This Is War, Baby

by K. Webster

  For me, it’s terrifying.

  This means it will be impossible to talk sense into him.

  His head is still bowed, as he rambles incessant nonsense under his breath, when we pull into a circular driveway. It’s dark outside so of course I can’t see a thing but when Edison opens the door, I nearly cry with joy.

  The ocean.

  Waves crash in the distance and the scent of salty water invades my senses. I guess if I’m going to be a prisoner of War, I may as well be near the beach. When I glance back over at him, he’s boring his gaze through me once again. There’s a desperation in his eyes that has me weakening my resolve to bring him down along with all of those other men.

  Pity once again drives away my anger and I sigh. “Honey, we’re home.”

  His eyes soften and he laughs. “That we are.”

  The soft, huskiness of his deep laugh warms me. There isn’t deception in his laughter, it’s… honest. Unlike Gabe, who possessed several different types of laughs. The cruel. The maniacal. The ridiculing. And then the one that bordered on sounding genuine. It was the one I hated most of all because it was the most deceiving. War’s laugh reminds me of Brandon’s.

  A sob catches in my throat at the thought of my boyfriend. It seems like eons ago that I sat in his lap and flirted with him, not a care in the world. But it was only a matter of a few weeks before my life took a dark turn. I’m still trying to process where this life gets me.

  “Put these on. You can put on a different pair once inside.”

  He tosses me some blue shoe coverings, like the ones I’d seen used in a lab or hospital. In sterile settings. I want to tell him I’d rather go barefoot but the strain in his eyes suggests I should obey his order. Once I don the silly things, I climb out of the car. The house isn’t large, actually modest considering how much he paid for me, but it’s stunning. The architecture is all clean lines and modern surfaces. It’s eye catching and I’d love to see it during the day with the ocean behind it.

  War climbs out of the car and towers over Edison and I. The man has to be several inches taller than Gabe. He exudes strength.

  Yet, I know he’s weak.

  Feeling bold, I blurt out, “What happens if I run? Are you going to come after me? Tackle me to the pavement and hold me still?”

  He tenses and I immediately feel like a bitch for using it against him.

  “Please,” he says, anxiety straining his voice, “don’t run.”

  He’s not demanding, but instead, begging. His plea threads itself into my head and I find myself wavering.

  Gabe has whittled down my fiery spirit. I should fight and scream and run. Maybe I could find a phone and call Dad to save me. But with thoughts of Dad comes thoughts of Mom.

  Her suffering.

  Her illness.

  Her descent into the grave.

  I need to leave this place and get back to her. She’s probably worried sick about me—as if dying isn’t enough to worry over.

  Yet, what happens if I escape only to get recaptured by Gabe who has promised to come for me? I won’t see Mom and Dad or Brandon. I’ll be forced back to his awful cabin. In that case, which would be the lesser of two evils—terror cabin with a psycho or beach estate with a weirdo? My mind flits to the woods and I’m reminded of when Gabe raped my ass. I’d begged and pleaded but he did it anyway. And then later, when he’d shoved that vegetable inside of me. He’d humiliated and violated me in ways I didn’t know were possible.

  This man before me promises not to touch me. Looks like beach estate with a weirdo it is.

  “Since you seem to be throwing your money around, I have a solution,” I say carefully, choosing my words wisely. “I won’t run, I promise. But my mother…she’s sick.”

  He scowls at the mention of my mother and crosses his arms over his thick chest. The moonlight gives his chocolate hair an eerie glow. But he doesn’t seem scary—he’s something beautiful, ethereal even.

  “Sick how? Does she have an infectious disease? Do you have it? Is it contagious?”

  I shake my head in frustration. “No, but her liver is failing. She’s on a list for a transplant, though at this point, the outlook is bleak.”

  His gaze slides up to the dark sky and he sighs. Me telling him about my mother seems to upset him. His posture slumps as he looks out toward the ocean, a distant and forlorn look about him. There must be a story there. I make note to ask him about his own mother later. “What do you want?”

  I am hesitant to even ask now, with his drastic change in mood. “Well… you have money—lots of it. Maybe you could…” I stammer, feeling foolish. I hate being reduced to begging. “Maybe you could give me some, in exchange for my compliant companionship, and I can bribe a doctor or family to help my mom. You and I both know I’ll never see the money you wired to Gabe,” I tell him. War has the money and means to protect me from Gabe. He also has the ability to help Mom. I can make this work until I get what I need to help her. Then, I’ll make my escape.

  “Deal. We’ll discuss it further over breakfast in the morning. Please don’t feel like you’re a prisoner in my home. This house already imprisons me. I won’t let it hold you in its iron vise like it clutches me.”

  His riddle causes my eyes to widen. “What do you mean it imprisons you?”

  “Come,” he says in a gruff tone, ending our negotiations and ignoring my question. “I need to breathe properly.”

  Dutifully, I follow behind him as he unlocks the door and punches in a series of numbers to disarm the alarm. I attempt to watch him type in the code but he does it quickly while his body partially blocks the keypad.

  The lights are switched on and he immediately sets to bolting the door locked after we are inside. A double beep later and we are secure inside of his home. So much for not feeling like a prisoner…

  I sigh and regard my prison. The walls are painted stark white. No pictures hang on them. The furniture is sparse. No decorations or books grace the area for as far as my eye can see. From the small entryway, I’m given visual access to the open kitchen, all white granite countertops, with a tiled backsplash, and matching painted cabinets with stainless steel appliances. The living room has minimal furniture—a simple white couch, a love seat, recliner, and table. A flat screen TV has been mounted and recessed into the wall above the fireplace.

  Everything is so white.

  Blindingly so.

  And bare.

  As if only a ghost lives here.

  “Wow,” I say taking a breath, “this place is incredible.” That’s not a lie. Incredibly weird.

  “I’m sorry but before you can make yourself comfortable, Edison needs to make sure you’re properly cleaned. Meet me in the living room in an hour. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  He stalks off without a backward glance leaving me there with Edison.

  “Come on, angel. Let me show you to your room,” he says and starts walking in the opposite direction. “He’s not a bad guy once you get to know him. But please adhere to his rules. He’s already so fragile as it is. You could break him, and I care about him too much to see that happen.”

  “Okay.” I have nothing else to say on the matter and follow him into another stark, sterile room. This one, however, has some decor. As if he actually attempted to prepare a warm welcome for his prisoner.

  “He wants me to shower you. War trusts that I will decontaminate you, Baylee.” He frowns and tugs off his mask. “But you and I both know it’s all in his head. I’ll wait on the bed and let you wash up. If he asks, I cleaned you from head to toe, scrubbed you raw. There’s a robe folded on the countertop. It would please him if you could tie up your hair too. And make sure it’s dry. The water dripping everywhere will drive him mad.”

  I slip into the bathroom in a hurry. This place, while neat and new and gorgeous, is some bizarre version of hell. Can I really stay here?

  Mom’s blue eyes stare back at me when I glance in the mirror. The older I get, the more and more we
look alike. But where my light blue eyes sparkle and shine, hers dull by the minute. Tugging my respirator down, I inspect my mouth. My lips are slightly dry and I hope he’ll give me some Chapstick.

  I can stay here. I have to, for her. War seems like a man of his word. I have to believe he’ll send the money to them.

  Forty-eight minutes later, I shut off the hair dryer I located and smooth my wild blonde hair into a neat bun, as requested. With my hair pulled back and my face free of mascara, I look younger and more innocent than my nearly eighteen years. My wide eyes reveal fear and determination and the festering hate that runs in my veins for Gabe.

  He did this to me.

  A soft, but persistent knock on the door jerks me from my inner musings.

  “He’ll be absolutely frantic if you’re not in there soon. With War, it’s best to arrive exactly on time. Not too early and certainly not too late,” Edison tells me from outside the door.

  I shrug on the white plush robe and tie the rope around my middle. The robe is soft and warm, and feels like a welcoming cloud engulfing me. It’s a welcome change from being naked, the way I spent the last two weeks.

  With a twist of the knob, I open the door to a pacing Edison. This is more than a job to him. He seems to care about War for some unknown reason.

  “Lead the way.”

  I pad barefoot behind him and into the dining room. War stands behind the glass table, his head going back and forth between two plates. I can’t take my eyes from the beautiful man. Without his mask, I’m privy to each soft curve and hardened edge on his face. His brows are dark and they match a recently shaven shadow on his cheeks. Full, pink lips twitch and move as he talks to himself. His nose is strong, as well as his jaw, but there’s a softness to his features despite the design of his face.

  Goodness.

  Incorruptibility.

  Unsophistication.

  Unworldliness.

  He may be twenty-eight, but he’s every bit of sixteen from this angle.

  I’m about to greet him when Edison places a hand on my shoulder, halting me. He removes his hand but I remain still and observe War.

  His brows furrow as he takes the tongs and pinches a piece of lettuce from one bowl, then carefully places it into the other bowl. And then back again. He stares for several minutes, inspecting the bowls. I don’t dare make a sound as I watch him. I’m curious to see what he’ll do next.

  What is he doing?

  Carefully, he clips at a small piece of lettuce and places it in the other bowl. Again, he scrutinizes each portion, staring for another spell.

  My eyes travel away from his task and I take in his appearance. He’s wearing a plain, soft grey T-shirt that stretches over the sculpted body I knew hid beneath his suit he wore earlier. His biceps tighten with each small movement he makes as he adjusts the evenness of the two bowls. The skin that shows on his arms is free of tattoos and smooth. His jeans are in perfect shape and his feet are also bare underneath the table.

  When I think he can’t possibly obsess over the food any longer, I announce my arrival. “Hi.”

  His dark blue eyes fly to mine and for a brief moment they flicker with happiness. “Bay.”

  The gruff, almost reverent way he says my name sends a tingling down my spine and I smile.

  “War.”

  Behind me, Edison clears his throat. “If there’s nothing further, I’ll be heading back home,” Edison says as he shuffles away. “You know Dorothy worries if I’m out too late.”

  War watches the old man walk away and with the turn of his head, he reveals a nasty scar from his temple all the way along his jaw to his chin. It’s thick and wide. Whatever happened had to be painful. As soon as Edison is gone, War reactivates the alarm using the keypad near the French doors which overlook the ocean near the kitchen table.

  Then, his eyes are back on mine in a flash as he makes his way back to the food. “Sit. I made us some salad.”

  I take a step toward the table and bile rises in my throat upon seeing sliced cucumber all over it. I’m assaulted with memories of Gabe.

  My breath is stolen as I recall the terror that immobilized me when the icy vegetable became lodged inside of me. The way I had to push it out. The horror and humiliation at having Gabe between my legs coaxing the stupid thing out. I shudder and attempt to drive away the sickening memory.

  “No,” I say with a gasp. “I can’t eat that.” My eyes clench shut and I steady myself with my hands on the back of the chair.

  “You don’t like salad?”

  Lifting my teary eyes to his, I bite my bottom lip and shake my head no. “I did…I mean, no. It’s not that. Gabe. He did despicable things to me with a cucumber.”

  His face blanches and his hands begin shaking wildly. “But that’s food. You can’t…how could…I don’t understand.” Then his eyes widen in horror. “He didn’t.”

  I swallow and nod. “He did.”

  With an angry huff, he snatches both bowls up and storms past me. Instead of scraping the bowls, he dumps them, bowls, forks and all into the trashcan with a loud clatter. He then heads for the sink where three soap bottles line the back. I watch with brazen fascination as he spends a good five minutes scrubbing his hands with all three soaps. Once he’s dried them, he turns to look at me. His hands blaze red. His eyes devour me for a moment before he clenches his eyes shut.

  “I’ll never be able to eat cucumber again.”

  I laugh bitterly. “You and me both.”

  His eyes reopen. “Um, are there any other foods…did he…”

  I interrupt him with a shake of my head. “No. Maybe we could order a pizza or something instead.”

  He cringes at my words. “Do you know how disgusting restaurants are? The people who work there, they don’t wash their hands. You can’t trust them to cook the food to the proper temperatures. They use meat!”

  I gape at him. “Okay…what do you want to eat?”

  He starts to pace. Up toward the sink five paces, equal and measured, and then back toward me at the table. Five more paces. Equal and measured. I itch to reach out and stop him with my hand. However, although I’ve only known him for a few hours, I strongly suspect doing so will send him into a meltdown.

  He mumbles rapidly and tugs at his hair. The muscles in his back ripple and tighten with each movement.

  “I could make some spaghetti squash with red sauce and—” he stammers but then curses. “Fuck! No, squash is too much like cucumber. No eggplant. No carrots. No pumpkin. No zucchini. Goddammit!”

  I chuckle to diffuse his breakdown. “I’ll eat anything you want to offer me. We can eat salad if you want, just no cucumber. The rest are fine. I swear. Please, I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

  His face lights up with determination. “Right, sit. I’ll make you something delicious and inoffensive.” His worry seems to dissipate. Who the hell is this guy?

  I lean against the counter, ignoring his order for me to sit, and watch this complicated man obsess over our meal. His cuts into the tomatoes are precise and exactly the same width. He makes sure of it before he presses the knife down. The entire time, he mutters under his breath. In the quiet of his home, I can understand what he’s doing. He’s counting. Everything.

  Pieces of lettuce.

  Slices of tomato.

  Slivers of onion.

  Handfuls of croutons.

  Seconds that pass.

  Breaths we take.

  I want to chime in and tell him he should have more since he’s practically a giant but I don’t. It’s clear to me that he needs for it to be even. He needs to go through these rituals to feel right in his head.

  After he finishes with the salad—cucumber free—he uses a measuring cup to give us both the exact same amount of homemade dressing. He then sets to scrubbing the dishes he used. He spends another ten minutes washing and drying the knife. I’m starving but I don’t dare interrupt a process that he’s seemed to have perfected.

  I wonder ho
w long he’s been like this.

  And better yet, what made him this way?

  I can’t help but ponder over what he would think about the cellar I was dumped into when Gabe stole me. And the way Gabe used me in the woods.

  Would he even care?

  Would he want to protect me?

  I know I can’t stay here with him forever but I can certainly stay long enough to do what needs to be done for Mom. Despite War’s weird habits, it does seem a little safer here than when I was with Gabe. At least he’s not forcing me to partake in depraved activities like I just came from.

  “I’m sorry that took so long,” War huffs, interrupting my thoughts. “I have issues.”

  I smile at him as we take our seats. The salads are perfect…and even. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”

  He nods and sets to cutting his food into bite-sized pieces. I, on the other hand, am ravenous and don’t have time for manners, so I all but inhale my food. The urge to lick the bowl afterwards is intense but a choking sound drags me away from the lingering morsels.

  The handsome man’s features are twisted into one of absolute disgust. “You eat like a starved dog,” he hisses and then follows it with a gag. “This was a bad idea.”

  I roll my eyes and smirk. “I guess licking the bowl is out of the question.”

  I’ve never seen a man run so fast in my life.

  EXACTLY THREE MINUTES every day.

  That’s how long it takes me to shower.

  Not twelve seconds less, not forty-five seconds longer.

  Always three minutes.

  I know this because I count. Every second. Every minute. Every breath. The average adult breathes twelve to eighteen breaths per minute. I breathe twenty-two breaths per minute. Always. No variation. So in one shower, I take sixty-six breaths.

  As I tug on a pair of slacks, I contemplate how many breaths she takes when she showers. Her breaths are unmeasurable—sometimes rapid when she’s afraid or upset and similar to mine when she’s behaving in a calm manner. Calculating her breaths in one shower is an endless, unsolvable problem. What if she takes ten-minute showers? Or forty-minute showers?