Be Mine

Chapter Thirteen

Frankie

I’m sinking into the most wonderful dream imaginable. The scent of clean linen surrounds me as I burrow myself deeper into what feels like a mountain of fluffy pillows and blankets. This is paradise. I’ve died and gone to heaven. I moan appreciatively and stretch my limbs like a cat, nuzzling my face into the softness of the sheets.

The morning sun peaks through my lids, the haze of my deep slumber slowly lifting. And as it does, an onslaught of last night’s events begins to unfold.

The bar.

The bands.

The Viking looking guy.

Noah.

Noah? Fuck.

My eyes crack open, and I shoot up in my bed. No, not my bed. Not my room. I was drugged and kidnapped and oh my God I think he killed that guy.

Looking down at myself, I am no longer wearing the outfit from last night. In its place is a crisp, white t-shirt that smells incredibly masculine. Running my hands over my body, between my legs, I don’t feel violated. Blowing out a shaky breath, I will myself not to cry. You can cry later. Now you have to figure out how to get out of this precarious situation. Alive .

This man, who I have worked with for years, stalked me. Sent horrifying gifts to me. Then fucking pumped me full of drugs, snatched me up, then did God only knows what to me.

Pulling the blankets back, I swing my legs over the bed, trying to stand, but they wobble when I try to straighten, weakened from whatever drugs he gave me. Bracing my hands against the wall to steady myself, I take a deep, albeit shuddering breath.

Glancing around the room, I assess my surroundings. The bedroom is cozy and clean—hardly a place you would expect a psycho to lay his head down, but I don’t have time to contemplate Noah’s decorative choices. There’s a window on this side of the bed, large enough for me to wiggle myself through, and from what I remember last night, it’s a bungalow, the fall would be minimal.

Using the wall to hold my body up, I shuffle towards it and give it a heave. It doesn’t budge. Shit . The lock. Flicking it upright, I give it another tug, and another, and another, but there’s no give. Not even a crack I can scream for help out of. Skirting my fingers along the edges, I try to find something else. A nail or screw or something that’s holding this seemingly ordinary, goddamned window in place, but there’s nothing.

Slumping against the wall, I press my forehead to the cool pane. I just need a moment to think.

Pushing off the wall, I begin to scour the room. If he left my purse in here, maybe my phone is there, too. Or his phone. Or a computer. Or fax machine. Or literally any other obsolete object that could help me.

I pull out all the drawers, look under the bed and in the closet, but besides meticulously folded clothing, there isn’t a single item in here. He has some form of OCD that is way out of hand. No person should be this orderly. He’s a special kind of psychopath, no doubt one that will be featured in a documentary in the near future.

Put Your Head on My Shoulders by Paul Anka is playing somewhere in the house, like some creepy soundtrack to my demise. Panic dances its way up my spine because my only options are out that door. Ok, you got this. He hasn’t harmed you…yet. Just play whatever this little game of his is until you find an opportune moment to get the hell out of here.

I follow the sound down the short hall into a small living room. It’s as immaculate as his bedroom, like cleaning and organizing is a favorite pasttime of his, but offers much more character with a touch of vintage-inspired décor.

The walls are a mustard yellow, the floors a polished wood. A velvet couch in cobalt faces the TV, and that’s when I notice the source of the music is a record player housed in a gorgeous oak stand. The wall adjacent is filled with what must be hundreds of vinyl, and as I near, I let my fingers dance along the edges. Some of them look so worn, they must be originals.

The needle dances smoothly as the record spins on the turntable, the malt shop tune having a dreamlike quality. The sickly-sweet lyrics about a man hoping an embrace, a tender kiss will bring him closer to the woman he loves.

Clanking dishes pull my feet forward before I can think better of it. Noah is shirtless. In his kitchen. Standing in front of the stove. I don’t miss the vast expanse of his back or the way his plaid pajama pants hang low on his hips, fitting snugly against the curvature of his ass.

His usually immaculate hair is mussed, and it makes him look even more divine. Why is this man so flawless?

“Sit,” he orders over his shoulder as he flips a pancake, a stack of at least a dozen more sitting on a warming plate next to him.

I turn towards the breakfast nook in the corner, taking tentative steps forward and lowering myself onto the bench. The kitchen matches the rest of his home, spotless, but classic decor. The table is set for two. A pot of coffee. Sugar and creamer. Maple syrup. Fresh fruit. And the long stem red roses he sent me yesterday in a vase are at the center of it all.

It all looks so normal. So domestic. I’m wondering when the other shoe is going to drop, when this false sense of security is ripped away from me, and he’s hauling me to a dark, dingy basement and chaining me to a wall.

He plates the last pancake, rinsing the pan and spatula before loading them in the dishwasher and carrying the large stack over to the table. I observe him warily as he sits opposite me, scooting in his chair. My hands shake uncontrollably at his proximity, so I lower them under the table discreetly, hiding my fear.

Loading his plate with a handful of fluffy, perfectly round pancakes, the smell is enough to make my mouth water, even if my stomach is still feeling the effects of last night. I wait for him to speak, but it’s radio silence on his end, so I break first.

“Did you…did we?” God, my voice sounds pathetic.

His eyes snap up to mine. “Did we what?”

“You know what.” I could wither under his stare, fold in on myself with every flash of frost that bites when he casts his eyes upon me, but I choose to hold onto my resolve.

“No, I don’t seem to. Why don’t you elaborate, Frankie?”

“Did we have sex?” The word rape is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it. I let the insinuation hang in the air between us.

He does the unexpected—he laughs. The deep octaves reverberate off the walls. His abs flex with the movement, and I narrow my eyes at him. How can someone so sinister be so damn hot?

He picks up his orange juice. “No. I want you sentient and lively when I take you.” His eyes are alight with amusement as he regards me over the glass. And I don’t miss the emphasis on when .

I watch him with rapt fascination as he takes a healthy swig of orange juice, with pulp , and that in itself tells me he’s a monster. Setting it down next to his plate, he digs into his pancakes, dousing them with warmed syrup and cutting the stack into bite sized pieces.

“You vomited all over yourself. I bathed you and put you to bed.”

I look down at the oversized t-shirt, the one that smells subtly like him. I touch the ends of my locks that are still slightly damp.

“Why drug me?” I whisper, looking up at him with unshed tears I refuse to set free.

He sets his fork down, leaning in and resting his elbows on the table. Those frosty blues that have been haunting me sweep over my face, taking me all in.

“Would you have come willingly?”

Would I? Would I have accompanied him if he asked? He watches me as I work it all over in my head, but he knows the answer, and so do I.

“Maybe. But you never gave me the chance to decide for myself.”

“Because I anticipated the outcome. I don’t leave anything to chance.”

“And what is all of this?”

“All of what? Breakfast?” His eyebrows raise, feigning ignorance. God, he can’t be this obtuse. No, he’s baiting me. He wants to hear the words from my mouth. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at him.

“Well as lovely as that is. No. I mean the gifts. The flowers. The heart—”

“Ah, yes speaking of, you must have accidentally misplaced this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the box that was delivered to the front desk of the motel, the one I chucked into the garbage can, and slides it across the table to me. Oh, he’s playing me alright.

I eye the object like it’s about to detonate. Who knows what this small package could contain.

Noah notices my apprehension. “I promise, you’ll like it.”

“Like the heart, Noah? Or drugging and kidnapping me? You couldn’t ask me out like a normal person?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but the frustration has erupted. And you know what? Fuck it. He’s probably going to torture me or kill me, anyway.

I expect him to lash out in retaliation. I even wince a bit when he readjusts in his chair, but it almost looks like I’ve wounded him. He recovers quickly, sliding his glasses back up his nose, but that micro-reaction makes a ball of guilt form in me, and I wish I could take back the words.

He clears his throat, focusing back on his plate. “Open the gift when you’re ready. But please, eat, you need your strength. It will help metabolize the drugs as well as the alcohol you consumed yesterday.”

I can’t eat. My mouth dries and my stomach protests at the thought, but I stab a pancake with my fork from the top of the stack in aggravation anyway. I slap it on my plate and douse it with syrup, if only to appease him.

A stretch of time passes between us where all that can be heard is the scraping of a fork across the plate and the hum of Lollipop by The Chordettes from the record player. I watch as Noah eats, slowly, exasperated by his indifference.

“What is your deal with retro music?” I can’t help but ask. Every time I encounter this man, he has the oldies playing.

“I like it.” He shrugs, rising from his chair to clean the table and load the dishes in the dishwasher. “You need to call the police officer back. He called your phone this morning.”

“And what shall I tell him?” He can’t be serious. If I call Officer Barde, I’m rolling on him..

“I’ve already spoken with him. He knows you left Threshold with me. He just needs confirmation that you’re ok. And to speak with you regarding yesterday.” The cops know I’m here. Noah is either incredibly stupid, or incredibly arrogant.

“About the heart you mean?”

“Yes.”

“He told me it’s a human heart. Is that true?” I look up at him through my lashes, hoping this impenetrable man will give me just a glimpse. A glimpse inside the clockwork that is his mind.

He leans against the counter, in all his glory. A physique carved from granite. Every dip and valley of muscles pronounced. His jaw works as he looks at me behind those black-rimmed glasses. The blues of his irises flare, defrosting a fraction of the icy barren that lies there. “You already know the answer to that,” he says as he shoves off the counter and strides towards the bedroom.

I’m left alone at the table with an uneaten pancake, a dozen roses staring me down, and a gift beside me that looks like a death threat. I’m caught between screaming bloody murder and laughing hysterically. Yesterday morning, I was in the comfort and safety of my own home, leading a menial existence. Now, I’m being held captive by the butcher from the grocery store.

I hear the opening and closing of drawers from down the hall. The rustling of clothing. Noah emerges dressed in a white tee, jeans, and a leather jacket. His hair back into its usual, perfected coif.

“I need to take care of something, but I'll be back shortly. I took the liberty of bringing some of your things over. Clothing. Toiletries. They’re all in the bedroom for you.” What kind of kidnapper is this guy? He clearly didn’t read the instruction manual before executing this.

He leans against the entryway to the kitchen, hovering there for a beat, like he wants to say more. The unspoken words hang between us like stagnant air before he turns and walks to the front door.

“Oh, and Frankie?” he calls out, and I’m still not quite used to hearing him speak. The deep timber carries through the house like a booming echo. “Don’t think about running. I’ll find you and drag you back.”

With that, I hear the click of the door and the slide of the lock.

I sit, waiting to hear the rumble of his truck engine. Then I wait two minutes more, until I’m sure he’s pulled out of the driveway before I haul myself up, my legs reminding me that I’m not operating at one hundred percent, and walk to the front door. I turn the lock over and yank on the handle, but it doesn’t give. Running to the back, I do the same and get the same response. He’s locked me in.

I spin in circles, my hands threading through my hair, latching onto the roots and pulling frantically. There’s another way. There has to be another way. I try all the windows in the kitchen, the living room, and bathroom. Everything is sealed shut. I press my cheek to the glass, hoping to see someone outside. Maybe if I scream or bang, they’ll hear me. But the street is quiet. No residents outside. No cars on the road.

Slumping down the wall, I clutch my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. I just want to go home, and sleep, and wake up when this is all a distant memory. My eyes skim the living room once more, as if I can pull a lifeline out of thin air, when I notice something blinking above the TV. I narrow my eyes, realizing it’s a camera. The fucker is filming me. I flip him the bird and push myself up on weary legs. I’ll give you something to look at asshole . So, I start rummaging through his shit.

His music collection is to be expected. Nothing in there after the eighties and it’s all alphabetized. Not creepy at all. The walls are covered in framed, old posters, and there isn’t a speck of dust to be found in any nook or cranny. I skip his bedroom because I’ve been there already, and know it’s organized to the point where it looks like a room out of a show home rather than one someone actually lives in.

But what’s behind door number two? Torture room, perhaps? I turn the knob and am met with slight resistance, like it’s jammed or locked. So I shove my shoulder into it, budging it open. Hmm . This room looks a little more normal. It’s still cleaner than my house has ever been, but there’s some life to it. I walk in slowly, taking it all in.

A computer desk with a few monitors and an expensive looking gaming tower sits to the right of the room. Filing cabinets and bookshelves are on the opposite wall. There are framed pictures amongst the books, again organized alphabetically. I move in front of it to get a closer look. Most look to be old family photos. A picture of a young woman holding a baby. Another with the same woman, slightly older, helping a boy ride a bike. But then I find one to the top right that puzzles me. It’s my eighth grade graduation picture. My entire class is lined up outside, each of us in fancy dresses and suits.

I pull the frame down from the shelf, examining it closer, my finger sweeping over the photo. I’m in the middle row in a velvet, plum colored dress with a matching silk sash. My hair is up with tendrils falling around my face. I remember my friends and I went to get our hair and makeup done that day, and my dad bought me a corsage with lilac roses and sweet peas.

I was so young, and my parents still thought the world of me. That I was going to follow in their footsteps, make a difference. Be a doctor, or lawyer, or teacher. Not a cake decorator at a local grocery store who lives alone in a subpar apartment building with her cat. A tear slides down my cheek, splashing the photo. The pressure was too much. To live up to their expectations. My mother would berate me and belittle me for everything. I was never good enough. I was never smart enough or skinny enough. I just didn’t fit the bubble gum image they created, so I left that role for my brother, who was all too happy to oblige.

But why the hell does Noah have my graduation picture?