On the verge of tears, I put my feet back on the floor. This couldn’t be happening to me. Not to me.
6
Ron walked back into the kitchen. He washed his hands and returned to his seat at the table. He sat there for a while looking at his cards, face-down on the table. Finally, he picked them up and looked at me as though nothing had happened. This, honestly, was far creepier than if he had acknowledged what had happened.
“Whose turn is it?” he asked.
Puzzled beyond belief, I stuttered, “Yours, I think.”
He smiled at me and drew a card from the pile.
For a few minutes, I played cards with him, considering asking about the woman. I realized he could easily turn the same anger on me that he’d turned on her. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his fists. But I had to know. I was like that.
“Ron, can I ask you something?”
He looked up at me and smiled. “You just did.”
Ignoring my hatred for people who say things like that, I asked, “Who was that woman?”
“Stephanie.”
Seeing that he wasn’t going to offer anything else, I pushed him. “What’s her story?”
Picking up cards from the discard pile, he said, “Stephanie is a woman I met one night in a bar. She wanted to come home with me, so she did. I think she’s changed her mind about wanting to be here.”
“Where is she? What’s in that room?”
“That’s the basement. She’s been down there since the first night. She doesn’t like it down there, but she doesn’t have a choice.”
“Why don’t you let her go?” He jerked his head toward me and for a second, I saw the angry Ron. I quickly softened the question with, “I mean, why keep her around?”
His face relaxed. “I have needs and urges. She helps me with those. But did you see her? She’s about fulfilled her purpose. She’s far too thin and on the verge of madness, I believe.”
“Are you going to let her go?” I asked as I drew a card.
“Of course not. I can’t do that. You’re a smart girl, Nicole. You know I can’t let her go. She’ll alert the authorities. Then what? They arrest me, I go to prison, and my novel will never be written. I can’t let that happen.”
“So what? You’re going to kill her?” I hated saying the words. I knew that saying it wouldn’t be putting the thought in his head. He already knew what he was going to do, but it still felt like I was giving him the idea.
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
I shook my head and fell silent for a while. Afraid to know the answer but more afraid not to, I asked, “Do you plan to kill me, Ron?” I hated the crack in my voice when I spoke. It betrayed my brave persona.
For such a long time, he didn’t answer. I began to think that meant yes, he did. But finally, he spoke. “I don’t know what I’ll do with you yet, to be honest. You seem to think I have some master plan, but I don’t. All I have is an idea for a great story and high hopes. But with you, this idea will flourish and turn into a wonderful reality. When that happens, who knows what will become of you. I guess in the end, it will depend on you. There. I finally beat you a hand,” he said as he laid his last card on top of the discard pile.
He tallied his score and I mine, though I had to count my cards twice. I was having trouble concentrating. Something about having my life hanging in the balance and an uncertain future had me rattled.
After writing the scores on the notepad and adding them up, Ron announced that I’d won. He congratulated me, and suggested we play another game. I protested.
“What else are you going to do if not play cards with me?” he asked.
It was a good question. I shrugged and he shuffled the cards.
“So tell me about yourself. I know so very little about you,” he said. “I’m dying to know more. In fact, I want to know everything.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on. If I’m to base a character on you, shouldn’t I know every detail about you and your life?”
“I thought you were just going to use my responses in your book. You didn’t say that you were modeling a character off me. That’s different.”
“Does it matter? You don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, do you?”
He was right. I didn’t. But I still didn’t want him knowing everything about me.
“How about I pour us a drink and you tell me about yourself, starting at the beginning. Would you like a drink?” he asked as he got up and went to a cabinet.
I opened my mouth to say no, but decided this was probably the perfect time to drink. My nerves were frayed and I was on edge. Just one drink wouldn’t hurt. So instead of declining, I asked if he had orange juice and Vodka. Fortunately, he did. He made us each a drink and returned to the table.
I took a sip of mine and realized that in addition to being an immaculate housekeeper and maker of awesome sandwiches, he could easily serve drinks in any club. Daytime Bartender Moonlights as Madman. Now there’s a novel.
“Where were you born?” he asked, kicking off the interview.
“Poplar Bluff.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“No.”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“A small town about an hour away from there.”
“Did you live with your mother and father?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“One brother.”
“Where does he live?”
“He doesn’t.” Against my hopes that he’d leave it alone and move on, he asked me about it.
“What does that mean?”
“He died in a car accident three weeks after graduating from high school.”
He studied my face, probably making mental notes of my reaction and my emotions. Then, he continued with his barrage of questions. “Were you two close?”
“Yes.”
“Did your parents fight a lot?”
“No.”
“No?”
“They fought some, but no more than anybody else.”
“So your childhood was a happy one?”
“Yeah, I guess it was.”
“Were you molested by anyone?”
“I think that’s enough. There’s no sense in this.”
“Just answer the question. I’m just trying to get a feel of what your life was like and what made you the person you are today.”
I sighed. “No, I wasn’t molested, I wasn’t beaten, and I wasn’t raped by anyone in or out of my family.”
He nodded. “How old were you when you first had sex?”
“Come on. This is ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous. It’s research.”
“Why would you ever have to know that?”
“For the book, of course.”
“My ass. There’s no reason you need to know that. And even if you did, you can make it up. It’s a fiction book, not a biography of my life.”
“It’s all part of your makeup, part of why you are the wonderful person you are now. I like to know how things came to be what they are. Don’t you want to know things like that?”
I wanted to know what made him the way he was. Then again, maybe I didn’t.
“I’ll answer your questions only if you swear that you’ll answer any questions I may have now or in the future.” I stared at him as he agreed, trying to determine if he was being honest. Of course he was. Apparently the one thing he didn’t do is lie.
“I swear to you to always be honest and answer any questions you may have. I haven’t lied to you as of yet, and I have no plans to do so. You may ask me anything you like, but I do hope you hold off until I’ve asked all my questions of you.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” he agreed.
I took a long drink before answering. “I was sixteen.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love him?”
“I thought I
did. But at sixteen, no one knows what real love is.”
“I take it he isn’t your husband.”
It was my turn to chuckle. “No.”
“Why is that amusing to you?”
“Because he and my husband are completely different. They have no similarities whatsoever.”
He laid down his last card and we began to add our scores. After jotting them on the notepad, he shuffled the cards again. “Were you a good student?”
“Yes.”
“You made good grades?”
“Yes. In fact, I rarely had homework and I never studied. I read through my notes before a test, and I was an A student.”
“So learning came naturally for you?”
“I guess so,” I said and finished my drink.
After shuffling the cards, he set them on the table and got up. He took my empty glass to the counter and refilled it. As soon as he brought it back, I took a drink.
7
He sat in his chair, scooted it up to the table, and asked, “Were you promiscuous as a teenager?”
“No,” I said, taking a little offense to such a question.
“Are you promiscuous now?”
“No,” I snapped. “I’m married.”
“Lots of promiscuous women are married.” He pointed to the hallway and said, “She’s married, but that didn’t stop her from offering herself to me in the bar that night.”
I swallowed the fear and the lump in my throat. He was holding her here all this time knowing that she had a family. “Yeah, well I’m happily married and I don’t do stuff like that.”
He nodded. “Good. You shouldn’t.”
“You’re going to give me a lecture on things I shouldn’t do?”
“You find that odd?”
“Yeah. You kidnap people, hold them here for no telling how long, do no telling what to them, but your morals are intact enough to know that I shouldn’t sleep around? That’s crazy.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“I said that’s crazy, but now that you mention it, yeah. I think maybe I should count these cards because clearly you’re not playing with a full deck.”
He threw his cards on the table and stood up so fast his chair couldn’t keep up and toppled over backward onto the floor, making a noise loud enough to cause me to nearly jump out of my skin.
He began to pace back and forth across the room. He started off mumbling something to himself, but then he talked louder. So loud, in fact, his voice boomed around the room, echoing off the walls. He alternated between waving his arms around and placing his hands on his hips.
“I am nothing but nice to you and you call me crazy. I bring you into my home and treat you well and you call me crazy. I could’ve taken you straight to the basement and locked you up down there, but I didn’t. And yet you call me crazy.” He walked quickly over to me and leaned down, his face inches from mine. “I can show you crazy. You haven’t seen crazy. Would you like to see crazy, Nicole?”
This guy was nuttier than a squirrel turd, but it was obvious that he didn’t think so. It brought to mind a book I read once called Annie’s Revenge. The author stated many times that insane people never doubt their sanity. I guess she was right. Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy.
Quickly, I thought of a way out of this situation. I hadn’t failed to notice he’d mentioned locking me in the basement with what’s-her-name. I didn’t know what all was down there or what went on, but I’d seen her and I wanted no part of it. So I had to do something, anything, to keep myself from her fate.
“Look, Ron, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you’re crazy. It’s just that I felt like you were insinuating that I slept around, and it made me angry. I was just lashing out.” I surprised myself with how calm I was being. Inside, I was shaking like a Chihuahua in a snow storm. But outside, I was so cool cucumbers were jealous.
Ron stood up and put his hands on his hips. He stood there looking down at me for a minute. Then, he smiled.
“That’s why I like you. You’re full of fire, but you know when you’ve crossed a line. None of the others ever had sense enough to know.” He reached out and placed his hand on my head. I wanted to pull away, but knew that it wouldn’t be wise to do so. Even as he slid his hand down the back of my head and neck, I didn’t move a muscle.
Consulting his watch, he said, “I’m afraid I didn’t learn all I wanted to learn about you and it’s getting late. I have many things to do before going to bed. But I suppose there’ll be plenty of time to learn all I want about you, won’t there?”
I nodded, fighting back tears.
He crossed his left arm over his chest and brought his right arm up, placing his thumb under his chin and his index finger over his lips. Clearly, he was thinking. I was afraid to even imagine what was on his sick mind.
As if he could read my mind, he said aloud, “I’m thinking that maybe you should stay up here with me.” He looked at me to judge my reaction, but there wasn’t one. I didn’t know where I’d rather be, other than home.
“Yes, the basement is a nasty place, and I like you too much to put you down there. Yet, anyway.” He smiled. I didn’t.
He unlocked the cuff from the kitchen table, but not from my wrist. He held it tightly and pulled me up. He held my shackled wrist in one hand and put his other arm around me, squeezing my shoulder slightly as he led me down the hallway.
“You know, if you let me go right now, I’ll never tell.”
“Now you and I both know that’s not true, Nicole. That’s the first thing you would do.”
We kept walking down the hallway, past the basement door, past the bathroom door. At the end of the hall was a door on each side. We stopped and stood while he thought aloud again.
“Let’s see. Would you like to sleep with me, or alone?”
“Alone,” I said quickly. The thought of sleeping with him sent a chill down my spine and a ripple through my stomach.
“Yes, I suppose for now you may sleep alone. But it won’t always be that way,” he said and kissed the top of my head. If I threw up now, my heart would surely come up with the sandwich and the vodka because it had beaten its way right out of its place in my chest. It felt like it was flapping around in circles. I did my best to show no fear.
“Come on then,” he said and led me through the door on the left. This left me assuming that the door on the right was the door to his bedroom. I fought to keep away the images of what his room must be like.
He turned on the light and I looked around the room. There were two windows, one on the end wall and the other on the back wall. Both had blinds and heavy drapes so I couldn’t see out, and so no one could see in.
The walls were beige, the ceiling was white, and the trim around the windows, doors, floor and ceiling was white. On the floor was a cream-colored carpet.
The bed looked to be a queen size with a metal headboard and footboard that resembled a wrought iron fence. On the bed was a burgundy comforter with matching pillow shams and a lot of pillows. On each side of the bed was a nightstand. On each nightstand was a black lamp with a beige shade.
Across the room was a large armoire. On the wall opposite the bed was a dresser, over which hung a large mirror. Other than a few paintings hanging on the walls, that was it. It was a simple, beautiful room. The man was a sadistic psycho, but he was a hell of a decorator and housekeeper. As was the case in all the other rooms, there wasn’t a speck of dust or dirt to be seen. That made the woman in the basement an even bigger mystery. She’d been filthy, so unlike everything else I’d seen so far.
Ron led me into the room and over to the bed. He turned me to face him. With the bed touching the back of my legs and him standing only inches in front of me, I wanted to panic. I needed to panic. I felt it rising up in me. No good could come of this.
Still holding my shackled wrist in his hand, he said, “You’re not going to like this, I’m sure. But it has to be done. Take off your shoes,” he ordered.
&nbs
p; Without breaking eye contact, I put the toes of one foot on the heel of the other and pushed my shoe off my foot. I repeated the process for the other shoe while he watched.
“Now would you like to unfasten your jeans or would you like me to?”
“Why do they need to be unfastened at all?”
“You can’t sleep in your clothes.” He smiled.
“Yeah, I can. Let’s do that.”
“No, let’s not. Take them off. It’s not becoming for a woman to sleep in her clothes. Besides, wouldn’t you be more comfortable without the restrictions of your clothes? Without the tight fabric stretched taut across your delicate skin?” He ran his fingers down my side as he spoke, and I don’t think I just imagined the lusty tone in his voice.
“No, I think I’m good with leaving them on.”
“Take them off or I will take them off,” he barked.
It scared me, so against all my judgment, I unbuttoned my jeans. Not wanting to see the angry side of him, I unzipped them and pushed them down. Still holding my wrist, he bent over with me as I pulled the jeans off my feet. When I stood, I still had hopes that he wouldn’t order me to take off anything else. I was wrong, and not for the first time that day.
“Take off your shirt.”
“I don’t see why—”
“Take it off,” he barked again. His voice, when raised to that level, was very painful on the ears. The bass in his voice rattled my chest and my already frayed nerves.
I pulled my left arm out of the sleeve. He let go of my right wrist long enough for me to pull my arm through the sleeve, then he cupped it back in his big hand. I pulled the t-shirt over my head and held it in front of my chest.
He pulled the shirt away from me and laid it on the nightstand. “Now the bra.”
I thought about protesting, but if the third time really was the charm, then it would be a stupid thing to do. So I reached behind me with my left hand and popped the clasp on the bra. I slid my arms out while he watched. He took the bra from me as soon as I was free of it, tossing it on the table with my shirt.
He leaned back and stared at my nearly naked body, which I tried to cover with the one free arm I had.
“You shouldn’t try to hide yourself. You have a wonderful body. You should be proud of it.”
Held, Pushed, and 22918 (3 Complete Novels) Page 3
