CHAPTER FIVEMary Jo
Mary Jo
I jerk awake. The morning light seeps in through the window. Shit, I must have fallen asleep. My neck is stiff from letting it hang.
I hear a sound by the door. I stiffen and sit up.
The door opens and he comes in, looking at the bucket, one bottle of water, and then me. We are both silent for a minute, each measuring the other up. He’s in blue jeans today and a black T. It stretches across his chest. Tattoos crawl over both arms.
He walks over to me and goes for my right hand. I back up.
“Give me your hand.” He holds out his impatiently.
I look at the ink that swirls around his wrist.
Every atom wants me to tell him to go fuck himself. But I don’t. I give my hand over like an obedient puppy.
He fishes a key out of his pocket and unlocks my wrist cuff. I rub the sore skin and flex in freedom.
“Come.”
He turns and walks out of the room.
I jump off the bed and follow. My joints ache in protest and my bladder twinges against the movement.
The man waits in the hallway. Behind him, the space opens into what appears to be a dining room on the right and a kitchen further on. The wood paneling continues. Almost like we’re in a cabin.
He jerks his head towards a door on my right.
“Bathroom.”
Hope sparks in me, and I go into the small bathroom with another small window. There is just a toilet and a sink with a mirror above it. I move to shut the door, and he jams his foot in.
“Are you kidding?” I can’t help the anger that laces my tone.
He just cocks an eyebrow.
I cross my arms. “I need to pee. Get out of the way.”
“No.”
I growl, “Yes. I won’t try to escape, I just need to pee. I can’t pee if someone is watching.”
He crosses his arms and stands there.
Fuck. I’m trying to be meek, but my bladder painfully locks up at the thought of him watching.
I cross my legs and jiggle a little. I go back and forth with myself briefly.
My cheeks burn as I consider peeing in front of this dangerous man who is staring at me intently.
My bladder hurts. Finally, I pull my pants down as little as possible and try to angle my body away from him.
I glare at where the floor meets the wall.
I wait.
After what feels like an eternity, he shifts. “What are you doing?”
Not peeing. I internally roll my eyes but keep my voice low. “I told you I can’t pee if someone is watching.”
“There’s always the bucket.”
“No. Let me just...” I reach over to the sink and turn the water on. I glance at him, and he’s staring at me. I try again. Finally, the pain in my bladder wins out, and I pee. My face flames.
I wash my hands and splash a little in my mouth. My breath is horrible, and I stink.
He steps out of the doorway and walks towards the kitchen.
“Come.”
I glare at his back. I’m not his damn dog. But I follow.
A dining room is on my right, along with what appears to be the front door.
On my immediate left is a spiral staircase.
The living room has high ceilings. Big windows open up to the wintery yard with trees beyond.
There is comfortable furniture and a fireplace.
The place is covered with red and black moose and bear decor.
The man is in the kitchen, pulling out bread and peanut butter.
“Windows and doors are secured so don’t try.”
I stand at the kitchen island. There is virtually nothing on the counters. The knife he’s using to spread the peanut butter is plastic.
“Do you want money?”
He remains quiet.
“Did you find me online?” Stalk me? Beat his meat to me thinking he could have me? My stomach sinks.
“Eat.” He hands me a sandwich and sucks some peanut butter off his finger. I watch his mouth close around the finger, lips pulling on it. I shake my head in anger. He’s pretty but so cold. Evil.
He smirks.
I devour the sandwich as he makes another. I eat that one as well.
A jarring ringing fills the silence and I jump. He pulls a blocky-looking phone out of his pocket. He glares at it, then at me.
“Remember the rules.” He steps to the front door and answers it just before stepping outside and slamming the door. A small chime of an alarm goes off when the door is opened.
I stand, dumbfounded. I look around the cabin. I hear his low voice just outside the door. My first instinct is to run. I want to break out the back windows and go. I start that way, then pause.
This is a test, I know it is. He could have chained me back up and then taken the call. He’s trying to see if I’ll obey.
I don’t want to. I want to scream and punch and run. I clench my fists, my body shaking with the fight to redirect my adrenaline. It pisses me off, but he has the upper hand right now. It won’t do me any good to show my cards when he’s expecting me to.
I bite my tongue and look around the living room for anything that could help me. I look up. There’s an open loft with a wooden railing. I check the windows in the living room. They’re also nailed closed.
I move back to the kitchen and slowly open a cabinet.
It doesn’t squeak. Inside, I find paper plates and bowls.
I open cabinet after cabinet and drawer after drawer.
Trying to get anything - a toothpick, a fork, a bill with his name on it.
They’re virtually empty. Like he removed everything knowing I’d go through them.
His deep voice continues outside. It sounds like he’s arguing with someone.
I open the fridge. There are three cartons of eggs, milk, cheese, a bunch of chicken thighs, and barbecue sauce…
enough to feed a few people for at least a week.
In the freezer are a bunch of frozen meals, neatly arranged.
Dread sinks in my stomach when I see a familiar stack of my sage chicken meals.
How does he know? He has been stalking me.
Fear runs currents around my bones. But don’t I have to have some sign that he’s been stalking me for that to apply?
Some declaration of love? He seems repulsed by me.
Confusion fills me. But I guess the meals mean he probably plans on keeping me alive for at least a little. I counted seven of them.
My stomach hurts.
I move to the bathroom. I could break the mirror if I needed to. That’s the only useful thing in there. There’s a door across from the bathroom, and I open it. From what I can see wooden steps go down in a half staircase into what must be a basement.
A hard hand grabs where my shoulder meets my neck. I squeak.
“Trying to run little kitten?”
“No.” I hate myself for showing him a little fear. How in the world was he so damn quiet? I turn around to face him. He waits, maybe expecting me to give a smart-ass response. But I bite my tongue and picture punching him right in his pretty face.
It makes me smile.
He seems disappointed and shoves me back to my room with a bored look. He locks me up again and leaves me once more.
***
For the next few hours, I try to formulate a plan.
The man doesn’t ask me for anything so maybe he’s been paid to give me to someone else.
I won’t give him that opportunity. I drink as much water as I can, use the restroom when he lets me, and eat the sandwich dinner he provides.
I ask for another, and he gives it to me.
I try and sedate him into complacency. Which is pretty fucking hard to do when he doesn’t ask for anything. It’s like we’re stuck in a stalemate. The tension is thick in the air. Once he caught me rolling my eyes at him, his smirk was deadly.
I’m not sure what rules he isn’t telling me, but I know they’re there and it feels inevitable I’ll break one. Well, I know I’ll break one when I kill him. And it’ll feel fucking amazing. I’ve stayed angry. I don’t let myself feel anything else.
Slowly, he gives me more freedom. After the first day, he lets me use the bathroom alone and gives me a stick of deodorant and a stack of my clothes, which I presume he got from my room. Which is awfully invasive of him.
The next day he lets me fix my own sandwiches while he makes eggs.
I spend most of my time trying to get the wire out of my bra to pick the lock with.
It’s sewn in so tight. I steal a plastic knife and saw at the material.
It takes awhile but the wire pops out. Only it’s too thick to pick the handcuffs with, which leaves me with a ruined bra and no alternatives.
I try not to think about Kyle and Carissa. They’ll know I’m gone. What are they thinking happened to me? How long until they go through my social media and find him? How long until they find me? The thought makes me sad.
On the third day, he doesn’t chain me to my bed.
In the afternoon, we both sit in the living room. I hit him with my usual barrage of questions in the morning, going from angry to frantic, back to angry. We’ve been silent for hours. Finally, I break my silence, “Who were you talking to outside the other day? On the phone?”
He’s working on some small engine that he brought in from outside. He looks up at me, like he forgot I was there.
“A friend.”
Real descriptive, this fucker. I scratch my scalp under my greasy hair. I’ve tried to wash it in the sink, but one can only get so far.
“What is that for?” I stand behind him.
He grunts, “ATV.” He works for a few more minutes in silence. Then something clings so loud it makes me jump.
“Fuck.” He drops the wrench he was using and brings his left hand to his mouth.
I look from him to the wrench. Adrenaline fills my body, and I don’t think, just act. I rush to grab it. He moves to stop me, but he’s not fast enough. I swing it around, aiming for his head. I make contact, slamming into his skull.