It’s been too long. I miss my family, my home, and my simple little life. If I can get out of here, I know they can protect me from Nick and his men. I’m more than certain once I’m surrounded by my dad’s army of men I’ll be guarded better than the Queen of England, and then I can call Adam once I know I’m safe. The prospect of being able to obtain my freedom gives me a sense of renewed hope.
Morning sunlight streams into the room, and judging from the brightness, I’m guessing it’s close to ten in the morning. I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand, and sure enough, it’s a little after ten. I must’ve slept hard last night, because the last thing I remember was being curled up in the fetal position crying my eyes out; the emotional exhaustion wiped me out.
Loneliness fills me up inside seeing his empty side of the bed. I had locked Travis out of the bedroom for the entire night, and he wasn’t happy about it. I wasn’t happy about it either, but I felt like I needed the space. Unfortunately, I’m left just as confused this morning about my feelings as I was last night.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I didn’t really eat a decent dinner last night, and now it’s past breakfast time. I roll out of bed, use the bathroom, and then find an elastic hairband to put my hair up into a ponytail. I throw on a pair of Travis’ gym shorts, which are way too big, and roll the waistband over a few times until they stay put. I then find one of his t-shirts and slip it over my head. His cotton t-shirts are extra comfy, and I tell myself that’s the real reason why I’m wearing it, not because I can smell his scent still lingering in the fabric, or the fact wearing his clothes makes me feel closer to him somehow. I don’t bother with putting on socks and shoes. I already know I’m not going anywhere today.
I make my way downstairs, and as I round the banister on the last step, I hear the voices of the men carrying on. They’re having multiple conversations at once, one talking over the other. I’m not sure I’m ready to see Travis yet. As I approach the kitchen, I linger in the entryway.
All of the guys are sitting around the large kitchen table with a spread of both pistols and assault rifles, all disassembled. Tiny square cleaning cloths and other paraphernalia clutter the table. I watch as Chase picks up a can of some sort of gun cleaning solvent and sprays it onto a bristly brush. Instantly, I catch a whiff of the unique scent.
The sight of them cleaning their weapons turns my stomach. If I don’t see another gun for the rest of my life, it will be a minute too soon. Everyone looks up at the same time, except for Travis, whose back is facing me. The other guys fall silent, Travis being oblivious to my presence as he continues to ramble on about something, sounding upbeat and jovial.
I must be really sick in the head, because he’s a sight for sore eyes, and my body aches to be wrapped in his arms. Quinn clears his throat, interrupting Travis, and when he looks up at Quinn in question, Quinn nods in my direction.
When Travis turns his head, his genial mood is immediately wiped off his face as he shuts down, giving me that damn stone-walled expression. I die a little on the inside knowing it’s me who put the cold glare in his eyes. He has all his walls back up, and his fortress is locked down tight as he continues to penetrate me with his hard scowl. He then scoots back his chair in a dramatic fashion, making a loud scraping sound against the tiled floor as he stands to his full height.
“I’m out of here, guys,” he says heatedly, and with that, I feel like I’ve just been punched in the gut. His curtness and coldness has me feeling embarrassed, and I feel the heat of my humiliation turning the tips of my ears red.
“Where you going, man?” Stryker questions with a confused look on his face.
“Out. I’ll be back later.” As if he’s speaking to me personally, he continues, “If she tries to escape, tie her up, and lock her in the basement.” I choke on the air in my lungs, my hand pressing against my racing heart.
Chase speaks over the collective, shocked stares of everyone in the room, “Dude, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Travis whips his head around, and the tone of his voice sends a chill down my spine. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly, so let me rephrase. If she tries to cut loose and isn’t properly restrained for when I get back, someone’s head is gonna roll for it. You wanna oppose me now, let me know,” he snarls as his fists ball up, readying for a fight.
“Whoa,” Chase leans back in his chair and raises his hands high in the air in mock surrender, “I got your back, man. I’m on board.”
With those last words, Travis turns away from Chase and looks to Stryker. “Just leave my handgun alone. I’ll finish it when I get back.” He grabs his keys off the kitchen counter and doesn’t even brush past me to leave out the front door. Instead, he leaves out the set of French doors just off to the side of the kitchen, where the den is. I jump back, startled when he slams the door behind him.
The room goes completely quiet as I just stand here awkwardly, feeling more stupid by the second for wearing his clothes. As I look around the room, all the guys stare at me in silence with a bit of sympathy.
I bite my bottom lip out of nervousness, and I wonder if they’re all upset and blaming me for Travis’ bad mood. I’m seconds away from doing an about-face and running back to the bedroom to drown myself in self-pity and tears, but Quinn catches my attention. He shoves his seat back and gets up, quickly making his way toward me in a determined manner.
When he reaches me, he holds out his hand for me to take in a silent gesture of amity. “You hungry?” he gently asks. Looking like a lost kitten, I nod, not saying a word. He gestures with his outstretched hand again, softening his eyes as he wills me to accept his hand in an act of kindness as he prods, “C’mon, I’ll find you something you can eat. We have a little bit of everything here.”
I tentatively slip my hand into his and he pulls me into his side, wrapping his arm around me in a comforting hug. His warm embrace settles me, remindi
ng me of the brotherly love only Jake could provide. God knows it feels good to have someone show some empathy. I have to admit; I didn’t expect Quinn, of all people, to show any compassion. His exterior is always so Rambo-like, but come to think of it, so is Jake’s.
With his arm around me, he guides me to the refrigerator, and as he opens the door, he leans down to whisper in my ear, “Don’t take it personally. He didn’t get his beauty sleep last night. Had to sleep on the sofa with Ranger, who snored in his ear all night.” He tilts his head down to meet my eyes with a silly grin playing on his lips, looking to get a reaction from me. “Sometimes his hormones go all dysfunctional, and when they do, he’s worse than a houseful of women PMSing with no chocolate.”
Stryker overhears the conversation, and mumbles under his breath, “You fuckin’ got that right.” My lips curve into a small smile. I can’t help it, and Quinn’s goofy grin is a bit comical, along with Stryker’s comment. His bright, blue eyes twinkle with satisfaction when I return his smile, and he gives me an extra squeeze in what only feels like a brotherly hug.
“He’ll blow off some steam and get over it.” Quinn reassures me, and then gives me a playful wink. “Okay?” Still feeling shy, I nod my head once again.
“All right,” he says loudly, changing the subject with renewed determination to make light of a strained atmosphere, “how about a country style brunch? I’ve got bacon, eggs, and grits.” Another smile tugs at the corners of my lips. This is exactly like something Jake would do to put me in a better mood. Growing up, Jake would always distract me when I was having a bad day by making me something yummy in the kitchen.
“Ahhh, I can see I’m on to something here. Is that your morning poison?”
My lips twitch with a grin, and he raises his brow in question. “Cat got your tongue? Gotta tell me how you want this combo to go,” he cheerfully says as he lets go of me, grabbing the carton of eggs from the shelf. “Let me guess; a gluten-free, lactose intolerant southern girl like you takes eggs over easy with a slice of veggie cheese, and then mixes it all together in a bowl. Am I right?”
