by Jamie Canosa
Her lips quivered before she pressed them together. The indecision written all over her face was as clear as the moment she realized she didn’t actually have a choice. I could feel her hand trembling as she placed it gingerly in mine. If it wasn’t for the utter exhaustion clawing at me like some feral beast, I would’ve said screw it, let her be and stood guard all night, but I knew I wouldn’t make it through.
“There you go.” I didn’t mean to sound like some condescending asshole. Laying one finger along the inside of her wrist to make sure it wasn’t too tight, I held her eyes as I looped the cuff. Something flared in her gaze. Something dark, and considering the trigger . . . I didn’t want to know. “Not so bad, is it? Go on and lay down. Get comfortable.”
Easier said than done. She shifted until she was lying on her side, facing away from me. Her arm stretched up beneath her head where I held it near the cot frame, a single metal bar that made an ideal anchor. I snapped the other cuff around the bar and gave a small tug to be sure it was secure.
Her skin was smooth and soft where my thumb ran along the side of hers. It was meant to be comforting, but when her breath caught I realized how wrong it was. The girl was cuffed. To a bed. And I was touching her? How big of a douchebag could I be?
“Good night, Fi.” I stretched out beside her, leaving as much space between us as possible. “Try to get some sleep.”
Chapter 5
~Ophelia~
Fear had a way of fading over time. The circumstances that made you afraid in the first place don’t change, but your physical and mental ability to sustain such a grueling emotion wears thin. That, and boredom had a way of dulling your senses.
I’d counted the sixty-two planks running along the back wall of the stall several hundred times. The two-hundred-and-seventeen ridges in the tin roof. The nine pieces of straw stuck to my blanket, the twenty-two nails in the door, and the three loops that I could see in the tattoo design on Sawyer’s arm as he picked at the strings of his guitar and scribbled in a notebook.
There were no clocks and my phone was long gone. I couldn’t even remember if I’d taken it with me when I left the party, so maybe that was my fault. Time became elastic. It was as though someone had ripped open the space between one minute and the next and shoved ten more hours inside. Three days in captivity felt more like three weeks.
I was so close to losing my damn mind that even Frank’s return from a supply run was enough to bring relief. Sawyer set his instrument aside and I perked up, eager to see if he brought back something other than pizza this time.
“Here’s your crap.” Frank shoved a shopping bag at Sawyer.
He rooted through it before slapping Frank on the shoulder and turning to me. “How do you feel about getting washed up?”
I blinked, certain I’d heard him wrong. “What?”
“Washed up. Ya know, soap, water, shampoo . . .”
“Yes!” Hell, yes. My skin was sticky, my hair was greasy, and I was beginning to smell myself. It was disgusting.
Sawyer chuckled at my overeager response and dipped his head toward the stall door.
“Well, come on then. Oh wait . . .” He doubled back to a small duffle bag that sat in the corner and dug through it for a moment before rejoining me.
The whole way down the corridor, images of a hot steaming shower played through my mind. Maybe even a soak in a tub. Bubbles, scented candles . . . hmmm, heaven.
Reality slapped me in the face when Sawyer escorted me to the stable bathroom and handed me a fresh bar of soap, a washcloth, shampoo, a brand new toothbrush still in the box, toothpaste, and a stack of folded clothes, including a pair of plaid boxers.
My disappointment must have shown because Sawyer frowned. “I know it’s crude, but it’s the best we’ve got. The plumbing is shut off to the main house. It’s this or nothing.”
I nodded and shut the door behind me. Setting the stack of supplies on the toilet lid, I flipped on the faucet. The water ran as cold as ever. Sighing, I dampened the washcloth and tossed aside the cardboard box on the soap to lather it up. With one eye on the unlocked door standing between myself and Sawyer, I stripped off the irritating dress and began washing my skin. When I finished, I leaned over the edge to let my head drop beneath the steady stream. Brain freeze set in in under a minute, but I forced myself to stay put until I’d soaped and scrubbed and rinsed every last strand.
He hadn’t given me a towel, so I wrung as much water from my hair as I could and then used Lisa’s dress to squeeze it dry. The clothes Sawyer provided were obviously his. The shorts fell to just below my knees, but with the elastic waistband at least they stayed put around my hips. The worn gray tee with the image so faded I couldn’t even tell what it was supposed to be fit me like a tent, hanging to mid-thigh. Not exactly runway fashion, but they were clean and fresh and comfortable. I really couldn’t ask for more.
I wadded up my panties, wrapped them inside the dress, and tucked the whole bundle under my arm before stepping into the alleyway.
“Thank you for the—” Something soft and furry wrapped around my ankle, tripping me.
I landed with a thud against Sawyer’s chest and his arms came around to steady me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. What . . .” I spun around, expecting to see a rat—fully prepared to scream like a little girl. A fat, gray cat sat by my feet, head tipped to the side as though he were trying to decide if I’d lost my mind. “What is that?”
“That . . .” Sawyer’s chest bounced against my back. “. . . is Smoke.”
“Is he yours?” I stepped forward and slowly sank to my knees. Smoke—seemingly satisfied that I was at least sane enough to be of use—marched over and promptly rubbed his large head against my hand.
“He’s not really anyone’s. He’s a barn cat,” Sawyer explained. “There’s a bunch of them in the area. They go from farm to farm, killing mice that get into the grain and frighten the horses. And, in return, farmers leave out bowls of food and water for them. This guy probably has twenty different homes and twenty different names.”
“Oh.” His fur was so thick that my hand sank into it. So soft.
When I scratched behind his ears he started purring like a motorboat before flopping onto his side and rolling to his back to present me with his belly.
“You’re a sweet boy aren’t you?” He batted at a piece of straw while I rubbed his belly and my cheek muscles ached from disuse.
As hard as I tried to forget about him, I could feel Sawyer looming over us. Watching us. I didn’t want him to be there. Hell, I didn’t want to be there. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have Smoke with me back on campus. Curled up, purring on my dorm bed. Playing with the millions of wires Lisa had coming and going from her computer to who knows what. Batting at leaves through the narrow windows when the tree outside drifted in the breeze. It was a nice daydream, but one that couldn’t last forever. After a few more minutes, I grudgingly got to my feet and nearly clapped when Smoke followed.
He wandered right into the stall and hopped up onto the cot as though he owned the place. Frank quit messing with a box he was trying to open and glanced at the cat. I bit my lip, hoping he wouldn’t be the one to send him away, but after a moment he went back to his task without comment.
I sat beside Smoke and he crawled into my lap, doing three complete rotations before settling down. Meanwhile, Sawyer joined Frank and I watched the two of them tear open the plain brown box. Out came a small, twenty-inch television. One of those old, boxy, battery powered ones with rabbit-ear antennas.
The reception was sketchy at best, but they finagled the silver rods until a local news station came in for several minutes at a time in between bouts of static.
“Hey, turn that up.” Frank’s booted feet hit the floor and he leaned forward in the folding chair in the corner.
Sawyer reached over me and paused when I shrank back. His eyes held a question and, yes, he let me get cleaned up and borrow some of his clothes, but I did
n’t owe him any explanations.
“Today, Sawyer.” Frank’s impatience propelled him into action. He pressed the volume button a half-dozen times and my father’s voice filled the stall.
“. . . daughter has been kidnapped. These vile criminals have tried to make demands of me—incredible demands—but this is America.” His voice boomed with pride over the hushed audience. “And in America we do not negotiate with terrorists.”
My heart sank like a cement block in the ocean, while Frank sputtered with rage and the crowd broke out in cheers. He was saying no. My father was refusing to give them whatever it was that would set me free. He was refusing to help me. And they were cheering for him. Why did that even surprise me anymore?
My mother crept up to the podium beside him, tears rolling down her cheeks—tears I’d seen her turn on and off for years at the flip of a switch—and they both made a ‘heartfelt plea’ for my safe return. Forget business, they should’ve been actors.
“Please, I beg of you, don’t hurt my sweet Ophelia Hope.” Including a child’s middle name was something you did when they were nineteen months old, not nineteen years, but my mother never missed a chance to do it. It was her not-so-subtle reminder to everyone who heard of what a miracle it was that I was even alive. How my parents had persevered and overcome to bring me into this world.
It was a load of crap. A bullshit story leaked to the press by some publicist that worked for my father’s company. I was nothing more than a publicity stunt in a pretty pink bow from the time I was born. It took several years of nannies and missed birthdays before I realized that one.
That’s all I continued to be. Stocks would probably go up double by the end of the day. What would happen if I never came home? Would they find a way to spin that, too? Probably.
Sawyer switched the television off, and I watched my mother’s face fade away. What was going to happen to me now? I wasn’t worth whatever they wanted. I wasn’t worth anything. To anyone.
“Son of a bitch!” Shoving to his feet, Frank gripped the chair he’d been sitting in and slammed it into the television set. Sparks fizzed and popped. Glass shattered. Wood cracked like thunder.
My entire body flinched and Sawyer shot to his feet. “What the hell, man? Calm down!”
Smoke’s ears flattened and he made this deep growling noise that rumbled through his entire hefty body.
“Calm down? That bastard just turned us down flat.” Frank pointed at the scattered ruins of the television as he stalked toward me, Sawyer watching him closely the entire way. “Your father’s a real piece of work.”
I already knew that. I knew it better than anyone. A hard lump formed in my esophagus, pressing down on my airway. It was almost as though the air had become too thick. I couldn’t force it into my lungs.
“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Frank’s hands gripped his hair, tugging at the roots as he turned away and I was finally able to draw breath again. But then, in the blink of an eye, he was back, right in my face. “What the fuck are we supposed to do with her? She ain’t worth shit.”
His hand flew and landed across my cheek before I ever saw it coming, sending me sprawling half on the floor. For a beat nothing happened. The silence rang so loud, I thought I’d lost my hearing. Then Smoke yowled in protest, skittered through the loose hay, and disappeared out the stall door.
“Frank, man, that’s enough!” Sawyer rounded the cot, pushing Frank up against the wall. My mind flashed back to when he rescued me from Anthony at the party. Did that have something to do with why I was here? Or was there something else about me that screamed ‘easy prey’? “It’s not her fault her father’s a lying asshole.”
When he was certain Frank had his shit together, Sawyer released him and dropped to a knee in front of me.
“Fi?” He reached for me, stopping himself less than an inch from my face.
That’s right, asshole. You better not touch me. But then, why was my entire body straining towards him?
The lines around his eyes tightened, taking in what I could already feel was a split lip and, I was sure, an impressive bruise.
“Are you okay?”
I shut my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see that look in his anymore. The one that looked deceptively like caring. That look was dangerous. It made me want things. Things I shouldn’t want. Things I could never have. I was on my own in this. Not even my parents were on my side. It was me vs. them and the minute I forgot that, I was as good as dead.
“Sparrow?”
I couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t lie and tell him what he wanted to hear. But I was too afraid not to.
“Outside. Now. We need to talk.” Sawyer marched out the door, the snap in his voice demanding that Frank follow.
When the door swung shut behind them, I collapsed on the cot and a sob tore from my chest. Things had just gone from bad to worse. Whatever they wanted, they hadn’t gotten it. My father hadn’t given it to them. And from that interview, it was clear he never would. Where did that leave me?
Chapter 6
~Sawyer~
*10 years ago*
Whack.
I pressed my forehead against the wall and rolled it from side to side, trying to distract myself from the flames licking up my back.
Whack. Whack.
It was the sound that haunted my nightmares. The sound of pain, of flesh being tenderized and flayed. I felt a trickle down my side and the waistband of my sweats grew damp where the blood soaked into the fabric.
Whack.
I’d lost count of how many lashes I’d taken this time. The beating felt as though it had gone on forever. Not that it mattered. There was no limit. It was over when it was over. When he decided I’d learned my lesson.
“Next time . . .” Whack. “. . . maybe . . .” Whack. “. . . you’ll do . . .” Whack. “. . . as . . .” Whack. “. . . you’re . . .” Whack. “. . . told.”
It was my own fault. I’d deliberately disobeyed. When I went to the concert in the park the night before, I’d known it was suicide. I just didn’t care. I was so damn sick and tired of following pointless orders so that the asshole I called my father could feel powerful. Why? Out of fear? Screw that. Screw him and his goddamn belt.
It all sounded pretty brave last night, but with my face pressed against the wall and my back torn apart . . . it sounded a lot more like stupidity.
Whack.
Black ringed the edges of my vision, pinpointing a crack in the plaster where Dad’s fist had landed a few weeks earlier. I welcomed the darkness. It would be over soon. As one knee gave out and I sagged against the wall, I idly wondered if that crack would be the last thing I’d ever see. If he’d stop when I lost consciousness or if he’d go all the way. If he’d finally do it this time. If he’d kill me.
“Oh no you don’t.” An ice cold spray shocked my senses back to life. “You’re not getting off that easy.”
An oversized plastic cup rolled across the kitchen tiles as water streamed down my back.
“I’m not finished with you yet.”
I think I groaned, but it was drowned out by the crack of the belt falling again. My newly sensitized nerves flared with pain. My second knee folded, but I clung to the wall. If I went down still conscious, this would escalate to a whole other level.
I locked my legs and stood straight. My father grunted and it felt as though the skin from my shoulders had been torn clean from the bone.
“Stop. Please. No more.” Shit, I was begging. Begging never helped anything. It only made things worse. I knew that, but I couldn’t help myself. Some long dormant survival instinct had clawed its way to the surface. “Please . . . no more. I can’t . . .”
“You can’t?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I’ll show you what you can’t do. You can’t leave this house without my permission.” Whack. “You can’t piss, shit, or breathe without my goddamn say so.” Whack. “And you sure as hell can’t get out of a punishment you’ve earned
by acting like some sissy little girl.”
Whack. Whack.
I couldn’t. I couldn’t take it anymore. I dropped to my knees and covered my head, preparing for the worst, praying I’d survive. Maybe he did intend to kill me this time, but he damn sure meant for me to feel every moment of my death.
A steel-toed boot collided with the underside of my ribs and I crashed against the wall. I couldn’t draw breath, couldn’t think, couldn’t—Another foot cracked against my spine and I was no longer praying for survival.
Curled against the baseboard, I shut my eyes and pressed my face to the floor. Please. Please just let it be over.
There was a sound like a shotgun and for a moment I thought my prayers had been answered. Footsteps. A scuffle. Shouting. I couldn’t process what was happening. I could barely even see. Blood leaked into my eyes, blinding me. I must have hit my head harder than I’d realized.
The sounds quieted and then there were only voices. Angry voices. I must have been drifting in and out of lucidity because I only caught bits and pieces of what they were saying.
“. . . ever touch him again . . . no police . . . face down in a shallow grave . . .”
“. . . fucking crazy . . .”
“. . . get out.”
The last bit was followed by more footsteps and the slamming of a door.
“Sawyer?” Rough hands rolled me onto my back. “Shit. Sawyer? Fuck. You alive, man?”
I grunted and heard Frank release a heavy breath.
“Alright. You’re gonna be alright. Can you stand?”
Stand? I thought not dying was an epic feat.
“I don’t know.” At least that’s what I meant to say. It’s what it sounded like in my head. From my lips came a series of garbled sounds.
“Shit . . . Okay . . . Stay here . . .”
Not a problem seeing as the darkness had come to take me away once more. This time I surrendered, knowing I was safe. Knowing Frank was there. Knowing I owed him my life.
*Present day*
“Look, I’m sorry—”
“Sorry?” I rounded on Frank the moment I slid the door into place and slammed him up against the side of the stable.
