by Jamie Canosa
There were none. No windows, no towels . . . not even a mirror. What kind of bathroom didn’t have a mirror?
When the water only grew colder, I splashed it over my hands and wiped them on the stupid black dress I was still wearing. Mascara clumped my lashes together and I could only imagine what the rest of my makeup must look like. Palming handfuls of water I scrubbed my face until my skin felt chapped and then wiped it all away with a wad of toilet paper. At least I could see better now.
“Better?” Sawyer was leaning against the wall just outside the door, no doubt listening to my every move.
“Much.” I hesitated to ask, but decided that not knowing would be worse. “Now what?”
“Now . . . we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Don’t worry about it.” There he went telling me not to worry again.
There was about a thirty second timeframe where I briefly considered making a run for it as he ushered me back to the stall, but realistically how far would I make it? Sawyer’s legs were a solid foot longer and mine were still wobbly. I could have tried to fight him, but what would that have accomplished? He hadn’t done anything to hurt me yet and the last thing I wanted to do was give him a reason. Provoking him would be foolish. He was so much bigger than me. Without Lisa’s heels, I found myself at eye level with his chest. A broad chest, stretching the fabric of his threadbare tee. The thing was so old and worn it did very little to conceal the wall of solid muscle beneath. Yeah, no, fighting was out of the question. For now.
The cold water helped to wash away some of the foggy haze and I returned a little more clear-headed. The ‘bed’ I’d been lying on earlier was nothing more than a wide cot with a comforter thrown on top—the source of my beachy view when I woke. A second blanket was tossed in a heap near the rear wall and there was a blueberry muffin sitting on the floor beside a bottle of water. My mind warned me that any of it could be drugged, but my stomach didn’t seem to care. It rumbled like a dump truck at the sight.
“You’re hungry.” It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t bother answering him. “Here.”
I examined the crumbly pastry as though it might give me some hint if it was safe to eat. It looked like a blueberry muffin. Smelled like a blueberry muffin. My stomach protested my delay once more as I mentally calculated how long it had been since the last time I ate. The sun was still up, but if the shadows stretching across the floor were any indication, it would soon set. Maybe twenty-four hours? A whole day lost. Chills swept up my spine.
“You can eat it.” Sawyer leaned up against the second short wall, arms folded across his chest as he watched me struggle with my decision. “It’s just a muffin, I swear. I know it’s not much.” He picked up the water bottle and handed that to me, as well. “We’ll get more supplies in tomorrow.”
More supplies? How long was he planning on being here?
I felt a little better when I twisted off the top and heard the seal crack. The water was warm, but it was a relief the whole way down, easing the burn in my throat and washing away the foul taste of leftover alcohol. When the bottle was half empty, I perched on the edge of the cot to nibble at the muffin.
My legs still weren’t entirely stable. Add to that the terror, panic, and confusion . . . It was a crippling combination.
Sawyer observed me quietly from his post as I sniffed before each bite. I chewed slowly, rolling the flaky pastry around my mouth. Paused before swallowing it. He knew what I was doing. What I was afraid of even though he swore the food was clean. He knew I didn’t trust him. And I shouldn’t have. So then why were my cheeks heating to the point of near painful embarrassment?
Long, thick hair was a bigger pain in the ass than it’s worth nine times out of ten. This happened to be that tenth time. I ducked my head, allowing it to fall like a fiery curtain between us. My own personal built-in shield. It let me to hide even in plain sight. A skill I’d perfected throughout my life.
The downfall was that it was a two-way curtain, hiding everything else from me. Which was why I nearly jettisoned out of my skin when Sawyer’s arm brushed mine. Holy shit, he moved like a friggin’ ninja.
The one thing I’d been telling myself since I woke up here was to show no fear. The family motto. Keep your head up, shoulders back. Feign confidence and others will believe you have it. So much for that.
Green eyes narrowed and frown lines marred his handsome—okay, yes, he was still handsome; scary, but handsome—face as he leaned over me to pull out an old guitar leaning against the head of the cot. It settled in his lap and he slipped a plain black pick with gold lettering from between the strings.
“Listen, you’re scared . . . I get that.” He placed the pick between his lips and plucked at a few strings, twisting the knobs at the end until he was satisfied with what he heard. “But you behave yourself, you do what we say, and you’ll be fine. No one wants to hurt you. That’s not what this is about.”
Sawyer waited for me to nod my understanding, but he still wore a frown as he began strumming away. Soothing chords filled the highly charged air, winding together into a captivating melody. The notes weaved a bubble of calm around me and I felt myself beginning to unwind. Piece-by-piece, I picked at my muffin and sipped what remained of my water until the bottle ran dry.
In every book and movie out there, the kidnap victim immediately starts looking for ways to escape. I didn’t. I listened to my kidnapper play guitar. Let’s face it, did it ever really work out for them anyway?
I probably shouldn’t have, but I believed Sawyer when he said he didn’t want to hurt me. I just hoped that whatever it was he wanted out of this, he got it soon and I could go back to my life. My parents had money. Lots of it. If he was after a ransom, I’d be released in no time. Of course my father would insist on bringing me back home, but that was a battle for another day. Until then, the best I could do was wait it out and try not to do anything stupid.
“Why the hell is she awake?” A man a few inches shorter than Sawyer, but nearly twice as wide and built like one of those guys from the WWE glared at me from the doorway, busting my bubble to smithereens.
Chapter 4
~Sawyer~
*13 years ago*
“Get away from her!”
I hadn’t bothered to knock. Just opened the door to Frank’s house and stepped right into hell. A hell that didn’t affect me the way it probably should have because I lived there myself.
“I said get away—” The familiar thud of fist on flesh cut off Frank’s protest, follow by a shrill scream.
My feet didn’t wait for my brain to catch up. They flew through the dingy kitchen with the leaky, rusted faucet, over the cracked and peeling tiles to the filthy carpeting in the living room. Frank stood toe-to-toe with his father, though the man was nearly twice his size in both height and weight.
“Punk-ass kid, always getting in my damn way.” Mr. Varis shoved Frank’s shoulders. He stumbled back a step, but quickly regained his ground. Pressure clamped down on my chest. Frank was nothing if not stubborn. One of these days it was going to get him killed.
A quiet whimper came from behind the ratty plaid sofa. “Sylvie?”
A flash of purple and she collided with my chest so fast she nearly took me down. Skinny arms wrapped around my waist and she buried her face in my shirt. “S-sawyer. Help him. Please.”
She was three years younger than us, but we were a team—Sylvie, Frank, and I—united in our quest for survival.
“Get her out of here!” Frank was glaring in our direction.
“Frank . . .” My gaze darted from him to the man struggling to stay upright in front of him. If the number of empty bottles scattered around the room was any indication, he wouldn’t remain that way for much longer.
“Do it, Sawyer. Get my sister out of here.”
Dammit all to hell. Frank couldn’t take that behemoth on alone, but he was right. Sylvie didn’t need to see this. For a tiny stick of a girl who couldn’t weig
h fifty pounds soaking wet, she sure put up a hell of a fight as I dragged her down the hall into her bedroom.
“We can’t leave him! Sawyer, we have to help Frank.”
“What happened?” What had set the bastard off this time? It had to have been something. Or nothing. Sometimes breathing was enough of an excuse for men like our fathers.
Hot tears seeped into my shirt. Sylvie shook from head to toe.
“Sylvie, look at me.” I tried to take a step back, but she clung fiercely. “Are you hurt?”
A sob.
“Answer me, Sylvie! Are you hurt?”
“N-n-no.” She hiccupped and gasped for breath. “I’m ok-kay, but Frank . . .”
“He’s alright. He’s okay. You know your brother. He’ll be fine.”
“But I . . . I . . .” She released her death grip on my shirt to swipe at some of the tears streaming down her face and my gaze zeroed in on the purple bruise marks encircling her wrist.
“What’s this?” I snagged her arm, careful to avoid the injured area.
“Nothing.” Sylvie attempted to tug free, but I was bigger and stronger and having none of it.
“This is something, Syl. Did your dad do this?” Stupid question.
“He g-grabbed me. He tried to take me away. To m-my room, but Frank . . . he wouldn’t let him. He got him off me, but then Dad . . . he . . . he . . .”
“I know.” I’d caught that part of the show. “It’s alright.”
“It’s my fault. If he hurts Frank, it’s all my—”
Shoving her back gently by her shoulders, I caught tear-filled eyes and held them with mine. “This is not your fault. You hear me? None of this is anyone’s—” The sound of shattering glass made her cry out. Crap. Frank. “Sylvie, listen to me. I need you to stay right here, okay? Stay here and don’t move.”
“Sawyer,” she whimpered my name and I wanted to give her whatever it was she wanted from me, but I didn’t know what that was. And Frank needed me.
“Here, Sylvie. Stay. Here.” With a quick squeeze of her hand, I shut the door behind me and raced back to the living room.
The remnants of an ugly zebra print lamp were scattered across the floor. The wrestling match taking place in front of the window was anything but evenly matched. In a sloppy maneuver, Frank’s father knocked him to the floor and drunkenly followed him down.
Mr. Varis’ fingers looked more like blunt, pale sausages as Frank coughed and sputtered and clawed at them around his throat. Frank kicked wildly at his father’s legs and shoved at his chest, but couldn’t dislodge him. I grabbed ahold of the brute’s shoulder and yanked. Nothing. Mine and Frank’s strength combined wasn’t enough to rival this man’s. The next time I got my hands on some money—whenever that might be—I was going to invest in some weights. As I witnessed Mr. Varis’ boot colliding with his son’s side, I vowed I’d never be too weak to help my friends again.
“Get off him! Get off.” Frank’s face was turning an unnatural shade of blue that scared the hell out of me. “Get off or I’m calling the cops!”
My threat had the desired effect—he snatched his hand away from Frank and took a step back as though he might go up in flames at any moment—and some unforeseen consequences.
“You,” he snarled in my direction and I came dangerously close to crapping my pants. The sharp tang of alcohol coated each breath he heaved in my face. “You think you can come in here, in my house, and give orders?”
“No. No, I—” Shit. What was I thinking?
He followed me step-for-step as I retreated across the room. “Think you’re so much better than me?”
“No. I . . . I . . .” The dull pain radiating down my leg from where my hip collided with the end table told me I was off-course. Too far from the door. I’d backed myself right into a corner.
“You think you can threaten me?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Sawyer!” Sylvie. Stubborn just like her brother. She never did what she was told. Instead of staying put, she was watching through stringy blonde hair with wide, desperate eyes. “Please, Daddy! Please don’t hurt him.”
Her father didn’t even blink. “I’ll show you—”
He drew back a meaty fist and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for an impact that never came. In its place was a grunt followed by a loud crack and a heavy thud. Frank was panting and clasping his side, but Mr. Varis . . . Mr. Varis was in a heap on the floor. The smear on the corner of the end table matched the bright red blood oozing from the gash on his right temple.
Sylvie gasped and scurried to her father’s side, brushing her fingers along his neck to check for a pulse. Something a normal seven year old probably wouldn’t even know how to do, but this wasn’t our first cause for concern.
“He’s alive.” Her declaration was made with equal parts relief and disappointment.
Frank heaved a sigh as he sank onto the sofa.
“Frank?” The way Sylvie moved reminded me of a bird, always flitting from one place to the next. She climbed onto the cushion beside him and Frank tugged her onto his lap.
“It’s okay, Syl. I’m okay.”
She curled into a ball and rested her head on her brother’s shoulder.
“I won’t let him hurt you. I swear.” Frank’s eyes shifted from his father’s unconscious body to where I stood. “I won’t let him hurt either of you.”
*Present day*
“We can’t keep her unconscious the entire time, Frank.” His glare failed to affect me the way I’m sure it was meant to.
“The hell we can’t.” An echo clashed through the building when he slammed the stall door shut behind him and transferred his withering stare to the girl.
“Relax. She’s not going to give us any trouble. Right?” I glanced at where she was curled up beside me—obviously trying to make herself as small as possible—and silently urged her to help herself out.
“N-no.” Her head shook so hard I was mildly afraid it might roll off her shoulders. Good girl.
“Is it done?” I adjusted the capo on my strings and strummed a C sharp.
“Yeah, it’s done.” Frank started pacing. Up and down the far wall. Throwing the occasional nasty look her way.
I watched her as I played. All that tension I’d seen melting away was back, ten-fold. Little fists squeezed the comforter, eyes darting from the walls to the floor to the rafters . . . anywhere but us. Frank scared her. And why not? He was hardly a teddy bear on a good day and lately? He could make a grizzly seem friendly.
Irritation made my fingers clench and a loud twang filled the air. “Would you please just calm down, Frank? You’re making everyone anxious.”
Wanting her to relax was probably the dumbest and most unfair thing I could hope for, but I couldn’t help it. Seeing her tied up in knots like that made me want to sock the son of a bitch who made her feel that way square in the jaw. Too bad the S.O.B. was me.
“Maybe that’s because she’s awake. And staring at our goddamn faces. Did you even think of that?”
I had thought of that, I just didn’t consider it a problem. Maybe I trusted too easily. Doubtful because outside of Frank I didn’t trust anyone. Or maybe I was just more realistic. Frank was fooling himself if he truly believed we’d get away with this without being caught. We’d kidnapped an innocent girl and were holding her against her will. Probably traumatizing the poor little bird. We deserved to be caught. It wasn’t a matter of if, only a matter of when. And whether or not we could accomplish what we’d set out to do before that time came.
Years of experience taught me that the best way to end an argument with Frank was to ignore him. My lack of response earned me a few muttered curses, but he settled into his hay bed and quit staring at the girl like he wanted to eat her. She, on the other hand, continued to look a lot like nervous prey.
I hummed a few bars before easing into the words of a song that had been buzzing around my brain for weeks. It was only half-finished because I couldn’t seem t
o find the right ending, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. When I started it, I was so sure that this was going to be it. My big break. The song that would get me noticed and launch my career. No more playing to a drunk audience at the local dive bar every weekend. I’d be performing on a real stage in front of crowds of screaming fans, my name in lights . . . But whatever grand plans I’d had hit a concrete wall head-on the minute I’d kidnapped myself a little Sparrow. There wasn’t a single version of this scenario that didn’t end with a prison sentence. And singing the jailhouse blues wasn’t exactly the dream I was chasing.
“It’s late.” Frank stripped off his shirt, tossing it aside, and flopped onto his blanket, wrapping it around him. “You deal with her.”
I strung together a few more chords before abandoning the instrument. The cuffs were tucked away beneath the cot. I reached for them slowly, knowing this wasn’t going to be pleasant for either of us, but if I didn’t do it Frank would lose his damn mind. And that would be worse. “Do you need to use the bathroom again?”
“N-no.” She stared at the restraints as though they may jump up and bite her. “What are you doing with those?”
The weight of exhaustion settled heavy on my shoulders. “It’s been a long day, Sparrow. Everyone’s burnt-out. We can’t stay up all night guarding you. You—”
“Fi.”
“What?”
“My name is Fi.” Her tongue darted out, tracing her lower lip. “Ophelia.”
“I know that.” And I knew what she was doing, taking a page right out of Psych 101. Humanize yourself to your captors; make them see you as a person rather than a means to an end. Smart girl.
“I won’t try anything. I won’t . . . I won’t try to escape or anything. I promise.” Her eyes shimmered in the torchlight. “Please don’t?”
She was killing me. Folding the cuffs into my palm—out of sight, out of mind—I ducked my head to draw her attention upward. “It’s just for the night, Fi. Just so we can all get some rest. Okay?”
