This Guy Kills Me

by Anlyn Hansell

  “Oh, hold on…here, since you’re quite the escape artist…” He pulled a piece of fabric from his coat pocket and indicated her hands.

  “Wrists, please -”

  “Uh, uh.”

  “No? Ok, keep the gag on then,” he stated with casual indifference before he stuffed the fabric back in his pocket.

  “Uh, uh. Uh, uh…eeer.” She raised her wrists and jutted them out toward him with narrowed eyes. They were scratched, raw; the skin was red and angry looking. Her eyes immediately filled with tears at the stinging sensation produced by being bound yet again – even if the fabric was a bit softer than her previous constraints.

  After knotting the fabric for the third time, his hands reached around and began picking at the knot behind her head. He bit his bottom lip in concentration before moving to sit behind her on the couch to resume the task. A few minutes later and the gag was still tightly bound. “Screw it,” she heard muttered behind her before something clicked and her entire body froze. Impossibly, the gag became even tighter as she felt something being wedged up and under the fabric, catching in her hair and pulling it painfully. Several jerks and the tight binding fell away and landed in her lap. Immediately her jaw worked, her tongue tried desperately to work up some saliva and a croaked “ah” of relief came from her throat.

  “Wa…er…” she rasped as he pushed off the couch and walked toward the middle of the room.

  “Say what?”

  “Agh, wah…er.” It was impossible to get her tongue to click off the top of her mouth to make a ‘T’ sound.

  “Water?”

  She nodded her head vigorously.

  “You didn’t get enough water earlier?” Was he playing with her? What a freakin’ weirdo.

  “All right, hold on.” She watched his body retreat toward the side of the room before her eyes began their search for anything that might aid her in the near future. The fireplace held a nice selection of weapons in a brass stand. A poker, a small shovel, a brush, some kind of medieval-looking torture device with a curved pointed hook on the end. That one. That one would do nicely…she thought before her eyes focused on the small, uncapped bottle of water placed in front of her face.

  “Don’t even think about it, Jane,” he admonished as he crouched to her level and pierced her with his stare once again.

  The water was warm but the feel was heavenly in her parched mouth. Her eyes stayed on his as she tilted her head back and finished every last drop in the small bottle.

  “Better?”

  “Much. Who are you? Where are we? What do you want with me? Are you going to kill me?” she fired off in rapid succession.

  “Whoa. Maybe I should’ve kept the gag on. Holy cow, woman.” He grabbed the bottle from her bound hands and placed it to the side before standing. She watched dejectedly as he grabbed the entire rack of fireplace tools and wandered toward the door. He opened it, placed the rack outside and proceeded to close the door, locking it behind him.

  “Can’t be too careful when it comes to you, Jane.” He flashed a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Who are you?”

  “Sally. Sally SSSSSimpson,” he answered immediately as he walked back and stood before her.

  Her head cocked to the side and she sighed disgustedly as she looked up at him.

  “What? Oh, you’re pissed I stole your fake name? Sally Simpson…” he muttered as he shook his head.

  “For real -”

  “Like it matters, Jane. Who cares what my name is?”

  “I care. I just spent the evening bouncing around in the back of your trunk, the least you can do is answer some questions.”

  “I told you what I wanted. I want Rick Trayer and you’re going to help me find him,” he stated as he crouched down to her level once again.

  “I told you -”

  “Yeah, yeah…I know. You broke up; you don’t know where he is.”

  “I don’t!”

  “You know Jane? It’s not that I don’t believe you, not entirely. I mean you did lie to me once, Sally…” He reached out and lightly grasped her chin in his hand as his dark eyes probed into hers. “The thing is, Rick’s a squirrel. I’ve never had this much trouble tracking someone down. He’s right under my nose and I can’t get at him. That’s where you come in.”

  “He won’t come after me, if that’s what you’re hoping. I don’t even know where he lives,” she answered before yanking her head back and dislodging his hand.

  “He doesn’t have an address; he sort of bounces around. How long were you two together? Did he stay at your place?”

  “Not even two months, and no – he never stayed at my place,” she answered honestly.

  “But he was your boyfriend…”

  “Sort of, I guess so.” She shrugged.

  “What does that mean? I don’t know what that means. He either was or he wasn’t.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Wow. That tells me so much, Jane. Define complicated.”

  She searched his eyes with the same intensity he was staring back at her with. There had to be something there, something she could grasp on to…

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing came to mind.

  “Jane? Why are you staring at me?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s creeping me out. Stop it.”

  She blinked hard a couple of times before refocusing her gaze a little less fixedly.

  “I have to go,” she stated.

  “You’re not going anywhere, sorry.”

  “No. I mean…I have to go…”

  “Oh. Bathroom, right. This isn’t a trick, is it? There’s no window in the bathroom, by the way, just in case you’ve got big plans.”

  “No big plans. I just need to go,” she responded with a sense of urgency.

  “I suppose we can accommodate that. I guess I should get you a change of clothes while you’re at it.” He stood up abruptly and pulled her to her feet using her upper arms, thankfully. “First I need to put you somewhere…let’s see.” He looked around the room then quickly turned toward her, scooping her up as if she weighed nothing and walked toward a beam holding the stairway to the loft. He set her down and began fishing through his pockets for something, finally grabbing a length of twine.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he eyed up the length and looked from her to the beam and back again. He looped the twine around the beam and grabbed her bound wrists, stuffing the end between them before pulling it out and wrapping it around the wood several times.

  “I don’t trust you, Jane,” he stated without looking at her. “Be right back,” he added before turning and walking to the front door.

  She immediately began twisting and rubbing the twine against the beam, her wrists screaming in agony before she realized it was futile. Even if she managed to escape, there was no way she could get very far. She rested her forehead against the varnished beam and blew out a breath of frustration.

  Moments later, he reappeared with a small duffle bag slung over his shoulder before turning and locking the door once again.

  “Hey! You’re still here!” he remarked jovially but his tone of voice did not match his expression as he wandered toward her.

  He pulled something from his pocket, snapped his wrist and a blade appeared with a sickening click. Her body went rigid.

  “Chill. It’s not time yet,” he stated quietly as he cut the twine with one quick swipe.

  “What’s not time? What do you mean?”

  He clicked the blade back in place before scooping her up once again.

  “Don’t worry about it. Here we are.” He dropped her at the entrance of a small room before reaching out and flipping the switch. “In you go…” He gave her a slight nudge and she hopped back.

  “Here, I brought you some clothes – good thing, huh? Who knew you were going to take a swim tonight? By the way, as soon as those jeans dry out we’re going to burn them. Actually, I want to burn these too,” he stated as
he grabbed a pile of neatly folded pajamas from inside the black duffle bag. “Where do you shop? Where does one still manage to find acid washed mom jeans? That’s crazy. I thought they outlawed them in the nineties or something…” he rattled as he plunked the pile on the edge of the sink.

  Was he serious?

  “What?” he asked after turning and eyeing the strange expression on her face.

  “Are you serious?”

  “What… about your clothes? Hell yeah, I’m serious. I actually felt bad for you when I went through your drawers. It was all I could do to find something half-decent. If you’re going to hang with me for any given amount of time, we’re getting you some clothes. You actually make my eyes hurt. Seriously, mom jeans?”

  “Wait. What do you mean ‘hang’ with you? You’re not going to kill me?” She ignored his fashion commentary and focused on his previous comment.

  He stood and stared back at her silent as a stone.

  “So, you are going to kill me?” No response, just more staring.

  “Which is it?”

  “Just change,” he answered flatly, taking a step back.

  “Wait! How can I change when I’m tied up?” She raised her wrists in front of her.

  “True…true. All right, listen up. There is absolutely nothing in here that you can use as a weapon. If you try to attack me in any way, shape or form, I am not above beating the daylights out of you. It will hurt, by the way. Do you think you can behave?” he asked pointedly.

  “Mmm, hmm.”

  “Do me a favor and take a shower while you’re in here. You smell like cheap whiskey. We need to talk about that, by the way -”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Too bad. That was really funny. You are one kooky chick, Jane. Sit on the toilet, please,” he stated as he pointed to an area behind her. She immediately hopped back and sat on the top of the lid.

  “No funny stuff. Put your hands on your knees and keep them there,” he commanded as he pulled the switchblade from his pocket and wedged it beneath the twine. A few swipes and her ankles were free.

  He pocketed the knife once again and quickly loosened the knots binding her wrists.

  “So did you have a killer headache or what?”

  “Huh?”

  “The aspirin, Jane. What was that all about?” He continued to crouch in front of her, his hand was unconsciously placed on one of her knees.

  She clamped her lips shut, watching him closely.

  “Stop with the staring, Jane. That’s really weird.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Try.” He stood up abruptly and looked down at her.

  “I’m going to be right outside. You have exactly five minutes. If you’re not done in five minutes, I’m coming in to get you. Got it?”

  She nodded her head, impatient for him to leave. Her bladder was absolutely burning at this point.

  “Cool. Five minutes, not a second more. There’s soap and shampoo in the shower. I’ll get you a towel. The lock on the door doesn’t work so don’t even go there.”

  “No problem,” she stated through gritted teeth.

  “All right. I’ll be right out here.”

  “OK.”

  “No funny stuff.”

  “Got it.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Would you get the hell out of here?!” she practically yelled.

  *****

  She combed her fingers through her long, wet hair as a yawn contorted her features in the mirror. Blinking a few times, she refocused on her face.

  Her face. It was both a curse and a blessing. A gift and a nuisance. It was something that drew people to her, when the only thing she truly wanted was to be left alone. And for good reason…

  Light brown eyes glittered under the vanity lights; the small flecks of gold lightened and brightened the odd color. Her skin was unmarred, features symmetrical and proportionate. She could have modeled. She did model. It lasted a day, or rather, a couple of hours. Her mouth…

  She stood in the small room, looking from the mirror to the door and back again. He was right. There was absolutely nothing in this room that she could use as a weapon. Besides, she was so tired, the will to fight was practically diminished at this point. What time was it? It had to be past midnight. This bizarre chain of events started sometime around eight in the evening and she wasn’t quite sure how long she had been unconscious in his trunk. Heaving a sigh, she stepped from the relative safety of the small room and trudged toward the door, opening it slowly and poking her head through. He wasn’t there. A few more steps and she was back in the main room. He was in the kitchen and the sight of him made her stop in her tracks immediately.

  He was shirtless, concentrating his efforts on placing a bandage on one side of his abs. Correction: his rock hard abs. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his torso that she could see. His arm muscles contorted and flexed as he concentrated. He wasn’t bulky like a body builder; he was somewhat lean with broad shoulders tapering down to a smaller waist; low slung jeans clung to his hips and her mouth went dry when he turned slightly revealing a rather large tattoo covering a portion of his back. The black swirling pattern continued over one shoulder and meandered down a small length of one corded arm.

  “I’m pissed at you, Jane,” he mumbled without looking up. “You stabbed me, you nut.”

  She continued to stare, watching in some sort of stunned stupor as he pressed the adhesive of the rather large bandage to his skin.

  His eyes snapped up and fixed on her, causing her to look around nervously before refocusing on him.

  “Yeah, well. You um… stuffed me in a trunk,” she stated quietly after finding her voice.

  “I did, didn’t I? It’s not like you would’ve come along willingly. Besides, you deserved it,” he stated as he stalked toward her. The urge to turn and run was so strong but there was absolutely nowhere to go.

  “Here.” He held his arms out indicating the pile of wet clothes in her hands. “I’ll take those. You go have a seat. Are you hungry?” He jerked his head back toward the bar stools lining the small island in the kitchen.

  Am I hungry? “What do you mean, ‘you deserved it”, what does that mean?” she asked instead, watching as he unfolded the clothes and hung them to dry on a chair near the fireplace. His hands paused as he unfolded the jeans; holding them up and shaking his head before carelessly tossing them over the arm with some kind of amused or disgusted snort. It was hard to tell.

  “Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich. Sit,” he pointed to a stool and wandered behind the island and opened the fridge.

  “Turkey?”

  “What do you mean I deserved it?” she asked as she pulled out and seated herself on the stool he indicated.

  “Turkey?” he asked again, ignoring her question. “Actually, it has to be turkey…” he muttered to himself as he flopped the deli bag on the counter followed by a tub of something tan and a bag of something green and curly. A loaf of bread followed and he immediately set to work opening the bag, lifting the lid from the tub before grabbing a butter knife from a drawer in front of him.

  He starting smearing the tan substance on the bread - weird ass bread with seeds and specks of…something peppered throughout the unnaturally dark surface.

  “What is that?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Like, peanut butter?”

  “Peanut butter on turkey?” He ceased his spreading and tilted his head to the side to regard her.

  “I don’t know…what’s with that bread? Is that bread? What’s that crap in it?” She asked with a barely concealed grimace.

  “Seeds. It’s seven grain bread with sunflower seeds. Very healthy…”

  “And the tan goop?”

  “That ‘goop’ as you so call it is hummus,” he stated with a small shake of his head and a slight smile on his lips.

  “What’s a hummus?”

  “For real? You never had hummus,” he s
tated, fixing her with a disbelieving stare.

  “I have no idea what that is. It looks gross. Can I have plain turkey?”

  “No, you may not,” he calmly retorted before opening the bag with the curly green stuff.

  “Whoa. Don’t…what the hell is that? I don’t want that…” she stated as he grabbed a small handful and jammed it on top of the turkey he just nestled on the tan goop. Another piece of speckled bread was placed on top and he pushed the plate toward her before beginning the process once again.

  “What’s that green shi…I mean, stuff?” She picked the top piece of bread up to peer inside.

  “Sprouts. They’re good for you. Trust me on this -”

  “Trust you? You drugged me and stuffed me in a trunk.”

  “So you keep reminding me. Eat up.”

  Her stomach took the perfect opportunity to growl as she looked from the sandwich to his face and back down again. Truth was; she was hungry. Maybe not hungry enough for the craziness placed in front of her…

  “Who was Eddie? Why did you kill him?” she blurted then mentally whapped herself upside the head.

  “Eat,” he commanded without looking up.

  “Seriously. Did you know him? Of course you knew him…I don’t even know why I asked that, but –”

  “Jane? Shut up, start eating or I will force feed you. Do you want that?” He stopped his hands and fixed her with a stare that promised he would do it if he had to.

  “No. I just wanted -”

  “Jane?” One eyebrow shot up.

  “Eating…” She grabbed the sandwich with both hands and picked it up, eyeing it warily before placing it near her mouth. Her lips opened and a look of disgust marred her features before she even touched the sandwich with her tongue. Biting down quickly she chewed vigorously, trying to speed up the amount of time the offensive substance in her mouth resided there…except…it wasn’t offensive. It was actually kind of tangy, and …earthy but all in all, pretty good except for the bread. Bread should be white and chewy, devoid of any specks and it shouldn’t pop or act weird in any way while you chewed it. This bread was just plain adventurous. Maybe she just wasn’t ready for popping, crunching bread coupled with fancy condiments and crazy green curly things…