by Kendra Leigh
He nods again, thoughtfully this time as if he’s recalling the moment himself.
“That reminds me. Where did you sleep last night?”
“Oh, I took the sofa.” He points at the inadequate piece of furniture, way too small to accommodate his size. He must have had the worst night’s sleep on that thing. “I don’t sleep that much, so I was up at first light anyway, exploring.”
There’s the boy in him again.
“Did it start? The bike?” I ask as I watch him demolish the mountain of pancakes on his plate. This man eats with gusto, and for some reason it’s a pleasure to watch.
Wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin, he picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip. “Yes and no. You hit the starter switch and nothing. Roll it in gear, push it again, and it starts. Doesn’t sound good, though. Could be the camshaft or a carbon buildup in the combustion chamber … Sorry.” He pauses, smiling at my look of confusion. “You didn’t ask for my life story, did you?”
“I can’t pretend to know what on earth you’re talking about, I’m afraid, but you could show me.”
“I don’t think …” He looks doubtful.
“Oh. I don’t want to get in your way.” I suddenly worry I’m taking too much for granted. Why should he want to hang out with me? I mean he is my kidnapper, for heaven’s sake. He’s supposed to be minding me, not making friends and showing me how to fix bikes. It’s easy to forget, that’s all. He’s just so normal and nice. A gentleman that spent the night crunched up on a sofa too small instead of assuming or even demanding to sleep in the bed.
“I mean, I can if you want, but it’s probably quite boring. To you, I mean. Not that I’m saying girls shouldn’t be interested in mechanics or—”
Laughing, I push back my chair and stand. “Show me.”
* * *
For the next couple of hours, we work on the bike outside in front of the cabin. I say we; Bear explains all the parts to me, giving a detailed overview of what he’s doing and why, while I hold things, pass things, clean things. I feel useful for a change, appreciated. Happy. By early afternoon, the bike still isn’t working, so, now full of oil myself, I ask if it’s okay for me to take a bath.
After taking longer than planned—leisurely bathing being a rarity in my regular life—I emerge feeling pink and crinkled. Bear’s still busy with the bike, so I raid my backpack for pencils and my folder and settle into the rocker on the porch. At first glance the folder is innocuous enough, a whole lot of plastic envelopes filled with sketches and stories of the animal characters I create in my head. They’re nothing more than children’s stories really. Just simple childish nonsense. But they’re also my sanity, my comfort blanket. The place I go to escape my own world. Sometimes, I can go weeks without having the time or the energy left to open the pages. The past three weeks have been so crammed with chores—the repercussions of spending a scarce few hours with my friends, along with other supposed transgressions—that I’ve only had a single opportunity to spend time with my characters.
If you look deeper, though, inside the plastic envelopes, among the pages of fictitious characters, beneath the innocence—you’ll find something far darker. My diary.
I diarize in poetry form. That way I can document my thoughts and feelings without it being obvious to an uninvited reader that they’re about real life events. About me. Poetry can be so open to interpretation, the message so obscure that often it’s only the writer that knows exactly what it’s about. The ambiguity also creates a safe distance between me and the words, their meaning. Allows me to step out of my situation, see it from a bird’s eye view. Far less grueling for the psyche. I write in pencil so the words can be easily erased if I ever lose my nerve and need to destroy them. Then I secrete the pages between the stories I make up for my characters, knowing Nick wouldn’t have the forethought to ever look there. My stories bore him, at best. My final precaution is to keep my folder in the trunk of my old Beetle, a few blocks from my house, a hiding place Nick doesn’t even know exists. Then why write it at all? I do it to purge suppressed emotions and so that if one day things ever go too far and somebody finds it and is able to link it to me, somewhere, somebody—other than Nick—may finally know my story.
It’s unusual for me to revisit the days I diarize, but being here and feeling safe, somewhere miles away from my husband, I feel suddenly compelled to read the entry I made the day that led to the last three weeks of misery. The day I had lunch in Manhattan with my friends.
Nick had sent a text saying he’d be late. I was exhausted by the events of the day and the afternoon was glorious, so I grabbed my notepad and pencil and made my way outside to the bottom of the garden, settling into one of the sun loungers. Although the sun still shone high in the sky, the shaded area provided a comfortable place to sit and relax. I opened my pad and began to sketch the picture forming in my mind—a beautiful garden with flowers and a pond. There were creatures materializing in the story, taking shape in my mind, but in order to see them clearly, I lay back and closed my eyes.
The next thing I knew a strange noise was waking me from a slumber I didn’t even know I’d fallen into—a whooshing noise like the tearing of paper. At first I couldn’t see him clearly, the sun had moved lower in the sky leaving his familiar frame silhouetted against the bright backdrop.
“Nick!” I bolted upright. “Sorry, I sat down for two minutes and must have fallen asleep.”
“I can see that.” His voice was low, monotone, as if he were making sure he wasn’t overheard. He shifted to the left and my gaze lowered to where he’d stood, the picture I’d begun earlier torn to shreds and discarded on the ground. “Do you know what else I see?”
The hair on my arms stood immediately on end. I shook my head. “No.”
Slowly, he crossed his arms over his chest, one hand shifting to his face where he scraped a knuckle over the stubble on his chin. Then with the same finger he began to point toward the house next door, his eyebrows hitching, instructing me to take a look. I turned my head, looking across the garden to the back of the house next door. A man on a ladder tended to some loose guttering, his back to our garden and seemingly quite oblivious to our presence. But I knew it wouldn’t matter in the least.
“Why don’t you go the whole nine yards, Savannah? Offer your pussy on a plate and invite the fucker to dinner!”
Before I could make my case, his hand flew out, gripping the neck of my tank and yanking it down. The action exposed my right breast, only briefly, but long enough to create the desired effect—humiliation.
With burning cheeks, I fumbled to cover myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was there.”
His eyes narrowed as they swept across my face, reading me, assessing my integrity or lack of it. “Lower your foot to the ground.”
Confused, I glanced at my bare feet dangling over the edge of the sun lounger.
“Put your fucking foot down, Savannah!” he hissed in anger.
Shifting, I did as I was told, lowering my foot to the floor of the decking.
There was no emotion in Nick’s eyes when he stepped forward, his finger to his lips in warning that I should remain silent, as he transferred all his weight to his shoed foot which closed over my little toe, grinding down as though he were extinguishing a cigarette.
Sweat sprang to the surface of my skin in the effort to remain silent. But as the tears streamed down my face, the sound of the scream inside my head was piercing. His expression softened the second he let up and glanced down at my foot, the skin a purplish-blue, blood trickling from the tip where the nail should have been.
As I gulped in air to calm my pounding heart, he reached out, brushing the tears from my face. “Stop your tears, Savvy. Now be a good girl and go put the dress on you wore to lunch today, the one I told you to wear. Then come down and make my dinner. You can tell me about your day.”
Nodding, I pushed to my feet, doing my best to ignore the pain that felt as if my whole foot were on fir
e. I forced a smile as he took my face in his hands and leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead. Then, trying not to limp, I made my way up the garden to the patio. Just as I was about to enter the house, Nick called out to me.
“Savannah?” I turned to see what he wanted, taking in his encouraging smile with relief.
“The gray one … not the pink.”
He never tells me how he sometimes knows things about my day that he couldn’t possibly know, but my money is on Mrs. Draper across the street, busybody that she is. Regardless, he’d have found something to punish me for that day, no matter, because his anger really stemmed from me wanting to have lunch with my friends. Even in his mind, though, he’s aware of how gratuitous and irrational that is, and so he looks for something more fitting. If nothing else, it gives him the excuse he’s looking for to prolong a punishment. Hoping, of course, that next time I’ll think twice about having the audacity to need something in my life that isn’t him. So my transgression for that day was daring to wear something I hadn’t been given permission to wear and falling asleep, albeit unwittingly, in full sight of a man who wasn’t my husband. I’d paid for it every day for almost three weeks.
Actually, I’m still paying for it. The nail on my little toe will never grow back properly. My hip is still severely bruised. I’m clearly still catching up on the sleep I missed over the last few weeks, considering how deep I slept last night. And the pink dress will never see the light of day again. When you’ve cooked in it, cleaned in it, and slept in it for a whole week, you’re kind of glad when you can finally throw it in the garbage.
Returning the sheet of paper to its hiding place, I tear off a clean crisp new one. Placing my pencil on it, I begin to sketch the view of the lake in front of me. A brand-new story taking shape inside my mind.
Chapter Nine
Jackson
I LEAN AGAINST THE DOORJAMB, watching her intently. Her flawless features are pinched in concentration, her pencil flowing freely across the page in front of her. She’s engrossed. If she knows I’m standing here, she hasn’t made it obvious—nor did she appear to notice when I passed her fifteen minutes ago to go take a shower.
It sounds creepy, I know, but I enjoy watching her when she’s unaware. Last night while she slept, I could have stayed awake all night just watching, wanting to lean in close enough to breathe her in, wanting to reach out and touch her—afraid of what it means if I do, terrified of what it means if I don’t. I made a decision last night when I found her curled up in the chair sleeping. Jax can go to Hell. So can Natalie. I’m the one here reading this situation, and I’m pretty sure I’m reading it correctly. I’m doing the right thing—whatever the thing is. I know because it feels right. For me and for her.
“Hey,” I say softly, as not to startle her, and she responds by smiling shyly. “What are you doing?”
“Oh … no … nothing.” She places the sheet of paper inside a folder, and I’m even more intrigued than I was before but I don’t press the issue. “You showered.”
“I did. I thought we could go for a walk. If you’d like?”
She looks delighted, and setting her folder aside, she jumps up quickly to go grab her sneakers.
We follow the path into the woods, and it’s instantly cooler, the thick branches of the tall trees creating a perfect umbrella against the last of the sun’s rays. The scent of cool damp earth and moss is heavy in the air, and the vibrations of industrious forest creatures striving to survive echo through the trees.
“Did you fix it? The bike.” she asks after a few minutes of walking in silence.
“Not quite. It hasn’t beaten me yet, though.”
“So you’ve been into bikes since you were a kid. Was it your dad who got you interested in them?”
My insides freeze for a few seconds. If it didn’t come in a bottle and smell like whiskey, my dad wasn’t interested in anything. But she doesn’t need to know about that.
“Yes.” What the hell, a few white lies don’t hurt anyone. If you can’t paint imaginary roses over the door of your shitty childhood in circumstances like these, when can you? “We used to tinker around, fixing up bikes together at the weekend, Top 40 playing on the radio in the background. The smell of Mum’s roast dinner filling the air.”
Slow down, Jackson, your bullshit’s beginning to sound like an episode of The Waltons.
I dig myself out quickly and switch it back to her before I have to concoct more elaborate fairy tales. “How about you? You close to your family?”
“I was.” Like me, she seems to consider her words before speaking. “Both my parents were killed when I was seventeen.”
“Oh crap, I’m sorry. Do you mind me asking what happened?”
She shrugs. “9/11 happened.”
I halt and stare at her, unable to comprehend what I’m hearing. “Your parents were victims of 9/11?”
She nods once before turning to continue along the track, and bewildered I follow.
“My father ran an investment company in Lower Manhattan. My mother was a lawyer and dealt with all their legal stuff. On the morning of the attack, they were attending a business meeting in the North Tower on one of the floors above the point of impact. I’m sure you know the rest.”
“Yes, of course. God, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you—at such a young age, as well. Did you have someone to share the grief with? Siblings or grandparents?”
She shakes her head. “Just me. My dad’s friend Bill and his wife, Diane, took me in. He was Dad’s number two in the business, so he took care of that for me too. I wouldn’t have known where to turn without them. They were also the parents of the boy I was dating. They got me through it. The whole family did. I owe them a great deal. ”
Before I can inquire further, she asks, “What about you? Brothers and sisters?”
“No.” This time I don’t even falter in telling my untruth, but for some reason I feel guilty about it. Especially when she’s been compelled to share such a private and heartbreaking story. To be fair, though, even Ethan and Angel don’t know shit about my past, so I’m hardly likely to spill to a virtual stranger. Besides, in this job—keeping your personal shit to yourself is rule number one. Again, I bat it back.
“What happened to the boy? The one you were dating?”
It’s her turn to hesitate before answering, her cheeks pinking slightly as she keeps her gaze on the path ahead. “I married him.”
“Oh.” Oddly, her answer unsettles me. She mentioned a husband, of course, but I wasn’t sure if that was just talk. I know I shouldn’t delve further, but I’m unable to stop myself. “So when did he start to fuck up?”
“What makes you think he fucked up?” My question seems to surprise her.
“Well, I’m no genius, and obviously I don’t know the specifics, but I’m guessing he must have done something wrong. I’m not sure you’d be here if he hadn’t.”
“Right. I guess not.” She goes quiet for a few minutes as if contemplating the idea.
All of a sudden something catches my eye in the distance, through the trees, and my trained eye settles on the figure of a man, arms and shoulders raised, as he stares down the barrel of a shotgun, lining up his sight, finger closing over the trigger to squeeze lightly.
Before I even know I’m reacting, I swoop Sparrow into my arms and press her up against a tree, every inch of my body shielding hers. Her wide eyes and alarmed expression ask a thousand questions, but before she can ask any, the sound of rapid gunfire reverberates through the woods.
She’s sandwiched between me and the tree, legs dangling down as I hold her steady with both my arms and my body. Physically, we can’t get any closer, but she tries anyway, gripping the neck of my T-shirt and yanking me toward her until our cheeks are touching. Her body trembles slightly in my arms as she stammers a whisper into my ear.
“What … wh-who?”
“Shh, stay quiet.”
“But surely they’ve se
en us? Shouldn’t we run?”
I shift gently to the left and peer around the tree. “No. They’re headed the other way. Let’s wait a minute or two, give them chance to get out of sight.”
I know I’m being melodramatic, the gun hadn’t even been pointing in this direction, but having her in my arms like this, I realize, is where I’ve been longing for her to be. I took advantage of this opportunity to get close to her. I’ve been doing it all day. Every chance I had for our fingers to brush against each other or just to stand closer to her, I took. Now the warm silkiness of her cheek rests against mine, and I find myself almost nuzzling into that tiny spot beneath her ear, her scent invading my senses. Peaches and cream. I feel lightheaded.
“But I don’t understand. What’s going on? Am I in danger?”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Even the thought makes me angry. Blood pumps through my veins, my heart thumping out of my chest; it’s the reason my cock has swollen so large it’s on fire. It must be.
“Then why are they shooting at us?”
The question forces me to recognize how much I’ve inflated this situation, and I draw back a little so I can look at her, my fingers reaching to brush a lock of hair from her icy blue eyes.
My lips are so close to hers they almost graze them when I whisper, “They weren’t shooting at us.”
“Then who?”
“Not who … what. They’re hunters. Probably after turkey. Fucking assholes. I should put a bullet through their brains and stick a rotisserie rod up their ass, see how they like it.” Of course, I’m deviating from the question deliberately—a ploy to throw her off the scent, but it doesn’t work.
She narrows her eyes. “Why are we hiding behind a tree, then, if they’re not hunting us?”
“Because I don’t want to risk a stray bullet.” I feign astonishment. “A tiny little sparrow fluttering about in the backdrop of these woods could easily get caught in the crossfire. We don’t want that, do we?”
