Redemption Island (Island Duet Book 1)

by L. B. Dunbar

  Her body visibly quaked under the pelting rain. Her clothes were saturated, leaving nothing to the imagination. I could almost see her heart beating under her skin. My thick hand came to her wrist, and I forced the knife to my neck.

  “Do it,” I whispered, spitting at her, allowing my words to wash her cheeks as they mixed with the rain. Her eyes leaped from her concentration on my neck to my face. The movement cost her. I lowered her raised fist and twisted her wrist, forcing her to spin, pinning her arm to her back.

  This was the position I’d desired her on that night. I didn’t want to look at her. I couldn’t face her. But I had seen her. The universe had returned her to me, or some sick twist of fate wanted me endlessly tortured. A hundred things passed through my head. Curses and comments, lascivious and lurid. I wanted to own her again, but something stopped me. The press of her back to my chest or the racing of my heart caused me to pause. This cost me.

  As my forehead lowered to rest on the back of her head, her head shot back, connecting with my nose. I dropped her wrist as a searing pain ripped upward to my skull. My eyes watered, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

  “You—” I stopped myself from the obscenity. The idea of her as a caged animal returned. She was acting on instinct, I reminded myself.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” I said quietly to the space between us, as she had already escaped around the fire ring. Her retreat only taunted me. She was a little mouse, and I was a lion ready to pounce. She continued to run.

  “Don’t make me chase you,” I threatened louder, watching her disappear between the heavy foliage. Instantly, she was lost, swallowed up by the thick greenery and a dark night, and I choked on my words. I didn’t mean them. This was no longer a game. I wouldn’t follow her. She had nearly killed me. She wanted to kill me. The thought made me pause.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I screamed to the jungle. My voice bellowed over the trees, hoping to God she heard me. I hadn’t. No, you didn’t do anything, echoed through my head, cursing me in reply.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything,” I added, muttering to the saturated sand below my feet. I was sorry, sorrier than I’d ever been.

  6

  Day 14 - Juliet

  My heart raced with each step I took tracing my path back to my tree house. An expert at trails, I’d learned my way around the forest when my uncle dropped me in the woods, hoping I couldn’t escape the prison of trees. Call it photographic memory, or just dumb luck, but I always found my way home. Maybe dumb luck was the correct terminology as his trailer was no home. I hadn’t really had a place of my own from the moment I was dumped on his door until I moved in with Chellie in Baltimore and took classes at the community college. She was the reason I had the job at The Front Door.

  My pulse kept pace with the brisk pounding of my feet on the dark jungle floor. Secluded on an island didn’t leave me without some amenities. A visit from my counselor was due in less than a week. Lillian Varga was going to hear from me. I couldn’t stay on this island if he was here. Everything about him said he wanted to hurt me, and despite the knife in my hand, I couldn’t bring myself to harm him. I’d already done the unthinkable.

  Rick Fontaine had been a monster. The moment I entered The Front Door, I knew I shouldn’t have been there. His eyes roamed my body like my uncle’s once did. Power was written in the edge of his jaw. His dark, beady eyes reminded me of a bird of prey. But I needed the job, and Chellie assured me Rick was harmless. The Front Door was a reputable establishment—a hot spot of the local club scene with two full floors of five-star food and unique beverages. It was the third floor that worried me.

  I had graduated to serving the upper level, but my advancement was muddled with mixed intentions. If I worked there, I needed to pay the fee. Initiation was given by Rick…and his friends. I wasn’t a willing participant. And he had been one of them. His name was Tack Corbin. I remember seeing him under the red lights. Stoned on something. Drunk on another thing. He always had a woman hanging off his arm. I never understood why he needed to take me. He’d never shown one bit of interest in me prior to that night, but then again, none of them had noticed me other than Rick.

  I shivered at the memory as I climbed the ladder to the comfort of my home. The vision of him was hard to shake. That moment in his eyes where he peered down at me, reaching for my gagged lips, and then without pressure, he breathed words into my mouth.

  I don’t want to hurt you.

  I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t believe one word uttered from the lips of those men. Rick had his turn first. Tack was next. Who knows how many would have followed, if Brandon hadn’t walked in. My heart sunk to my stomach at the thought of Brandon. Sweet, gentle Brandon who tried to befriend me. His smile innocent, his attention refreshing. I’d been damaged goods after Rick had his way. Brandon would never look at me the same. He would have thought I’d been willing, as most women who entered the third floor apparently were.

  Ignoring the weight in my belly, I crawled onto my bed. I had removed my soaked clothing and lay with my palm over my racing heart. I hadn’t realized I still clutched the knife in my fist until I undressed. I’d ran and climbed without releasing it as if it were an extension of me. Maybe it was, as I had transformed into a killer after that night. Murder wasn’t my intention, but I killed nonetheless. And Rick had deserved so much more. They both had, but something stopped me from hurting Tack. Memories of that night morphed the two men. He’d hurt me, hadn’t he? It had always been a question. My imagination hopeful that he hadn’t; my memory positive that he had.

  “We’re going to play this my way,” he’d said against my lips. “Blink if you understand me.”

  Afraid to close my eyes, they rapidly blinked before opening as wide as would allow. I shut down after that, no longer able to feel my skin or sense penetration. It was better this way. Better to pretend, focus on something other than him and the cloth gagging my mouth.

  In the darkness of my room, the oppressive weight of him returned to me. I could feel him over me, between my thighs, breathing into my neck as he spoke to me. I couldn’t remember what he said. I didn’t want to enjoy the pleasure he professed to give. But as I lay in the dark heat, in my jungle surroundings, my hesitant fingers tickled over my tight nipples, eventually pinching them into twin peaks. My body arched at the sensation and a ripple snaked to my belly. Warmth spread between my legs, and I separated them, allowing any hint of a breeze to caress my skin prickling with a strange need.

  I didn’t want to be thinking of him, but somehow, he was all I could see. Those deep green eyes as rich as the palm trees. I imagined him between my thighs, and this time he would not control me. Tender fingertips traced a line down skin prickly and needy. Fingers slipped into my own underwear, tracing over sensitive folds before finding that special spot. Tender flicks, pleasurable circles, wet heat, and I detonated. My head rose from the bed as I called out his name, despite wanting to kill him.

  “I hate you,” I yelled to the heavy heat of my room, then fell back on the bed, unsatisfied with the performance and in desperate need of a repeat. I stroked again, the pleasure rising, and I rearranged my memory to suit my needs. His fingers fluttered. His tongue flicked. His dick filled me, and I came a second time with the fantasy of it meaning something.

  + +

  I woke with a start. The sound of a motorboat in the distance, rising above the general chirps and squeaks of the tropics around me. My bra and underwear were plastered to my moist skin. The night had been warm, and my hair stuck to my neck and forehead. I rose for my clothing and dressed sluggishly. My midnight self-seduction left me exhausted and drowsy. Climbing down from the tree fort, I prepared myself to meet Lillian at the supply dock, a spot where she visited every two weeks to provide canned goods, bottled water, and fresh linens.

  “Our intention isn’t for you to starve or even feel like a prisoner. This island is meant to bring you in touch with yourself. Forget your sin, reconc
ile with what happened, and figure out how to make yourself whole again.” It was a social experiment, not a self-sacrifice. The experience wasn’t very social, however. I’d been alone often enough in life to know how to exist with loneliness and not be lonesome. There was a difference. I’d been writing daily in the journals provided, and so far, it had helped. Anger. Devastation. Repression. Thoughts and emotions bled onto the pages. But still, I felt nothing. I hated myself even more for giving in to self-soothing with images of him.

  I stood at the end of the wooden platform and found myself staring off into the distance. There was no motor boat. No counselor. Loose threads of hair danced in the gentle morning wind, caressing my cheeks. Off on the horizon was another island. How far was it? I wondered. Could I swim to it? I couldn’t live on this island knowing he was breathing my air and swimming in my water. Not only was it my hatred of him, but that sneaky sensation that I was strangely tempted by him. He’d already taken what he wanted from me, and yet I wasn’t satisfied he’d taken enough. It was my turn for taking, and I wouldn’t be asking. He certainly hadn’t.

  7

  Day 15 - Tack

  “She’s here on the island,” I snapped before Garvey even left the boat. He hopped into the knee-deep water and bent over the sideboard to reach for supplies. It was my first formal check-in. Every fifteen days, I warranted a visit. At first, I thought it would be to double-check I hadn’t killed myself. After my first few days on the island, I looked forward to the visit for the ability to speak to another human being. Today, I was pissed.

  “How could you place her on this island with me?”

  “Who?” Garvey asked, the bulkiness of his weight struggling with the box of canned goods and dry mixes. I cursed the food. I wanted a hot shower and a fresh shave. Without a mirror, I was struggling to remove the heavy growth of facial hair. I didn’t need to turn into an island Yeti. I didn’t need to go native. I was here for soul-searching, which hadn’t appeared.

  “That girl. The one that I…” I couldn’t finish the statement. I hadn’t done anything. That had been my plea. I never penetrated her and careful examination of the videotapes could prove that. Instead, the evidence made me guilty. I’d disguised my movement so well, it appeared as if I entered her when I hadn’t. Either way, the conditions of our surroundings and the intention of our group was clear. She was there to be taken.

  “There’s no one else on this island,” Garvey attempted to assure me, but his voice was only half convincing.

  “She’s here. Over there,” I pointed in the general direction of both the pond and her escape the previous night. I hadn’t been able to find her, despite my daily wanderings through the trees. It was as if she appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as easily. Garvey looked in the same direction and back at me. I swiped a hand through my hair, tugging at the longer ends in frustration. I didn’t feel neat. I wanted to be clean.

  “I hope you brought soap. Maybe you could help me shave,” I demanded, treating Garvey like a servant instead of the moderator he was meant to be. His suggestion was how I got in this mess. His great-grandfather and mine have some long-standing agreement. If either family ever got in trouble, the other was to help or something like that. Some first settlers bullshit. Instead of jail, I’d been offered restorative justice. Without enough research, I took the offering. My father had assured me it was better this way.

  “Shave yourself,” Colton offered. The younger image of Garvey, slim and trim in his cappuccino skin, stared back at me with mischief in his dark eyes. We were practically the same age, but his eyes spoke of wisdom older than me. He followed his elder to my tent, carrying another box of supplies.

  “Are you journaling?” Garvey asked in his steady monotone. “It will help with the illusions.”

  “I’m not seeing things,” I snapped.

  “Ganja will help with that as well,” Colton chuckled as he passed me.

  “Colton,” Garvey warned.

  “Kidding,” said the younger native, but the thought piqued my interest.

  “There’s marijuana on this island?” I asked, looking off at the distant greenery that dressed nearly ninety-nine percent of the island.

  “You tell me. You’re the one who saw Mary Jane,” Colton teased, raising his forefinger and thumb to his lips, signifying smoking.

  “Fuck off,” I barked, feeling surlier than normal this morning. Maybe it was the near-death experience that only caught up with me once she ran off. She’d fully intended to kill me last night. “I can’t stay here.” The words sounded weak. Can’t implied incompetence. I wasn’t a wimp, but I didn’t wish to die either.

  “Why not?” Garvey asked, peering up at me from the seat he’d given himself on the stump of a tree.

  “She’s here,” I hissed again, sounding like a madman as the words escaped.

  “Tell me about her,” Garvey asked as he picked up a stick, took out a knife and began to scrape at the tender outer covering.

  “She tried to kill me,” I sighed. Colton’s head shot up and he twisted to face his father.

  “Why would she do that?” Garvey questioned, continuing to whittle, and I wanted to shove that stick up his ass.

  “Because she’s crazy.” She’d already killed Rick. She wished death for me next.

  “Is she?” Garvey muttered, and my anger grew.

  “Fuck, yes. She came at me with a knife last night.”

  Garvey fumbled for a moment, and the stick snapped in half. A jagged edge pointed toward me.

  “Would she have reason to kill you, if that were a solution?”

  I pondered the question. Unequivocally, my first thought was no, but then the words haunting me since last night returned to me.

  I didn’t do anything.

  I hadn’t prevented anything from happening to her. I watched as Rick took his turn—sickened and anxious, awaiting my chance. Then I faltered as I pressed over her. Her eyes caught me so off guard. I played along, as I often did when Rick led. I followed his lead, forging my own rules behind him.

  We’re going to play this my way. I’d said the words to her, but I don’t think she heard me. Her eyes glassed over after that. It was as if I watched her shut down under me. What would be the point of taking her, if she didn’t remember me? Forcing myself into her pliable body wasn’t going to etch me in her memory. This wasn’t how I expected the club to be. I knew it was only Rick’s initiation or some kind of sick game. And once again, I’d given in. I don’t know why I found a conscience in those few minutes.

  “I don’t think so,” I lied, feeling the weakness of my words on my lips. I spit in reaction as if I could remove the disgusting taste from my mouth.

  “Huh,” Colton said, and I looked up to find his taunting eyes sparkling. He was about my size, and I wondered if he’d consider a tussle. I could use the beating, or better yet, to beat on something.

  “Don’t huh me,” I barked again, fists forming at my sides. Colton’s smile only grew, curling larger, brightening his clean-shaven face. I hated how put-together he looked. I stepped forward, and Colton unfolded from the sand where he had sat down next to his father.

  “Stop it,” Garvey snapped, pointing his mini-jackknife in my direction. “This isn’t helping you. You need to get over your anger. Learn to control it, not invite it in. That’s how you got into this mess in the first place.”

  “It wasn’t anger that got me here,” I retorted. Sex was the reason, but I didn’t offer that explanation. As if reading my thoughts, Garvey responded.

  “Anger was the very thing and nothing else. Taking a woman against her will is about control. Angry control. Anger repressed and out of control. Possibly anger toward someone who controlled you.” Each statement ticked down a figurative list, and my body tensed with each comment.

  “I’m not angry,” I growled, giving proof that I was. I swiped a hand through my unruly hair once again. “Just get me off this island. Get me into anger management counseling or something.�
�� I tried to smile, willing the muscles to raise my lips in my false plea. I wasn’t going to any damn shrink. My mother had been in and out of therapy for years and it had done nothing for her, but aide her addiction to pretty-colored pills.

  “That wasn’t an option. Jail or the island. You picked here.”

  I didn’t choose. I wasn’t given a choice. My father thought it best for the company if I came here, like a vacation or a sabbatical, not a punishment. I was promised I couldn’t be traced. No one would know other than Garvey, Colton and the restorative justice team. But she knew I was here, and this brought me full circle.

  “I can’t stay here with her.”

  “Then get her out of your head. Start journaling.” With that Garvey rose, and Colton followed. They didn’t believe me. She wasn’t a hallucination; she was an in-the-flesh human being. The thought struck me as sharp as the wood Garvey whittled and stuck in the sand—she was an innocent person, and I’d tried to take from her as I always had.

  + +

  I hate you, I wrote in the journal. That was the most I had to say on paper in the three days after Garvey’s visit. I blamed her for my being on this island. I cursed her for disappearing again. I’d searched for her, wandering the trails I’d formed from my tent oasis to the pond and around it. There was no sign of her existence, and I questioned my own sanity. Had I imagined her after all, as Garvey suggested? Was I hallucinating without any substances?

  I lay in my tent for the third stifling night, wanting to keep the tent flap open for air and knowing I couldn’t because of things that go bump in the night. I hadn’t been frightened of the island once, until the reality of her standing there, knife raised, brought into perspective that she wanted me dead. There were moments in my life I’d wished the same thing. The time my father raised his hand to me. The time I found my mother on the bathroom floor with pills beside her. The time I sat handcuffed in a holding cell.