Chapter 15 – Keyshawn
Chapter Fifteen
Keyshawn
E ach night, I spend longer in Deacon’s bed. He waits for me to fall asleep before bringing me back downstairs, but each time I think he’s getting closer to having some type of sympathy for me or genuine emotion, he returns to a stiff, frigid man, completely unrecognizable from the firm, but gentle creature that I cuddle with at night.
Before I spend the night in his bed, Deacon subjects me to new versions of physical torture followed by sexual appeasement. He carefully avoids my deepest cuts and scratches, but he makes it a point to demonstrate his dominance otherwise.
When we don’t have sex and cuddle, I spend the day like a prisoner. I finished that book he left in a couple days. I didn’t care for it. When I ask for more books to read, he brings me Bleak House by Charles Dickens. This man is a biker and a businessman, so I don’t know where the hell he’s getting those books from because they’re all… literature.
By my last day of imprisonment — although I don’t know what awaits me — I feel like I have a new appreciation for literature, but I don’t see how that will help me when Deacon releases what I assume will be new horrors upon me. My deepest cuts are mostly healed by day number twelve. I don’t know how he’ll handle seeing my body without marks where he wants them.
I spend my entire twelfth day feeling like I’m on edge. I try to focus on the physical pain to distract myself. But there isn’t enough. The thought makes me think that Deacon has poisoned my mind. Not enough pain? Yeah. He finally got me to that point. I would rather have dark bruises or cuts to distract myself with.
I just feel antsy. I want to see him, but I don’t at the same time. It’s pure fucking adrenalin fueled anxiety. When Deacon gets home from wherever he goes all day, I can hear his footsteps overhead, and I get oddly comforted from hearing him move. He’s home, which means he’s close to coming down here and I’m close to freedom.
Either that or I’m close to facing an even worse punishment.
The door cracks open after about ninety minutes. I’m almost finished with the last book in my collection from Deacon — Sense & Sensibility. I shut the book when the door cracks open and sit up in bed, trying not to look too eager. My hair still smells like the bubble bath scent Deacon used last night.
He turns on the overhead light and walks up to my cell with his usual routine, except… he doesn’t look like he just got off his motorcycle, or work. He’s dressed up in a light tan suit. He smells good too. I can smell him from this distance and he smells like fresh, spicy cologne. He also smiles when he sees me, which Deacon never does.
“Happy release day,” he says. My heart pounds and even if he has that big grin on his face, I don’t dare to move. This could easily be a huge trap. I don’t want to provoke Deacon to lunge at me. But he unlocks the door and instead of walking inside, he holds the cell door open and stands back as if he expects me to walk out.
It’s a test!
My brain is going downright crazy, my fear response activating totally at the sight of Deacon. He doesn’t move and neither do I.
“Come,” he says. “It’s your release day and I planned a celebration for you.”
Our eyes meet. Deacon’s steel grey eyes send a chill straight through me. I don’t dare to move.
“Keyshawn. Come here.”
His use of my name makes me flinch. But I don’t dare give him an opportunity to get even more aggressive. I stand up and take a couple steps towards the cell entrance. The exit. My freedom. My fear response goes into overdrive, but this time I freeze completely. My gaze wanders back to Deacon, seeking permission again, or perhaps looking for some sign about what he really wants from me.
I hate that this time, his gaze reassures me.
“No punishment tonight,” he says. His eyes wander over me. I’m not even dressed in a sexy outfit but he looks at me with pure lust, like he wants to fuck me.
“Your punishment is… complete.”
I force my body to move, to obey his commands instead of my desire to remain still. His body visibly relaxes once I inch towards him, although all my muscles feel taut with tension. Once I’m close enough for Deacon to touch me, I prepare myself to feel another hard spanking. He doesn’t hit me. Deacon’s hand finds the smallest part of my lower back and he touches me gently as he guides me towards the stairs.
“I have something special planned,” he says in a voice that sounds menacing to me considering most of Deacon’s plans that I experienced in the past.
Given the choice between accepting Deacon’s possible cruelty and staying in the basement forever, I have to take the chance. I enter Deacon’s house from the basement and the air is significantly fresher up here. I breathe in deep and slow, appreciating the deep drawing of my breath without wanting to draw too much attention to it. Freedom excites me.
Also, it smells delicious up here. Like red wine and pasta sauce.
“I made you dinner,” Deacon says. His grasp on the small of my back tightens a little. But no hitting. No pain. He guides me towards his dining room. I’ve been through the house every night for the past twelve days, but each time I was focused on the pain in my body and following Deacon to the bedroom.
The dining room is simple, modern, but nothing short of gorgeous and clearly, Deacon put a lot of effort into putting this dinner together. Two glasses of wine sit on top of a red tablecloth. There are two covered plates, which must contain some type of pasta dish. Deacon uses his hand on my back to guide me to the table and then he pulls the chair away from the table for me.
I look up at Deacon before I dare to sit. He nods.
“Sit, Keyshawn. If you can.”
He smirks at me with far too much self-satisfaction. I bury any emotional response and sit, careful not to show Deacon any signs that I’m experiencing too much pain. Once I sit, Deacon takes the seat across from me and immediately empties the contents of his wine glass down his throat. I don’t touch mine. I don’t touch anything. Deacon sets his glass down and fills it up again.
“Toast,” Deacon says, raising the wine glass. “To your freedom.”
I don’t know what I’m really toasting to, but I know that my best option here is most likely to just go along with it. We clink glasses.
“To my freedom.”
“From now on, you can have every inch of the house. I’ll give you whatever you need for entertainment. My requests are simple. Cleanliness. Dinner. You exercise at least an hour a day, five days a week.”
I glance up at Deacon, who empties that second wine glass and then leans over to remove the fancy cover over my food. This pasta dish smells incredible. It looks like spaghetti bolognaise. The basil sprinkled on top is fresh.
“You made this?” I ask Deacon, speaking out of turn out of genuine surprise. This man doesn’t look like a chef. He isn’t dressed like one either. He’s dressed like he’s on a first date, which doesn’t make me feel incredible about my “basement cell chic” pajamas.
“Yes,” he says. “You can take three days off cooking to adjust to your new environment.”
I give him a confused look.
“You’re staying here now, Keyshawn. I quit your job for you, had your things moved from Chicago, and sent a lovely letter to your cousin.”
He isn’t joking. I can see from the flat expression on his face, even if I can barely believe that he did all that. Is that where he’s been every day? Unraveling my life? I put some pasta in my mouth to stop myself from causing problems with this insane man. I can feel his gaze boring into me as I chew. I absolutely hate how fucking good the first bite of pasta is.
It’s like I’m tasting real food for the first time in ages. I want to moan out loud because dinner tastes so good, but I don’t want to give Deacon the satisfaction of experiencing my pleasure. I don’t want to give him any satisfaction at all. It would be so much better to punish him for daring to awaken the fucked up desires I experience whenever he gets near me.
“I’m a good cook,” he says confidently as I chase my first bite with a second one. I look up at Deacon, but I don’t nod. This is the only power that I have right now. Withholding. Deacon can’t hide the redness flushing across his face. His inability to get a reaction out of me truly bothers this man.
“I won’t beg you for a compliment,” he grunts. “For the next few days, enjoy the house. I’ll give you an iPad with a credit card. That normally keeps the women in my family happy.”
Deacon takes his first bite of pasta, eating like a literal animal. He must be hungry. His ferocious eating at least takes his attention (temporarily) off of me and I can take in more of my surroundings. My desires confuse me. I keep putting bites of food into my mouth, savoring the mixture of flavors and fighting back the panic that follows every minute of pleasure I experience with Deacon.
Logic won’t work on me. My feelings are a mess. I just have to keep eating and hope that a full stomach gives me more clarity. He doesn’t make much conversation with me until I’m almost done eating. Deacon finishes his second plate a few minutes before I finish the first and he just… watches.
I don’t know what he’s looking for or what exactly he saw in me in the first place that made him go buckwild the way that he did. It just doesn’t make sense – and in the past twelve days, my understanding of Deacon’s emotional state hasn’t become more clear.
“I had my staff at the casino make you a special dessert,” he says. I’m nearly full, but after twelve days in prison and considering my current situation, I’m not in a position to deny myself dessert. This could be my last meal.
“Is it poisoned?”
Deacon laughs. I don’t find anything about him kidnapping me funny, so I don’t, which doesn’t appear to bother him. He happily tilts more wine down his throat, still grinning.
“No,” he says after drinking more. “Not poisoned. I’ll go get it.”
He gets up with the excitement a man might have if he was cooking for a date. I know I’m not a date to Deacon. I mean… the arrangement Oske made originally was extremely clear that this man doesn’t date. He’s not capable of dating, emotions, or having a woman around him for longer than one night.
Except… I’ve been here for twelve nights.
Thirteen nights if you count the night we met that apparently instigated this man to travel across the country and kidnap me. Deacon returns with a very dark, rich chocolate cake on a gold, round platter. The cake looks thick, decadent and rich before he even cuts it. He sets it on the table between us and returns to his seat, continuing to look very pleased with himself.
“It’s pure, solid chocolate all the way through,” he says, giving me a suggestive look. “Rich. Dark. Exactly how I like my desserts.”
He must have had the knife when he entered the room, but I didn’t notice the presence of the sharp blade until Deacon unwraps the blade from a black cloth napkin and slides it through the chocolate. My mouth waters. I try to hide my excitement, but it’s a rich, fancy ass chocolate cake, and I just spent twelve days underground.
Deacon serves me the first slice on a lightweight, light china plate. He clearly wants to watch me take my first bite and even if he doesn’t… I need this chocolate. When the first taste hits my mouth, the intense burst of chocolate causes me to suck my cheeks in with delight. The potent creamy chocolate flavor is so good that I almost want to cry. I don’t wait for permission or any reaction from Deacon before I go in for the second bite.
If I weren’t in a situation with a crazy biker, I would have to be held back from eating that entire cake like a loose pitbull puppy. It’s that good. Deacon serves up his own slice, not bothering to conceal a dramatic moan when he has the first taste.
A shiver travels slowly down my spine. Easy enough to suppress, but I possess internal recognition of my fear. The closer we get to ending this meal, the closer I get to learning what Deacon wants from me.
I can’t stop myself, though. I can’t have that last bite of cake without asking the truth.
“Are you going to kill me when I finish this?”
He smirks and then quickly buries it, returning to placid, incomprehensible neutrality. His eyes are steel, firm, and I can tell from one look that Deacon considers both his motives and desires to be private. Yeah, cute, but that’s not going to work for me. I won’t spend months here bent over various platforms in his playroom without any sense of what’s going to happen to me when this man gets done playing games and gets tired of feeding me and giving me books to read.
“Kill you? If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”
I don’t respond. He can’t seriously believe that I find that statement comforting. Nobody could be quite that delusional.
“Finish your cake. We’ll discuss your future after that. Live in the moment.”
Yes, Deacon is certifiably insane, but men always find a way to one up themselves. Asking a woman to “live in the moment” after you held her prisoner for twelve days has to be one of the craziest things this man has said out loud. I glare at my cake instead of Deacon.
Fine, I’ll live in the moment. The very frustrating moment that is making me pissed off. Deacon adds another slice of cake to his plate, clearly responding to my grouchiness by slowing down the process even further. Asshole…
It’s barely any comfort that he doesn’t want to kill me because if he wants me to stay here with him, I’ll have to put up with his douchey personality, his intense sexual desires… and who knows what else.
And no matter what he says now… there’s always going to be an after…