Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
break me! - Maggie Lindemann, Siiickbrain
I’m a walking dead man. A real-life zombie. I realize that I should be six feet under right now. Or maybe bubbling in my final bubble bath. I should be, but I’m not. How in the fuck am I not? I’m getting whiplash from going from dead to alive to…fucking horny?
That part makes me mad.
Why the fuck am I hard?
I dry off as best I can. I try to untie my legs, but the ropes have soaked up the water, making them swell up. They were tight before, but now they’re even worse. After bending and ripping my nails, trying to get at them, I straighten. I’m wasting time.
I search the bathroom, but there’s nothing in here that could give me an edge. My dick is aching, and I have no pants. I can’t even get Logan’s pants on because of the stupid ropes. I settle for a towel around my waist, my dick eagerly making a tent out of it, then check the window. It’s made of frosted glass, so I can’t see out of it. It’s also small. Like, really small. Fuck Logan for thinking I could fit through it.
I open it anyway, and fresh air rushes into the bathroom. It makes my skin pebble, and I look around. We’re in the middle of some kind of farm field. It’s been tilled, but I don’t see anything growing. In fact, I don’t see much of anything besides some trees in the distance. We’re out in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Because of course we are. It’s not enough that I’m a zombie in a towel, but I’m also trussed up like a pig and can’t run for help. Trussed up with a goddamn fucking boner.
Fuck me.
No , don’t fuck me! It was a figure of speech. Fuck off, Logan. No, don’t fuck off. Don’t fuck anything.
No .
Fucking .
Goddamn, I’m gonna stop now.
I can hobble, though. I’ll rip the walls apart to get out if I have to.
“If you’re thinking of running, keep in mind that I’m a pretty good shot up to 50 feet.”
I clench my jaw.
“How fast can you run 50 feet?”
I turn. Logan is leaning on the doorframe, acting like whatever the fuck just happened didn’t happen.
Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck him. But I’m done letting him know he gets to me. I shrug. “Take off the ropes, and we’ll find out.”
“So obsessed with the ropes. Not a fan of bondage?”
I smile. “Not with you.”
Logan watches me for a second, then smirks. “I think it’s funny. You’re a pig, and you’re hogtied. It’s fitting.”
“Hogtying connects the hands and feet. And I’m not a pig anymore.”
Logan raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. “You want me to hogtie you correctly?”
I narrow my eyes. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Logan steps out of the bathroom. “You smell better now.”
Why is he so obsessed with the way I smell?
“Living room, now. I want to keep an eye on you while I work.”
I debate fighting him, but in this moment, what will it get me? Probably fucked.
At that thought, my traitorous, motherfucking dick twitches. It actually twitches.
Fuck that. So I go.
My skin is chafed by the time I get there. I notice immediately that the knives are gone, and so is Buffalo. Panic runs through me before I spot him up on the cabinets. What the hell?
Logan looks up from the couch. “Ah, yes. Since you’re ‘so tall,’ I figured that wouldn't be an issue for you.”
There’s a silent moment between us, where both of us stare the other down. Like we’re both trying to decide how to act.
I put on a light tone and look around like I’m bored. “Shouldn’t be a problem. If you got him up there, I’ll be able to get him back down.”
Logan also acts bored. “Cool.” He goes back to writing on his tablet.
The energy is odd. It’s like we’re in some weird sort of standoff where both of us are pretending the other isn’t bothering us. Whoever breaks first loses.
I shuffle to the fridge and open it. Logan lets me without comment. I look through, shuffling things on purpose to see what happens.
“There’s meatloaf on the top shelf.”
Fucking ew. My mom used to make that for us, and she’d put oatmeal in it. The texture was always gag-worthy. I just cannot. Plus, if he’s offering it, I don’t want it.
I snatch up some lunch meat and cheese, then rifle through his cabinets. They’re all well-stocked and organized. Because of course they are. I find where he keeps his dry food. He has bread, and I take that. I see some veggie straws, and I take those too. They’ll add a nice crunch. An annoying crunch. I want Logan to have to listen to every damn bite like nails on a chalkboard.
It’s so weird to go through Logan’s cabinets and see his food. Like…he’s a real person outside of his kidnapping and murdering. A kidnapping murderer who likes veggie straws. What the fuck?
I catch Logan eyeing me, and I lean back against the counter and take a bite. There’s a satisfying crunching sound, and Logan’s eyes narrow.
“You like chips in your sandwich?”
I shrug.
He just stares at me. So I take another bite, being obnoxious about it. A little crumb falls, and I watch it drop to the clean floor. Then, I lift my gaze back to Logan.
There’s a flash of something odd in his blue eyes, but it switches off, and he’s back to looking bored. At first, I wonder if he’s mad about the crumbs. But he didn’t look mad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked sad.
Once I finish the sandwich, I mow down some more veggie straws. The crunching is the only sound in the quiet trailer, but he doesn’t tell me to stop. He just keeps…Well, now it looks like he’s drawing.
I’m curious but also don’t want to seem like it. So I clean up after myself, then find myself with nothing to do. Logan hasn’t said anything, and I’m just…standing with my feet tied in his kitchen. Sans boner now. Thank Satan.
At the reminder of the boner and what happened in the shower, I twitch.
No! Fuck me, I always make things worse for myself.
I glance at Buffalo again. He’s fucking high up. I’d have to plant my hand on the counter and jump to get to him.
‘Don’t you dare,’ Buffalo drones. ‘Logan has nice hands. I want them on me again.’
I narrow my eyes. If it wasn’t so damn quiet, I’d call him a slut.
Because he is a slut. A nasty, filthy slut.
Instead, I lean over the island, seeing a bowl full of rings. They’re mostly silver, but there are some gold ones too. All of them look different and are in slightly different sizes. I run my fingers through them, enjoying the tinkles and clinks. I’ve noticed Logan wears rings. I guess it’s…a gay thing?
Nah. It’s gotta be just a style thing. Not everything has to do with being gay. And liking dicks.
Suddenly, I’m thinking about Logan’s dick. Which…what the hell?
I make a huff, needing a distraction, turning my attention to my jailer. “Where’d the knives go?”
Logan doesn’t even look up. “They’re also on top of the cabinets.”
Oh, this fucker.
Logan peeks up at me and winks. He fucking winks.
I roll my eyes. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” I lock eyes on his tablet. “What are you doing?”
“Working.”
“Working on what ?” I spin a ring I found on the top of the counter. It’s a brass-colored one in the shape of a fish. The fish loops around the finger, just about touching its own tail.
Logan watches the movement. “I’m drawing.”
Well…okay.
“I’m a tattoo artist. People send me their ideas, and I draw up a tattoo.”
Oh. I look Logan over. That makes a lot of sense, given that he’s covered in tattoos. I don’t have any myself. Never could find something that I wanted on my body for forever. Thank Satan I didn’t get anything cop-themed back when I was young and dumb.
“Wanna see?”
I shrug as if I don’t care. I actually don’t care. But the silence is killing me.
Logan turns the tablet around, and there, looking back at me, is the most beautiful drawing of a cow. A highland cow. It looks real, and with the hair dropping over its eyes in such startling detail, it actually impresses me.
I don’t want him to know that, though. So I just spin the ring. “Highland cows must be popular right now.”
I watch the fish spin in circles. When it drops, I look back up at Logan. He gives me a long look, and for a reason I can’t understand, he looks angry. “Yeah.”
I spin the fish over and over until I drop it back into the bowl. Sighing, I glance down at the ropes. Maybe I can fray them with a fork?
“Your silence is loud.”
I jerk my head up. Logan motions at me. “I can feel you moping. Shut up.”
Buffalo laughs.
“ Moping ?” I sputter, and Buffalo laughs harder. “Sorry I’m not being a good enough captive for you. What would you like me to do? Clean the house? Worship at your feet?”
Logan’s gaze darkens. “You offering?”
“Fuck no.” I cross my arms at the same time Buffalo says, ‘Yes.’
Logan shrugs. “Then tell me what Buffalo says.”
“Fuck no,” I spit back immediately.
Logan gives a mean grin. “He likes me, doesn’t he?”
“Likes you?” I sputter, looking for the right words. “Sure, like a dog likes the person who hits it. He doesn’t know any better.”
That just makes Logan smile more. His smile is wide, and others would probably call it charming.
Fuck him for that.
He gets back to work, and I stew in silence. In what I hope is loud silence, cause you know. Fuck him. Without the fucking.
Finally, after the longest five minutes of my life, Logan sits up straighter. He frowns, looking at his tablet. “Oh fuck.”
I stiffen.
Logan looks up at me, then back down. He doesn’t say anything, which just pisses me off. “What?” I grind out.
“Uh…cops are at your place. Again.”
“What?” I hiss.
“Yeah.” He turns the tablet around so I can see. Only I can’t see from this far away. So I shuffle over in the most infuriatingly slow way. When I get there, I see a social media post. It has a picture. A picture of my apartment. With the SWAT team there.
“The fuck?” I snatch the tablet up.
Another shithead bites the dust . The post is in one of the gossip groups in my town. I’m used to scrolling it to read about other people. And now I’m on it?
I scan the comments. They’re all typical. No one knows what’s going on; they’re all making wild guesses.
I heard someone got arrested.
More than one someone, do you see the amount of cruisers?
Probably just weed. Great use of taxpayer’s dollars.
My mouth is dry. So fucking dry. They’re at my house. They’re at my fucking house.
I look at Logan. He doesn’t look smug. In fact, he almost looks…pitying.
I toss the tablet back at him.
Fuck that. I don’t need his pity! I don’t need his sad eyes as my world falls down around me and everything crashes and burns because, once again, I have no control when bad things happen.
I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.
I turn, shuffling away. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I can’t stand in front of him as I panic.
And then my foot catches on the edge of the carpet, and I go down. Hard. The floor slams into my palms with a smack of pain, and my towel falls off. For a horrifying second, I just want to cry. I suck in a breath, and suddenly, warm hands are in my armpits, lifting me up.
“Get off me,” I snarl, but it’s not as vicious as I want. It actually sounds horrifyingly close to crying.
“Make me,” is the soft reply. Then he pulls the towel back up and tucks it back in. And I squeeze my eyes shut. Because I can’t.
I can’t make him.
I can’t go to prison.
I can’t get away.