by Stasia Black
Maybe the exam will take the rest of the afternoon. Or rather, evening. I glance out the window at the setting sun.
Just how late is it? If it’s nighttime, does that mean he’ll expect… like, right away?
“When was the date of your last period?” the doctor asks, either totally ignorant of my obvious freak-out or doing a great job of pretending not to notice.
She continues with the preliminaries like this is any other check-up. Are my periods regular? Have I noticed any other irregularities or do I have any concerns I’d like to discuss with her?
The talking part is over far too quickly and then she’s onto the exam. Just my luck, she’s fast and efficient.
Her pronouncement echoes throughout the room while the speculum is still inside me.
“She’s a virgin.”
Even from the bed where I’m lying, my legs spread like the Thanksgiving turkey, I can hear his quick, heavy exhalation.
Relief? Surprise?
Mr. Owens said earlier that I was the perfect candidate. Was being a virgin part of the client’s requirements? And if it was, how the hell did they know?
It’s not like I wear a sign on my forehead, no penises have tread here. I’m a successful twenty-six-year-old woman. I work out, keep trim, and I get hit on plenty. At my age, it’s weird to still be a virgin without, you know, religious reasons for it.
But all growing up, I’d watched my mother use her sex appeal like a weapon, luring in one man after another. She played up the stereotype of sexy Latina woman to the hilt, wearing tight, revealing clothing that highlighted her ample assets.
I hated it. Hated the admiring glances the boys in my classes shot her way on the few instances she actually showed up at my school functions. Hated the way my father was still broken-hearted over her years after she’d left him.
And I especially hated the fact that since I was her spitting image, everyone expected me to turn out just the same.
As soon as my breasts began developing, I started wearing the baggiest, most unsexy clothing I could find. I cut my thick, glossy brown hair short. I studied hard and focused on grades and avoided boys and parties like the plague.
When I got to college, I chilled out a little. I had hormones just like any other girl. Sure, I was curious. Touching and getting myself off took care of that a little bit, but I wasn’t immune to romantic dreams.
My sophomore year, I got my first serious boyfriend. I met Brian in my Principals of Financial Accounting class. He seemed like a sweet, funny guy.
Until we were alone and all he wanted to do was reach under my oversized shirt to grab my boobs, which, in his words, he “couldn’t stop thinking about titty-fucking.”
Yeah, me and Brian didn’t last long. I tried one more time, with a guy named Jeremy who was part of the group of friends me and my roommate hung out with. I told him up front I wanted to take things slowly. He said that was totally fine with him. We dated for several months. Which was when I walked in on him screwing my roommate.
Shocker that I was put off sex.
I didn’t want to be labeled a cock-tease either so I just didn’t go there. I tried dating a couple more times but ended up breaking things off fairly quickly. Mostly I just automatically friend-zoned guys. I kept my hair short and continued wearing clothes that covered up my curves.
My girlfriends told me all the time that I was nuts and that all these guys I thought were just friends were actually hoping for something more with me.
But then I graduated college and was still a virgin and it just started to be totally weird. How do you tell someone on the third or fourth date… so look, I want to mess around with you, but I’m kinda sorta a virgin and still a little terrified about sex, cool?
Yeah, I never found a way to bring that up in polite conversations and would just stop returning a dude’s calls after the second or third date.
To my friends, I pretended I was waiting for some mythical perfect guy to lose it to, just to get them off my back about it. And then everything got intense with me working sixty to seventy hours a week and the last thing on my mind was a guy.
Now here I am and my virginity is possibly the thing that’s put me in the running for the position of sex-slave/baby-mama to a complete stranger so giant that I doubt I’ll be able to breathe if he lays on top of me.
And they say good things come to those who wait.
Bull shit.
My whole life has been about waiting. Playing it safe. Be the good girl, don’t color outside the lines. Put in the hard work trying to prove myself to Dad, then to my college professors, then to my boss at New World Media. Just waiting for the day for it to all pay off.
And right when it was all starting to—I finally had the house, the job, I was even thinking about getting a cat—boom!—my life explodes and suddenly now I’m—
“All done,” the doctor interrupts my thoughts, pulling off her gloves with a loud snap.
What? No. She can’t be done. My eyes leap to her but she won’t meet my gaze.
Instead, she speaks toward the door. “The rest of the information you requested will be in my report. I’ll email it to you within the hour,” she says, quickly packing up her tools in baggies and then replacing them in her black medical bag.
“Wait, that’s it?” I ask, sitting up. “Don’t you need to ask me more questions? Give me some vitamins or something? Draw some blood?”
“We already have the results of your most recent blood test,” the doctor says, still avoiding my gaze. I might as well be a plastic mannequin to her. “And I’ve already recommended vitamins. It’ll all be in my report.”
And with that, she’s walking out of the room. She gives the huge man standing in the hallway as wide a berth as she can. Then she’s gone.
Leaving me alone with nothing but a thin little slip of a hospital gown between me and him.
I stare at his feet. He’s wearing boots. Like, cowboy boots. They’re huge black ones.
They say the size of a man’s feet can indicate—
Oh God, now is so not the time for useless trivia, Mel.
I raise my knees to my chest, making sure to pull my hospital gown down over all the way to my feet so that I’m covered up in a little mini tent.
I avert my eyes to the white bedcover.
Silence.
No, that’s not true—there’s the loud tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock on the far wall. And the anxious terror gnawing at my stomach with every second that ticks away.
Is this the part where he leaps forward and then savages me? Do I fight him or just let it happen? If what he’s saying about Dad is true, if he’s really going to be safe and free, then maybe it will all turn out okay. Just a year of my life…
But the sex. He’s so big.
Oh God, he’s going to rip me in two.
My breathing becomes erratic and I clutch my arms around my legs. If he just wants a baby, why can’t we do this in a doctor’s office, all nice and civilized? He can go make his deposit in a cup somewhere, then a doctor can spurt me full with whatever the medical equivalent of a turkey baster is. Wham bam, thank you ma’am, I’m knocked up the way God intended, in a clinic with no actual body parts touching.
No, no, no, there’s absolutely no way I can do this, right? What the hell was I thinking earlier when I signed that fucking contract?
I wasn’t thinking, I was reacting. Dad was so freaked and then there were those pictures of me and people wanting to kill Dad and—
Tick, tick, tick.
Why isn’t he saying anything? Or making a move? Oh God, I’m going to scream.
The terror builds and builds until finally, I dare to look back to the doorway.
It’s empty.
He’s gone.
What in the—? He just… left? Now what?
First off, I scurry to the bathroom and change back into my own clothes. My black Gucci pantsuit, gray blouse, and matching blazer feel shockingly comforting if not exactly comfor
table. But it’s the only shield I’ve got.
Right, Mel, a whole one-millimeter thick fabric shield that Mr. Beast-dude could rip apart with one good yank if he wanted to.
So… it would be cowardly to just lock the door and hide in here as long as possible, right?
Screw cowardly.
I run forward and flip the flimsy lock on the bathroom door.
Then I stand there in the brightly lit bathroom for about five minutes until I realize that a stupid bathroom lock isn’t going to be much more of a hindrance than my Gucci suit to a guy as big as that.
So I rush out into the larger room and lock that door. Then I run to the huge mahogany dresser and try to shove it over in front of the door.
It won’t budge.
Goddammit. I lower my center of gravity by crouching low and try again.
Still nothing.
That doesn’t make sense. Sure I might not be winning any girl’s heavyweight titles in the near future, but it didn’t even budge.
Which is when I lean over and see it’s freaking bolted to the ground.
Holy crap. Did he anticipate me trying to move furniture to try to block him out of my room? Are his plans for me that horrible?
What the hell am I doing?
I can’t—
This is too—
What was I thinkin—?
I jerk the bedroom door open and fly toward the stairs. I take them two at a time, stumbling and only managing to keep upright because of my death grip on the stair railing. I jump the last three steps and then I’m over to the door, one hand on the knob.
I jerk it open, only to be greeted by the vast, empty landscape I saw earlier.
“Leave and our deal is done.”
Out of nowhere, his voice is suddenly booming so close it’s all but in my ears. I whirl but don’t see him. I turn frantically left, then right. Finally I locate him at the top of the stairwell. The sound must have carried off all the wood since there isn’t a lot of other furniture in here.
“I’ll not only bring your father back into the country,” he leans over the balustrade, his body just a silhouette in all the gathered shadows, “but I’ll drop him right on the doorstep of the men who are looking for him. The blood won’t be on my hands. He made his own bed.” His voice is cold.
Damn him.
I slam the door, wrapping my arms around myself and backing against the wall of the large foyer.
“Good choice. There’s a whole lotta nothing for thirty miles in any direction. You wouldn’t have gotten two miles before I dragged you back here.”
I expect him to come storming down the stairs but the next time I look up, he’s gone.
***
I lie awake the whole night in bed. Waiting, on edge, sure each moment I’ll hear the click of a key unlocking the door as he comes to claim his prize. Because, duh, obviously he probably has keys to all these rooms.
But he never comes.
He doesn’t come the next night either.
Or the next.
I’ve given up on hiding in my room and wander the giant house freely now. He’s gone all day. Each morning out my window I see him leave out back, looking like a cowboy, big hat and all. I didn’t go exploring until the second day of no activity. He stays out all day doing… whatever he does. Ranching? All I’ve seen are cows. He disappears around the side of the house and I have no idea how big the property might be.
Even though he was gone all day yesterday, I’m still tentative as I head downstairs. Maybe I can find a computer or a phone?
Not that I know exactly who I’d email or call or what I’d say if I could. In a way, I’m an accessory to helping Dad jump bail. It would certainly be very easy to frame it that way. And the people who were after Dad… would they still try to harm me if I suddenly popped up again? How long does Dad have to be gone before they accept he’s gone?
God, even thinking about Dad makes my chest hurt. Where is he? Is he okay? He’s got to be freaking out worrying about me. And then I start panicking all over again because what if he hurts himself? But no, he swore. And he has to know that at this point, it wouldn’t do any good. I’ve already been taken. The deal is done.
Please, Dad, just be okay.
Turns out it doesn’t matter who I’d email if I could because my captor is either allergic to all technology or he has it locked up tight. There are landline phone outlets, but no phones. No TVs either. No freaking TVs.
The first floor of the lodge is pretty stripped down. There’s a well-stocked kitchen, which I raid freely. In the main lodge area, there are just a few tables and a big leather couch left in what was obviously once meant to be a big bustling common area for a lot of guests.
Both the first and second floor have fireplaces in the central guest areas, which are sparsely decorated with random furniture. While the lodge is in good shape, some rooms on the third story are completely empty of furniture altogether. I’ve only peeked up there. There’s one locked door that I suspect is the giant’s room. I didn’t pay it much attention, frankly.
Once I find the library on the second story, I keep blissfully busy.
Books. Reading. You know—that thing we all used to do before YouTube videos and Pinterest ate up all our time?
I was frankly going a bit nuts trying to play Nancy Drew and discover clues about my captor while waiting for him to decide he’s done toying with me.
Shudder.
No thank you. Escaping into other people’s drama is far more preferable to living my own.
There’s another big couch in the library by a big window. I throw back the curtains to let in the light and then cozy up to lose myself in Jack Reacher’s latest adventure for the afternoon.
That’s where he finds me several hours later when he finally comes for me.
After all that waiting, ears perked for any noise at the door, eyes strained for any movement of shadow for hours on end, when he actually comes, I’m so engrossed in the book I don’t notice him until he’s standing over me.
I let out a small screech of shock and drop the book, my hand flying to my chest.
I look up at him in my surprise and immediately wish I hadn’t. With the curtains drawn, the room is bathed in mid-day light. I can see every monstrous melted inch of the top left half of his face.
Meanwhile, his squinting eye seems to see straight down into me, measuring my disgust for him. My whole body tenses as I sit up straight on the couch.
His hair is sweat slicked and he’s pulled off the work shirt I always see him go out in each morning. He’s just in a tank top and jeans, exposing acres of muscled, bronzed skin. He’s as big as a fucking ox.
“Oh, hello.” I sit up on the couch, backing as far away from him as I can. “I was just—”
“It’s time,” is all he says. He holds out a smart phone. I blink and it takes a second to make out what I’m seeing on the screen. But then my eyes focus.
There’s Dad, standing on the beach, blue ocean behind him. He’s frowning and has dark circles under his eyes, but otherwise looks fine. He’s holding up a paper. The giant zooms in on the picture and I see today’s date on the paper. The writing is some kind of South Asian script. My hand jumps to cover my mouth, a sob catching in my throat.
I try to grab for the phone, wanting to zoom out again and look at Dad, but he pulls it away and puts it back in his pocket.
Still, it was enough. Dad looks good. No bruises or black eyes. He looks healthy.
Safe.
There’s no time to process though, because the next thing I know, the giant has leaned down, picked me up like I weigh nothing, and swung me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Then he starts jogging with me up the stairs.
To his bedroom.
on Archive.
