by Didi Oviatt
Mac turns from the window and storms to my side. He’s every bit as intense as before. I’m so afraid to look away from his eyes, that I refuse to do so much as blink. I hold my breath. He grabs my hand and squeezes it, tight enough that I know he’s serious, but not so tight that it hurts.
“Ahnia, listen to me, and listen carefully.”
I nod.
“I told you that I’ve been your fan since we were teens. I told you that I started seeing Lorraine because she looks just like you. I even told you that I moved here for you. Because you are the one I want to work with, remember?”
Again, I nod. This time a little slower, more reserved. A tear pricks at the corner of my eye, but it isn’t quite big enough to spill over. I can’t tell if I’m frightened or if I’m feeding off of him. I want more.
“You can’t back out,” he continues. “I’ve been watching you. I know you’re having second thoughts.”
“I’m not!” I try to jump in, but he cuts me off.
“You are!” he yells. Then he closes his eyes and purposefully lowers his voice back to its regular tone. “I think we should do this tomorrow.”
“What?” I demand as I shake my hand from his. “We’re not ready, Mac. You know we’re not!”
He meets my eyes again, with the same wildfire burning between us.
“Things have changed,” he confesses. “I was able to break the security wall, so we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. And . . .” he trails off.
“And, what?”
“Lorraine will be home early. She bombed on our deal, didn’t get us the partnership she went for. This could be our only time frame, Ahnia. It’s now or never.”
“Bitch,” I mumble.
I expect a little backlash from my comment, but to my surprise, he isn’t fazed by it at all. Not even a wince or sigh. Nothing.
“Besides that, if we wait, you’ll back out. I know you will.”
The sudden energy in my legs won’t allow me to sit any longer. I stand and return to my involuntary back and forth stomping. If what he says is true, then he’s right, this could be it. I thought I’d be ready, but I’m not. What if we get caught? What if little Miss Mac-to-be gets home tonight or in the morning, and busts us in the act? Rob a jewelry store, really? What the hell was I thinking agreeing to this? Am I willing to risk my freedom for this? For him?
Mac sits back and watches me. He doesn’t fight or try to convince me any further. He merely waits, while I stress and stew. I feel like I’m going to throw up. Then I think of Dad, Douglas, and even Tim, too. I can’t disappoint them now that I’ve told them I have a project. My new memory of Belle and the way I lowered the pipe to her skull gives me a chill. I never would have written my first book had it not been for her. Will I never write a second if I don’t commit a new crime?
Mac stands and places his hands on my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. They’re hot and heavy, weighing me down. He’s at least a foot taller than me, with an iron board front. I watch his chest as it rises and falls, and will myself not to press my own against his.
“I need to know, Ahnia. I’m not leaving here until you tell me that you’re in.”
I suck in a breath and whisper, “Okay.”
“Meet me at the house at 9.”
It isn’t a question; it’s a command. One that I’ll surely oblige. Mac breaks way for the door, leaving the weight of his hands to linger behind on my flesh. He turns back as he grabs the handle.
“Ahnia,” I look up, locking eyes. “Take a shower and get some rest. It’ll help.”
The air catches in my throat. I don’t say a word; I just stand there and watch him leave. It feels like the entire world is a tornado and I’m caught right in the middle. That lonesome place in the eye of the storm where it’s eerily calm and so loud that it’s rendered silent. I’m safe and watching the destruction of my wake take out everything and everyone in my path.
Chapter Nine
Mac was right. I did need to shower, and sliding into my clean sheets afterward felt even better. So much so, that I slept like a rock. No tossing and turning. No dreams. No waking in the middle of the night, restless. I must have done enough stressing in the forty minutes Mac was in my apartment that it wore me clean out. The very second my head hit the pillow I was catching every single ‘Z’ that I so desperately needed.
Right now though, in this very moment, it’s a whole different story. The stress is back full force, even stronger. So much for the calm in the eye of the storm. I’m parked a few blocks away from the house, practically hyperventilating. I’m late, which I’m sure will set him off, but I can’t bring myself to drive these last couple of blocks. My foot is stuck on the floorboard, right in front of the gas pedal.
I don’t understand why I’m so nervous. I’ve been trying to convince myself that it is only a robbery after all. Not life and death. Not like Belle. I was so confident a few days ago, but not anymore. I wonder if it’s Mac that’s making me so anxious and not the heist at all.
He’s so intense, and the tension between us is overwhelming, suffocating even. I keep thinking of the fire behind his eyes. He has a very dark side, I can feel it. He just keeps it hidden, locked away in some closet somewhere, that no one else has access to.
I imagine what kind of killers people would be all the time, but with him it’s different. When I think of Mac as a murderer, it doesn’t feel like my imagination at all. It feels more like a hidden memory of sorts or an intuition. There’s more to Mac than Mac . . . as if that's possible. More sides of him are unraveling every time I allow myself to be around him, yet I’m hooked. I can’t pull away, and I can’t seem to run from it. The two of us are a bad mixture. I know that with everything that I am. I know it in my heart and in my head. I can even feel it in my bones.
Suddenly, I realize that this very fear IS the reason I’m here. It’s the reason I keep coming back. I do, in fact, need the intensity of Mac, and the desire that I have so deeply for him in order to make this book work. He talked about me needing the inspiration of an act in particular, but he was wrong. I need him. I need to feel every part of him before I can put into words the emotion needed to pull off a great novel. A better one than my first.
A grin forms on my face and, for the first time, I’m actually excited about this whole thing. All speculation flies out my window, and I slide the gear stick back into drive. Finally, I’m ready. I’ll take whatever he can dish out. After years of watching people, and taking useless notes about my weird imaginings of them, I finally found what I’ve been looking for. Mac thinks he’s using me for a heist, but he couldn’t be more wrong. I’m going to use him. Whatever he has to offer today, and beyond, it’s exactly what I need. This book isn’t going to be about a heist at all; it’s going to be one hundred percent about Mac and his complexities.
I’ll follow through on whatever petty scheme he has in mind for this jewelry store. But, I’m only doing it for what comes after. Mac is in for a surprise because this book isn’t going to be at all what he thinks. I’ll write what I need to in order to make it work. To make it a hit, just as powerful as my first book. My agent can eat shit and so can Dorothy.
Mac is waiting on the porch when I pull in. He’s sitting with his elbows rested at his knees and his face is down with his hands in his hair. I squint to look closer. He’s rocking back and forth a little, hardly a motion at all, but it’s there. With the sound of my tires in the driveway, he bounces to his feet. My eyes are avoided completely by his. He only runs into the house, slamming the door behind him.
I wait, casually trying to convince myself that I have the upper hand in this whole situation. The garage door slowly lifts, allowing my access. Mac stops it from opening completely, only enough for my car to fit through the crack of it. My antenna nips the metal as I drive in and park. The door is shut behind me before I even have a chance to step out.
“Impatient much?” I ask, as I slam the door and take a step toward him.
I’m e
xpecting him to come back with some sort of snarky remark. I would have preferred that to what I get. He’s glaring at my face through angry, bloodshot eyes, but it doesn’t feel like he’s looking at me at all. It feels more like he’s staring past me, at something I can’t even see, but that he hates completely.
So much for a healthy dose of Airington sarcasm to start our stressful day. My steps falter, and I hesitate with my hand on the handle of the car door. Perhaps it’s intuition or the angry detachment that’s radiating off of his body like a force field; either way, I’m very seriously debating turning around to make a run for it. Had he left the garage door open, the odds of my leaving would be even greater.
I fiddle with my keys while I ask, “Um, Mac, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
With a closed mouth, he clears his throat.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
The pinch of his lips tells me otherwise. I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. You’ve got this, Ahnia; you’re here to use him, remember? I try as hard as I can to mentally coach myself and to will my feet to move toward the door, toward him. Finally, he looks up a fraction of a millimeter and lets his eyes meet mine. His shoulders visibly lower, relaxing just a tad, while his chest deflates.
After running a fist through his sexy hair, from his forehead to the crown, he says, “Sorry, I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Okkkkaaaay,” I hesitate some more.
“Come in, please.”
I do what he says and follow him inside. The clip of my shoes echoes in the silence between us as I take the three concrete steps up. Mac has disappeared inside, invisible from around the backside of the opened door. The sound of the generators down the steps into the basement seem much louder than the other day. There’s no mistaking that Mac is now pumping more power into the house than he was before. There’s also a scent. I can’t place it right off, but the familiarity and rusty underlining of it causes my stomach to flip.
Blood, the realization of the smell clicks into place in my head. It’s strong, permeating the air as if it’s been lingering for some time. It’s like raw meat, that’s been sitting on the counter for too long.
“Mac,” I whisper, too afraid to say much else.
The door slams shut behind me, and Mac twists the lock. His body is a barricade between me and the exit. Instinctively, I take a sprinting step toward the kitchen, as the basement steps are directly at the opposite side. Before my shoe can make contact with the floor, Mac grabs me up.
With his left arm, Mac has me secured with my back against his body. I kick my feet wildly, they’re unable to reach the floor, and the wall is at least a foot away. I can’t make contact with anything solid; it’s like I’m chasing my own shadow in the air.
Mac has my arms locked to my sides, squeezing me tightly so that I’m completely unable to thrash around. I scream at the top of my lungs, but it’s instantly muffled. A wet rag is shoved into my face with Mac’s free hand. It’s thick and gagging. With eyes wide, I frantically look around, searching for hope or help or really anything that can be useful.
The bottle of Chloroform that he had shown me less than a week ago sits on the counter. My legs slow in motion, becoming numb, one inch at a time. Despite my piqued adrenaline, I can feel the fight in my body losing its umph. I tremble as consciousness begins the escape me.
“Shhhh, my sweet Ahnia,” Mac whispers softly in my ear. “Rest now. We have much to talk about when you wake.”
Chapter Ten
The light is dim. My eyes slowly crack open, and the tingling sensation in my toes and fingers is unnerving. I gasp. It feels like I can’t get quite enough air to satisfy the craving of oxygen. It’s completely taken over my chest and belly. I’m stuck in a concrete room, and I search it anxiously with my eyeballs only.
My neck won’t turn from side to side, and the weight of my head pulls it backward in rest on the back of my chair. My arms and legs are stiff, and my mind is foggy. I’m not quite sure how I got here.
It feels like I’m caught in a dream, a nightmare or even a sleepwalk. My mental facilities are ticking, but I’m lost and detached somehow.
All I can see is the concrete wall in front of me, though I can hear a whimper off to my right side. I think it’s a human, but it could easily be an animal. Like a dog whining or even a baby cat. I take a big whiff of the damp air, hoping that a smell of sorts might help me pinpoint what could be making the noise. A rusty, metallic scent creeps its way through my nostrils, sparking the memory of my arrival to Mac’s run-down investment house.
My heart stops, and after skipping a beat, it pounds hard enough that I can hear it from the inside of my ears. Blood rushes through my body at an abnormal pace, and I grow light headed. I think about Mac grabbing me up and shoving that damp cloth against my nose and mouth. I recall the bottle of Chloroform he’d left sitting on the counter. Bile rises in my throat.
Why did he do that? And worse, where am I now?
I close my eyes tightly and focus on drawing slow and conscious breaths. With one lungful of air after another, I tell my nerves to calm and focus on the movement of my body. Whatever this crazy-as-hell man is doing with me, it isn’t good. I was right to be afraid of him, and leery of meeting up today. I should have told Lucy or Tim about our meeting in the first place. I could really use Tim’s logic and level head right now.
Ting . . . Ting . . . Ting . . .
A slow tapping noise sounds from behind me. I try to shout, but nothing comes from my mouth except for raspy air. I wiggle a couple of the fingers on my left hand. I try my best to lift it to my face, but all that happens is a twitch of my wrist.
“Well, well, well,” Mac’s voice is low and ominous. “Look who finally decided to join us.”
Us?
I strain my eyes to make clear the image of Mac, as he comes into my line of vision from behind me. Chasshhhhh, the sound of metal dragging across the concrete floor, follows alongside him. Again, I try to lift my head so that I can find the culprit of the noise. I focus on my neck, and with all my might I lift. Rather than the paralleled posture I was aiming for, my head lolls forward chin to chest. Though I can’t lift my head back up, I can look up from beneath my forehead.
A bat. Mac is dragging a metal baseball bat. I’m also able to see from one side to the other a bit further than before. Barely in my peripheral, I can see the bottom portion of a woman’s legs. They’re shackled at the ankles to a metal hoop that’s bolted to the floor. I try to check my own feet, but am unable to see past my thighs.
She’s wearing a black pencil skirt and stilettos. Knees are shaking, and there is a small pool of blood by her feet. I can’t turn my head enough to make out the rest of her or to get a look at her face, but there’s no doubt that the whimpering was coming from this very woman.
Mac crouches at the knees before me, lowering his face a mere few inches from mine. His breath is hot, and his eyes are filled with spidery crimson blood veins. They’re wide, unblinking, and the pupils are gigantic. He’s gripping the bat with both hands at the small end, and the larger side is pressed against the floor with his weight.
“Ahnia,” he says, “you’ll be getting your motor functions back slowly. I’d suggest you pace yourself. You’ll need your strength.”
I try to speak, to beg, anything. “Wha . . . wha..” I can’t get anything out, my voice only cracks and catches in the base of my throat.
“Oh, this?” He asks and rounds the bat in front of his face until it rests on his shoulder. “It isn’t exactly a broken pipe. But it’ll do.”
My stomach lurches and nausea works its way through my body like a title wave. Belle. Mac chuckles, before shoving the tips of his fingers against my forehead until it falls back against the back of the chair. I push against his fingers trying to give him some resistance, any resistance, even if it is only a little pressure with my forehead. I’ll fight any way I can.
The woman to my side moans a little loude
r than her previous whimpers. With a little more success than before, I try my damnedest to look over at her. My neck moves an inch at most, but it’s enough. I gasp and blink through the distorted fuzz.
It’s Lorraine. She’s bound with her arms around her waist, tape over her mouth, and soaked in drying blood from the nose down.
“What,” Mac says, “you’re surprised?”
I wiggle my toes and move my ankles in tiny circles, followed by a twitch at the knee. The movement confirms my earlier question. I’m most certainly shackled to the floor. Just like Lorraine. Mac loops the bat in circles through the air before pointing it at each of us as he talks.
“Lorraine, meet Ahnia. Ahnia, meet Lorraine.”
The nerves in my face must be working in full swing because I can feel the dampness of my tears.
“No!” he yells.
Mac storms toward me like an angry bear and points the bat an inch from my face.
“You’re not allowed to do that! You can’t cry!”
Mac stares at the concrete floor for a moment, his chest rising and falling with angry breaths. Then he begins walking back and forth from one wall to the next, muttering and mumbling something that I can’t quite make out. I look back at Lorraine, this time turning my head completely. The blurriness of my vision is clearing, and I’m able to get a better look at her.
She’s staring back at me. The fresh tears are washing clear lines through the dried blood on her face. There are black circles around her eyes from the makeup that’s been rubbed and cried away. Her body is shaking, and she tries to make words from beneath the tape over her mouth. Mac storms to her. With one swift rip, he frees her lips from their bondage.
After gasping for a full breath, she sobs, “why?”
“Why?” Mac shouts and again points his weapon in my direction. “Why don’t you ask her!? Or better yet, let’s call my therapist shall we?”
I wiggle at the core and slowly lift my head completely on my own. Finally, I’m able to see all the way around me. There’s a tiny video camera sitting on a tripod to my left. Mac continues to shout at his fiancé.
