Crazy In Love: A Standalone Christmas Thriller

by Ivy Smoak

  Oh. Yes. I threw my arms up in the air. Ow. Lifting him had not been easy. He was one heavy asshole. Inconsiderate like always.

  He screamed again.

  Shit. I ran out of my bedroom, down the stairs, and slid open the deadbolt. I finally had the courage to go through with my plan. And I wasn't about to have him ruin it by screaming bloody murder.

  "Help!" he shouted. His words were a little more clear now. But still muffled. He must have somehow gotten the gag partially out of his mouth.

  How the hell had he done that? I'd watched so many videos on how to properly...

  "Is someone there?! Help!"

  I started to walk down the stairs. "I need you to take a deep breath and calm down," I said. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Could our neighbors hear this? The last thing I needed was for nosy Sally to show up on my doorstep wondering what I was up to.

  "Calm down? I don't know who you are or where I am but I'm tied up! Please, please for the love of God help me!"

  Wait, what? My feet stopped at the top of the basement steps. He did know who I was. He did know where he was. What the hell was he talking about? "What do you mean you don't know where you are?" I called down the stairs.

  "I mean I don't know where I fucking am! Untie me!"

  Why did he not know where he was? Unless...how hard did he hit his head last night when he fell down the stairs? Did I break his skull? Had he been bleeding?

  "Help me!"

  I needed a minute to think. "Stop yelling. I'll be right back to untie you." I closed the door and slid the deadbolt back in place. Was he serious? Did he really not know where he was? Who I was? If that was true, he had serious memory loss. The smile returned to my face.

  He started screaming at the top of his lungs again.

  I needed to stop that. But first I had an opportunity I couldn't pass up. This was better than I could have ever asked for. I must have given him a concussion or something. I mean...by accident of course. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who I was.

  I ran back to my room and quickly did my makeup and changed out of my pajamas. My husband hated those PJs. And I couldn't shake that hate.

  I put on a pair of tight jeans, a sweater with a low neckline, and my thigh-high black boots from last night. As a finishing touch, I pulled my blonde wig back in place. I might be able to get through this whole thing without him even knowing me.

  His shouts drifted into the bathroom.

  If he'd stop screaming. Before heading back downstairs, I pulled out a box of random things I’d been meaning to donate from the top shelf in my closet. It only took a few seconds to find what I was looking for. I lifted the reindeer mask they’d handed out last year at my neighborhood’s annual Christmas light competition. It was like a masquerade mask, only more ridiculous because it had antlers instead of feathers. I pulled it over my wig. For some reason dressing up made it easier to be bold. I'd found the same thing last night when I'd worn the wig. Or maybe it was just a blonde thing. As far as I could tell, blondes did have more fun.

  I made my way back downstairs, unlocked the deadbolt on the basement door, and walked down as gracefully as possible. The click of my heels on the wooden steps finally made him stop yelling for help.

  When I reached the cement floor, he was staring at me. Well, taking me in. His eyes scanned me from head to toe.

  "Untie me." He wasn't screaming now, but his voice was firm.

  The ice pack and blanket I'd given him were both on the floor. I tilted my head to the side as I stared back at him. The gag was all the way out of his mouth now. But he was still firmly tied to the chair. "We both know I can't do that." I took another step toward him.

  "I absolutely do not know that."

  I kept my lips in a straight line even though he was being funny.

  "What do you want? Money? I'll get you however much you want if you let me go, sweetheart."

  Sweetheart? Condescending jerk. "I don't want your money." I wanted my money back. And I wanted him to look me in the eyes and confess he was sleeping around. I just wanted the truth. Was that so hard to ask? Apparently so. I picked up the blanket and folded it. There was no thank you for taking care of his wounds or keeping him warm last night. He looked hostile. His nostrils were practically flaring.

  "Then what do you want from me?"

  I didn't respond. I placed the blanket back in its forgotten box. The sound of the rattle jingling jarred me again as I put the box back on the shelf where it belonged.

  "Why does it feel like my ribs are broken?"

  I didn't respond.

  "Is this a kinky sex thing? Does this get you off?"

  I definitely didn't need to respond to that. My mask was sophisticated. And classy, even if it was Christmas themed. I should have just worn my pajamas.

  "Untie me, you fucking bitch."

  Well, he didn’t think I was beautiful anymore. He preferred another b-word now. And he seriously needed to relearn some manners. Did he not realize that he was the one tied up? I could do whatever I wanted to him. I was in control. For the first time in my life, I had all the power.

  "What would you like for breakfast?" I asked, ignoring everything he'd said. "I went shopping yesterday afternoon so we'd be well-stocked for our time together. Cereal, eggs, bagels, waffles, fresh fruit..."

  He just stared at me.

  "How about some French toast?" I knew that my husband loved my French toast. He asked for it every weekend.

  "Bite me."

  "I'll make French toast then." I walked behind him and placed the gag back in place to a slew of curse words. It was nice to have him silent again.

  I walked back in front of him. "The next time we talk, I want you to remember that I put ice on your bruises last night." I lifted the ice pack that was no longer frozen. "I gave you a blanket to keep you warm. And I'm about to feed you a delicious breakfast. So there's no need for that foul language or the yelling. Okay?"

  I touched the side of his face. I have no idea why I did it. To make sure he understood? Just to touch? I'm a kidnapper, not a pervert! I immediately removed my hand like his face had burned me.

  He lowered his eyebrows.

  Something about the action made my stomach clench. No one had ever looked at me like that. I would have thought it was a murderous glare. Like he was imagining whether to cut my body up in tiny little pieces or put rocks in my pockets and throw me in the lake. But for some reason I was imagining a different thought. That maybe he wished I was the one tied up. It was probably still in a murderous way. Not a sexy way at all. But I felt my cheeks flush regardless, and I quickly looked away.

  "I'll be back with French toast." I hurried up the stairs and released a breath I didn't know I had been holding as soon as the deadbolt was back in place.

  I tore the mask from my face before my tears had a chance to fall on the thin fabric. My sweater was suddenly too hot. My boots were too uncomfortable. My pants were too tight. My wig was too itchy. I kicked off my boots as I pulled my sweater off over my head.

  I felt like I couldn't breathe. I buried my fingers in the fake itchy hair.

  There was more to his stare than just the heat I'd imagined. There was an emptiness. He had no idea who I was. I'd feared my husband forgetting about me. Forgetting that at one point I was his whole world. And I knew it had already happened. I'd known it. For months I'd known it. But seeing that emptiness staring back at you? I never expected it to hurt so much.

  I swallowed down the sob in my throat. I was nothing to him. And I needed to remember he was nothing to me. I pressed my hands on the cold quartz countertop. The coolness on my palms made it a little easier to breathe.

  I'd gotten out of the basement just in time. I couldn’t let him see me being weak. The power needed to stay in my hands. And everything was going according to plan. Even though he was a little angry, he hadn't tried to escape. All the ropes were still secure. The next step was a nice, civilized meal.

  I took another deep bre
ath and walked over the fridge. This was meant to be an end. And it was a good thing we were both on the same page. I just needed to remember to stop touching him. I pulled the eggs and milk out and looked down at the lace bra I was wearing. What is wrong with me?

  Abandoning the ingredients for French toast I went back upstairs to change. Again. I had the right idea last night. I threw my fancy bra on the ground like a barbarian and pulled my comfy pajamas back on. My husband didn't love me. I ran my fingers along the taser in my pocket. And I didn't love him either.

  If he wanted to look at me like I was crazy and scream at the top of his lungs with all sorts of profanity? Fine. It was too late for cordiality anyway. Breakfast would be served with a side of tasing.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday

  The latest Eminem song faded out on the radio and a Christmas tune started up. I rolled my eyes. Why did radio stations always try to slip in stupid old Christmas carols between real music? I poured the eggs into the hot pan and tried to focus on their sizzling against the oil instead of the familiar song.

  I used to love Christmas. Back when I was young and in love and so naïve. So even with the sound of eggs frying, it only took me a second of the intro musical instruments to know it was Baby It's Cold Outside. The classic rapey song where the guy singing definitely slips something into the woman's drink and forces her to stay the night even though she keeps trying to get away.

  I hummed as I flipped the last two pieces of French toast. Was that how I got the idea for my master plan? Some kind of twisted version of Baby It's Cold Outside? My husband and I had danced to this song right here in the kitchen last year. He'd dipped me low with a spatula in my hand and I'd almost slipped because of my socks on the tiled floor. I smiled, remembering how I lightly slapped his ass with the spatula in retaliation and he'd chased me around the kitchen until we were naked on the floor and our dinner was burnt.

  Had he known even then that he no longer loved me? Was that moment all an act? I glanced at the basement door. Maybe I was going about this thing all wrong. I could get a tree for the basement and decorate it. We could dance to silly Christmas music. Maybe even watch some of my favorite holiday movies together. I could slowly woo him into a confession. He didn't even know who I was. I could make him fall in love with me all over again.

  Stop. My hips stopped swaying to the rapey tune like I was reprimanding myself for my awesome dance moves. Stop thinking about fixing your relationship. What the hell was I thinking? Getting a basement Christmas tree was insane. I was done being the perfect housewife, or my holiday decorations would have been up the day after Thanksgiving. And even though I'd slacked the last few weeks by not even changing over my hand towels to the red and green ones, I'd given the whole housewife thing up for good last night. Permanently. By kidnapping.

  I turned the radio off. There would be no Christmas for me this year. But I would be getting a wonderful present. Justice. Vengeance? I wasn't sure which yet. I was leaning toward the latter. I slid the eggs and French toast onto two plates and poured us each a cup of orange juice. He'd probably complain that I didn't bring him coffee. But the last thing I needed was a caffeinated captive.

  I pulled my mask back on, grabbed the tray of food, and made my way downstairs.

  He lifted his head as my footsteps approached, his eyes locking with mine. I was relieved to see that he looked significantly less angry.

  I placed the tray down on the small table. I'd thought of everything, even our dining situation. "I'm going to remove the gag, okay? But remember what we talked about earlier? No yelling."

  He didn't respond. Well...he couldn't respond verbally. I was hoping for a nod or something encouraging though.

  I untied the back of the cloth anyway. He needed to eat. I hadn't pushed his body down the stairs so he'd starve to death. Dropped. Dropped his body down the stairs by accident. I was surprised when he didn't start screaming immediately.

  "Are you trying to prove to me that this isn't a sex thing?" He nodded toward the pajamas I'd changed into.

  I folded my arms across my chest. Maybe I would let him starve after all. "They're comfortable."

  "I never said I didn't like them." He flashed me a smile. "You look adorable."

  I stared back at him. Adorable? Did he actually mean that? Not frumpy? Fat? Ugly? Like I stopped trying?

  "You're glaring at me," he said calmly like he had at the bar last night. But he shouldn't have been calm now. He was tied up. We weren't two carefree adults flirting in public. He was my prisoner.

  "I'm not glaring." I turned away from him. I was expecting him to still be hostile, not...whatever the hell this was.

  "Everything smells wonderful. Do you want to untie my hands so I can eat?"

  So that's what this was. He was trying to make me feel comfortable so I would free him. But just because I was adorable didn't mean I wasn't one step ahead of him. "I'll feed you. Do you want syrup or butter on your French toast?" When I first met my husband he preferred butter. But after a few years I’d finally convinced him that syrup was a significantly better choice.

  "Syrup."

  Interesting. I lifted the bottle, trying my best not to look at him. I would not fall into whatever trap he was trying to put me in. But my hand hesitated before pouring the syrup. "Do you want it on the top or do you like to make a pool on the side that you dip it into?" My husband also swayed between these two options like the syrup newb that he was. There was no method to his madness.

  "Which do you prefer?" he asked.

  "I'm a dipper." The only reasonable choice.

  "Ah. I should have guessed."

  What does that mean?

  "Whatever's easier for you. You're the one feeding me."

  Right. But my hand with the bottle still hesitated. "Do you like a lot or a little?" My husband was also very finicky about his syrup usage depending on how much he'd worked out that day. A longer run meant more syrup. I tried not to sigh as I waited for a response. I would have made something else if I'd thought about how impossible this situation was. Tomorrow I'd serve cereal.

  "A normal amount."

  Normal was different for everyone, making normalcy a nonsense answer. He was being ridiculous. Or was he being agreeable? He was definitely being confusing. I poured some syrup on the side of his plate that was normal for me and plunged a bite of French toast into it. "Open."

  He parted his lips, his eyes trained on mine instead of the fork. Odd choice. What if I was a serial killer? I could just stabbity stab him right in the throat and he never would have seen it coming. Although, I did just use the phrase stabbity stab, so he was probably safe from that ever happening.

  His lips closed around the fork and he groaned.

  I swallowed hard. He'd made that same noise last night when he kissed me. Like I was the only sustenance he needed to survive.

  "Divine," he said. "This is seriously the best French toast I've ever had."

  I knew it was divine. I knew it was the best. But hearing it still made me smile. I cut off a piece, twirled it in the syrup, and then took a bite for myself. Before I was done chewing I realized what I had done. I'd eaten off of his plate instead of my own. With his fork. Old habits die hard. "Sorry," I said and swallowed before I finished chewing. Which made me cough. Which for some reason made his smile grow. "I have a clean fork."

  "I don't mind sharing," he said.

  He was looking at me in that way again. Like when he'd called me beautiful instead of a bitch.

  I cleared my throat. "I wasn't sure how you liked your eggs, so I scrambled them." I was the one that needed to keep him unbalanced. Statements like that would help. Please don't remember me. I pushed some into his mouth before he had a chance to respond with something disarming.

  "You guessed right..."

  Of course I guessed right. I shoved more food into his mouth to get him to stop talking. I wasn't sure which was worse...him yelling or him being overly nice. He's just messing with your head.
He wants you to untie him. But I was smarter than he was giving me credit for. There would be no lulling me into a false sense of security or buying basement Christmas trees for him.

  When I forced him to drink orange juice, I poured it into his mouth a little too generously. Some dripped down the side of his chin. I caught the liquid with my thumb at the same time his tongue darted out to stop it. But instead of lapping up the orange juice, his tongue collided with my thumb. We both froze. Well, froze wasn’t exactly what I did. I'm pretty sure my temperature skyrocketed.

  I was most certainly coming down with a cold. There was no other explanation for why my pajamas were suddenly too warm. I needed to get into bed. Drink hot tea. Guzzle down loads of soup. Maybe add some Nyquil to the mix to make me forget that I had a sexy man in my basement with a very warm and experienced tongue. Oh my God, stop. "All done eating? Okay, great." I dropped the fork that I'd stupidly shared with him onto the tray. "I'm just going to..." I pointed over my shoulder. "Later, alligator." Who says that? I picked up the tray and started walking toward the stairs.

  "Wait! I kind of need to..." his voice trailed off.

  I almost forgot to gag him again. I placed the tray back down. But before I could lift the fabric he started talking again.

  "Would it be possible to get..."

  "No phone calls," I said. "This isn't prison."

  He laughed. A genuine belly laugh that for some reason had me smiling.

  "I'm not trying to make a phone call. I need to take a piss." He looked down at his pants.

  Which made my eyes travel to his pants. Stop looking at his crotch. I snapped my attention back to his face. "Right. I prepared for that." I walked over to the corner where I'd stashed some things I might need. I spotted the cleaning wipes first, which were meant to clean up dribbles down his chin. No more stopping them with fingers. And then I spotted the pink bucket I used for cleaning. It was a perfect fit for my mop. But I'd definitely need a new bucket after this. I dropped it in front of his chair.

  "Um." He looked at the bucket and then back up at me. "What exactly do you expect me to do with that?"