by K. Webster
She’s nothing but a well-paid prisoner.
I’ve spent the better part of the week obsessing over how to change this. Over what to say and how to interact with her in hopes that she will begin to look at me with different eyes. To not regard me as the warden of her sentence but rather the sun in the sky. Bright and brilliant and beautiful. Because that’s how I see her. She blinds me with her innocence. Her humor. Her wit and charm. I’m a blind man seeing for the first time when around her.
She’s my savior.
“Still no response,” she utters from the kitchen doorway, her bottom lip quivering.
I frown at her. “Give it some time.”
“I know they’ve been worried sick. You’d think they’d be happy to know I was safe and not kidnapped, even though I was. Why aren’t they responding?”
A single tear rolls down her cheek and I crave to comfort her. Despite the demons being silenced, I still can’t imagine myself ever willingly touching her. That’s the part that sucks. I want to gather her in my arms and kiss away her heartache.
But I’d be stupid to believe I’d ever be able to do such a thing.
“Anything could have happened. Maybe her phone has been shut off or something.”
She frowns. “Maybe. I wish I knew what was going on. I feel so cut off from the world here.”
This time, I’m the one feeling guilty. I’ve locked her down on her computer from anything that could give her access to the outside world. She has a weather app—as if I’d even let her outside—and open links to many stores to which my credit card is attached to so she can shop as much as she wants.
But news. Social media. Forums. Nothing. All blocked. For her safety, of course.
“They’ll reply soon,” I assure her. “I’m sure they’re worried about you and miss you. There could be many reasons as to no response. We’ll get through to them eventually.”
I turn away from her so she can’t see my features and stare down into the dishwater. Lying isn’t one of my strong suits. Even as a kid, I didn’t lie often without giving myself away. Truth is, her parents aren’t worried. And that worries me.
Not one single news article has mentioned anything about a missing girl named Baylee Winston. No missing person reports filed. Not one single mention on any of their social media accounts.
I know this because I’ve fixated on learning about where she came from, who she is, what her parents were like, what sort of home she grew up in. All things to confirm her stories and to paint a more detailed picture of the woman in my home.
Her mom wasn’t one to post often and the last post was over a month ago—her and Baylee curled up in bed. It was cute and it endeared me to her even more.
Problem is, if your child went missing, wouldn’t you blast that information all over the place?
I researched her father’s page and he’s posted a couple of pictures of a carburetor he’d been working on. Last post was this week. That shit had me in mental fits all night. There’s no way I can tell her that nobody is looking for her.
Just that goddamn lunatic, Gabe.
She walks past me and leans her hip on the edge of the counter, deep in thought, and stares out the window just past the kitchen table that overlooks the sparkling Pacific. Today, her long blond hair hangs damp to the middle of her back. It’s unkempt and loose—a notion that would normally terrorize me. Yet, here I am wishing I had the mental strength to pull her into a comforting embrace and stroke her silky hair. To slide my fingers into her blonde tresses and kiss her like there’s no tomorrow.
A somewhat normal gesture between a man and a woman.
With Baylee, I can almost imagine what normal gestures in a normal life would look like. A life where she’s my confidant and lover. A life where I’m happy and we have a future. At one time, I felt that way about my high school girlfriend, Lilah. That was before.
Before the monsters.
Before the blood.
Before the misery that attached itself to my soul.
I let my mind wander away from the vision in front of me and back to the past—a place I don’t let it go often.
“I’m not pregnant.”
I’d been pacing her bedroom outside of her small bathroom for three whole minutes waiting on the outcome. When Lilah had said she missed her period, I flipped the fuck out. If I got her pregnant, Dad would kill me. I didn’t even want to imagine what her dad would do to me.
“Come out here,” I thundered from the other side of the door.
She cracked the door open and her tearstained cheeks showed proof that she was crying. I pushed into the small space and enveloped her in a bear hug. While I squeezed her, I glanced over at the test and breathed a sigh of relief to see that she was telling me the truth. I wasn’t even eighteen yet and she’d just turned sixteen. Our lives would be over if we had to take care of a baby.
“Why are you crying?” I questioned while I stroked her brown hair.
She sniffled. “I don’t know. I kind of hoped that we would have a baby. That we could get married and be a family.”
I tensed at her words. As much as I loved Lilah, I wasn’t ready to be a dad. Her dad was a fucking asshole so I knew why she would have loved to leave home and create a new family. But, I actually liked my parents. I was in no hurry to grow up fast.
“In time,” I promised, “I’ll get you away from here.”
She gripped my black T-shirt and started tugging it off me. I hadn’t been in the mood but the moment she rubbed my cock through my jeans, I hardened immediately. We just got through a pregnancy scare and I was ready to be inside of her again. This time, though, I wouldn’t forget the condom.
“Make love to me, Warren,” she begged.
We made quick work of shedding our clothes and once my dick was safe inside the rubber, I lifted her onto the countertop, shoving the test away, and entered her forcefully.
“Yes,” she shrieked and leaned her head up against the mirror while I drove into her. My mouth found her neck and I suckled her flesh there, loving the taste that was her.
“War,” a sweet moan, yet an unfamiliar one, drags me from my distant memory and I freeze.
I’m pressed up against Baylee, my dick grinding into her belly with my teeth nipping at her bottom lip. Her fingers are threaded into my hair and are gripping me desperately. For one brief second, I am able to enjoy the moment of having her—if only for a short time—before the monsters who’d been semi dormant start raging in.
What if I lost control and sunk my teeth into her lip?
Would the blood spray all over my white kitchen?
Would she bleed out all over the tile, saturating everything in its wake?
Shit!
I slam my eyes closed and jerk away from her ignoring the burn on my scalp where she’d been gripping my hair. My dick throbs painfully but it isn’t that head that’s winning this war.
I touched her.
I kissed her.
I tasted her.
I nearly dry fucked her against the countertop in my kitchen.
Are her panties wet?
“Fuck,” I hiss out and scrub my palms with my cheeks. “Fuck!”
Her concerned voice attempts to wade through the darkness in my head but as it nears I swat at the air in front of me.
“S-S-Stay away!”
I stumble back until I crash into the edge of the stove behind me. My mind screams to get to my bathroom—to wash my mouth and my hands and my cock. If I could wash my soul, I’d do that too.
What the fuck have I done?
War. War. War.
My name is a worried chant over and over again in the kitchen but I scream at it. I swat at it. I threaten it. With each breath I take, I will it away. Just go the fuck away.
The sobs only feed the darkness inside me. I don’t understand why she’s crying but it makes me fucking crazy. It’s too much. I have to get away from her.
Away.
Away.
Away I g
o until I’m in the hot shower in my bathroom scrubbing her from me. All of the places I touched her. The places she touched me. I want it gone.
It isn’t until I’m redressing that the black storm dissipates. I blink my eyes in confusion as I wonder why I flipped my shit. I was lip locked with the woman whom I’ve been obsessing over in the past week and I’m too much of a lunatic to accept it. To be normal. To kiss away her pain. Instead, I only inflicted more pain. Emotional lashings that she doesn’t deserve and can’t possibly understand. Hell, I can barely understand them.
Shit.
With a huff and growing determination, I stalk toward her bedroom. On the other side of her door, I hear the occasional sniffle. With a grunt, I push through the door, ready to face her and apologize. When my gaze fully takes in the scene, I nearly forget all and shove her onto the bed.
Baylee stands beside the bed completely nude, her clothes discarded into a pile beside her on the floor. She’s working at braiding her wild blonde hair. Our eyes meet and time freezes.
I expect her to retreat or call me names.
I expect her to cover herself or to tell me to leave.
Instead, she runs her fingers through her hair to divide it into three equal sections and speaks softly. “What was that about?” Tears well in her eyes and the rejection painted there stabs at me.
“Jesus,” I groan and run my fingers through my hair. “I don’t fucking know.”
And that’s the truth. I have no idea what came over me. What possessed me to block out the constant misery swimming inside of me and throw myself into a perfect kiss. Sure, the memory of Lilah sparked my bravery—reminding me of a time when I was capable of doing such things—but it was all Baylee’s lips I was kissing.
Perfect.
Pink.
Pouty.
“You want me.”
I drag my gaze from her mouth and scrunch my brows together as I meet her teary stare. God, I would kill to kiss her again. To feel the soft way her lips caressed mine. The way her tongue, hot and slippery, felt inside of my mouth dancing with my own.
Turning before I do something stupid, again, I lean my forehead against the doorframe and grunt out my reply. “You have no fucking idea how much.”
“I’m confused, War.” She swallows loudly. “Why’d you run away from me then? Was my kiss that awful? Do I repulse you?”
Yes.
“No,” I lie, “I just…”
“Your mind can’t stand the idea of touching me, but your body is an entirely different story.”
I pull back and meet her glare. Her body is a vision, and I do want to be inside of her. I want to fuck like a man who’s been imprisoned for a decade. The release that she holds is alluring as hell. Too bad my head fucking hates me.
“This isn’t easy,” I mutter, “being at odds with myself.”
She picks up one of the nightgowns I’d bought her and tugs it over her naked body. It’s pale pink and made of silk. Despite it being sleepwear, it’s sexy as fuck. The slinky material hugs her gorgeous tits and showcases her alert nipples. It may nearly go to her knees but it’s the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen on a woman.
“It isn’t easy for me either,” she whispers.
Her eyes are tired and I can tell she’d rather go to sleep than hang out with my crazy ass. Frustrated, I run my fingers through my hair and huff. “I’m trying, Bay.”
She frowns and the hard look from before dissipates, giving way to a more compassionate one. “What do you want then? I feel like I’m walking on eggshells here, and unsure of where to go.”
The image of her pale feet stepping on sharp shards of shells constricts my chest. Would the hard points puncture her skin? Would she bleed all over the fucking floor? Worse yet, is there a possibility that the shell could become lodged under her skin? Could she somehow be at risk for salmonella if the bacteria enters her blood stream?
Would she die?
“War,” she says in a calm, soothing tone and approaches me hesitantly, “what do you want to do? Watch a movie? Talk?”
Her words snap me out of the horror show in my mind. Her pretty lashes bat against her cheeks one, two, three, four, five, six times before I find my words. “Actually, I was going to teach you chess,” I murmur. “That is, if you wanted to learn still. I know you’ve been bored and this could entertain you.”
A tiny smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “I do want to learn. Should I wash my hands first?”
Baylee may be seventeen going on eighteen, but she is one of the most mature women I have ever met. Her soul is first and foremost compassionate, like my mother’s was. She cares about the well-being of others. Of me. Even if I did just act like a complete asshole after our kiss.
Most people think I’m a freak, hence the hiding away on my beachside estate. My father protects me the best that he can but occasionally my issues are exploited by others. Because of the success of my father’s company, I’m sometimes dragged into the public eye for scrutinizing. They usually give up after enough refusals to comment and my hiding away for sometimes months.
But even with my escapes from the limelight, I often will come across someone who is horrified by my behaviors. Whether it be a postal worker delivering a package or a friendly neighbor popping over to say hi. They all learn quickly that I’m a fucking mess. Each and every one of them glares at me with disgust written all over their faces. Snarled lips. Wide eyes. Slack jaws.
Get over it. It’s all in your head.
I get so fucking tired of that line. Of course it’s in my goddamned head. If I knew how to get it out, I’d have already found a way to crack open my skull and scoop the shit out. Smear it all over the fucking walls and light it on fire. Watch it burn to the shitty-ass ground I have to walk on every single day.
“War?”
Her brows are pinched together in concern. Once again she amazes me with her selflessness when it comes to me.
“Yes, please. Use the soap in the kitchen. Wash them twice just in case. Sometimes bacteria can get left on your hands even after three minutes of solid washing with soap and water. That’s why I wash for four minutes the first time and then four minutes more the second time before playing chess. By then, everything should be removed.” I rattle off my words. “Should being the key word. My chess pieces are precious to me and need to be handled properly. So just in case, wash your hands twice. Four minutes each.”
Her eyes widen and she sets to chewing on her lip. All horrifying thoughts of germs crawling all over her fingertips and infecting my rooks, bishops, pawns, queens, and kings scamper from my mind as I focus on her mouth. The bottom lip is plump and swollen. Ripe for sucking.
Thirty-seven minutes and sixteen seconds ago, I had my mouth on hers. The monster inside of me screams at me—reminding me of the insane amount of microorganisms that are most likely inhabiting her tongue and gums. Those microbes are how diseases are transferred.
Fucking stop already.
I blink one, two, three times and lick my own lips. I’d been in such a hurry to scrub her from me but now I’m wishing I could still taste her. My body thrums to kiss her again but the demons in my head laugh in my fucking face.
You. Can’t. Do. It.
“How will I know how long four minutes is?” she questions, grabbing my attention again.
I frown. “You count. That’s what I do. Two hundred and forty seconds each. Total of four hundred and eighty seconds.”
She bursts into a girlish laughter that distracts me. It’s innocent and light and I want to bathe in the sound of it. Her voice is one I could listen to all day long and never grow weary.
“Maybe you should buy me a watch so I don’t mess up,” she finally says once her humor has died down. “Until then, can you do it with me?”
I’m already shopping online in my head. Sizes and brands and thicknesses of watches I’ve seen in passing filter through my head like a personalized catalogue. Her wrist is so delicate and dainty but her spirit is
strong. I will have to find something that harnesses both.
“Warren. Focus.”
I blink at her and try to shake off the thoughts that are maddening me. Rose gold? That would be stunning against her pale flesh and—
“War,” she snaps, walking past me and nearly brushing against my shoulder. “Think about all that’s running through your head later. After our chess game. I’m ready to learn.”
With a deep sigh, I nod and stalk after her toward the kitchen. The globe of her ass jiggles with each step she takes and my cock responds almost magnetically to her. Explosive thoughts dull and fade as I focus on her gorgeous figure.
She dutifully washes her hands.
The suds lathering up nicely on her perfect skin and I become mesmerized.
I find it difficult to focus on anything around her, anything near her, anything but her.
And once again, I lose count.
“YOUR TURN,” I tell him as I slide my white, ivory bishop diagonally and sit back in the chair.
His brows pinch together and I watch with fascination as his eyes dart all over the board, no doubt configuring many different outcomes with every possible move he can think of. The man is obsessed—no surprise there—with this game but I’ve never seen him so in his element. It took him a good ten minutes to set up the board. I could tell after the first two pieces that he wanted to cleanse them all with his soft cloth, but all it took was one shameful glance my way before he pushed the cloth away and set up the board.
It took a while for him to explain the rules to me, but once I had a decent understanding, we began. With each move, he’d ask me if I were sure. I know he was trying to help but it made me second-guess each placement of the chess pieces. It was as if he played himself for so long that he couldn’t bear to win so easily. Clearly I’m no match for him.
“Are you sure you didn’t want to move your rook there instead?” he points to a black square.
I scrunch my nose and lean forward. The rook seems like he protects my king so I don’t want to move him. No other moves seem possible aside from the bishop. Tapping my bottom lip with my fingertip, I consider what he might have planned against me.
