Chapter 7 – Amanda
Seven
Amanda
T he beast towering over me gives me a disapproving once over.
“You’re not leaving, so give it up. And whatever boyfriend might be waiting for your call… your life in Boston is over now, so he should just give up.”
“Is that how you think love works? A woman disappears and her boyfriend just gives up on her?”
“I don’t care how petty relationships work,” he sneers. “I care about keeping my ass out of prison and more importantly keeping you alive.”
More importantly? To him? I never thought this man had any intention of keeping me alive for much longer, and I don’t even know how to react to the information aside from leaning on my programming.
“Each person is responsible for their own survival, Ethan. I can take care of myself.”
He smirks. “So no boyfriend.”
“Why does that even matter to you?”
I’m so single that the cobwebs down there must have formed a wall by now.
“Only one bed. I don’t need more dickwads chasing after me.”
“So they were chasing after you?”
“It’s just an educated guess. I don’t know what they wanted.”
It doesn’t really matter what they wanted, does it? They’re dead and Ethan committed the man’s murder so effortlessly that I still don’t know if I trust his promise (or threat) to keep me alive.
“I don’t want your help either,” he snarls. “I’m taking a big enough risk dragging you across state lines.”
I give him a knowing look.
“I’m not leaving you behind to get beheaded and killed in some Cambridge alley way.”
Jesus. Did he have to be so descriptive?
“Don’t expect me to thank you.”
He grunts and then shrugs off his jacket. Then that leather cut. He rests both of them across the back of whatever passes for an office chair in this somewhat dingy room.
Ethan shedding layers puts me on high alert. His arms look like they're going to rip through that black t-shirt and the veins running up his forearms are pumped and alert. Once he rests, he'll think straight and I can convince him to let me go.
He doesn't say anything now that he decided my fate for the night. He's crazy if he thinks I won't try to escape.
"I have a big family," he says, almost like he's trying to transport us back to the therapist's office. I listen, of course, because I still need to get to this man's weaknesses if I have a chance at escape. Physical weaknesses are out of the question. Even his Achilles heel is probably forged in steel. I've never seen a man this buff outside of the movies.
I nod, hoping to egg him on -- not like he needs my permission for anything.
"I know that women like you are wily, sneaky, and constantly operate against your best interests. I fully expect you to make an effort at escaping me, but trust me, Dr. Yancey, that would be a mistake."
"You said you wanted to keep me alive." I can't tell if I'm talking to him as a therapist or as a victim pleading for herself in a hostage negotiation. The waters are beyond muddied.
And I'm starting to think that Ethan's problem isn't exactly gambling, unless those men were after him seeking payments for a debt.
He definitely has problems, though. That much I have evidence for.
"Yes," he says. "I do. I have enough experience in my family to know that women like you are born with a death wish."
"Women like me? What does that mean?"
I feel immediately defensive. I genuinely don't know what he means. Women with advanced degrees? Women with butts that are too big? (Mallory says it's not too big, but as a conventionally attractive white woman, she has no idea the trouble this ass has caused me.)
Ethan turns red. It's the one advantage I have over my primarily Caucasian client base -- the skin tone change when they experience some type of strong emotion. Sometimes it's blushing from embarrassment, love, or even shame. But it's a tell that they can't hide.
"Black women," he spits out. I just don't like the way he says black. Honestly, it's hard to really like the way white people say the word black. It feels like some other word is about to jump out from behind the corner and hit you over the head.
I grip the sides of the bed, trying to hide any response at all from Ethan. In my office, I would grip my clipboard, or maybe take private notes. I lack any of those advantages here.
"Black women?"
I parrot his words to him as my training freezes up. Will Amanda the therapist handle this, or Amanda, the woman ready to take her earrings out when she hears some inappropriate ass mess.
"Yes," he says. "My sisters-in-law are black women and they're nothing but trouble. It's not racial. It's simply the truth."
I am shocked beyond belief. I have never heard anyone in Massachusetts speak so openly about race -- especially not like that. Was this white man raised in a barn?
"I don't appreciate this employment of racial language."
He scoffs and casts a disapproving glance my way, as if I'm being the ridiculous one, when I communicated my emotions clearly to him in very empathetic language.
"I don't appreciate having even more problems than I had before," he says, clearly taking nothing from my statement. "I fully intend to ensure you don't become more of a problem. We're sharing a bed."
My arms cross across my body defensively and automatically. My body freezes, but my mind feels like it's racing along a track. I am not okay with this.
"I'll sleep on the floor."
"So you can pitter patter out of here undetected?"
White men are crazy. Because how can a man who looks like a bear use a phrase like "pitter patter" and expect me not to laugh? He detects my amusement and Ethan's face tightens with his usual grumpiness.
"No. I have purely logical reasons. It would be a breach of client ethics."
He scoffs. "Sorry, doc, I no longer need help for my gambling."
"Are you sure?"
"Get under the covers," he says. "I'll sleep on top."
"Or on the couch."
"Trust me," he grunts. "I have absolutely no interest in you. Dorky black women with big butts aren't exactly my type."
It's suspicious he said 'big butts', but I give Ethan one more definitive once over and... considering his racial comments, I assume he's telling the truth.
"Promise?"
"You couldn't get my dick hard if you tried."
"That's disgusting."
"Yup," he says. "You said it yourself. I guess I'm too racist to be attracted to you."
This is normally the point I would say "seek therapy" to someone, but that ship has sailed with Ethan and at this point, I doubt therapy could fix him. More of a personal opinion than a professional one, but he's at least right about the fact that this incident has completely compromised my neutrality towards him.
"Good," I respond instead, hoping my wicked stare conveys exactly what I think about this man and his racial comments, preferences and all the rest.
"We need sleep."
"For the cops tomorrow?"
"For New York City. You got family there?"
"No. My family's from Chicago."
"Hm," he says. "Interesting."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Sleep. Now."
It's very believable to me that this man is racist, but considering his big butt comment and the fact that we all look the same in the dark, I get under the covers. He agreed to sleep on top, so if he freezes to death, that's not my problem.
Ethan takes his jacket off the motel office chair once I'm under the covers and my head is resting against the pillow -- creating a hair care crisis for future me to worry about -- and I think he's going to cover himself with it, since he has nothing, but he throws it over me instead.
"It's cold," he says. "I don't want your ass shivering and keeping me up all night."
I don't respond to him because sharing a bed in a motel room like this feels risky enough without us arguing. Everybody knows how that typically ends…
The mattress almost touches the ground when Ethan climbs into bed with me. Either this place is cheap as hell or he really is the size of a horse. He props his head up with his hands as he spreads his arms and then he takes one arm out from this position and lays it on top of me.
I freeze. Fuck. Did I just get fooled by this white boy?
"It's so you don't run away," he grunts. "Don't worry, I won't feel your ass up."
"You better not..." I mutter quietly enough that there could be some plausible deniability if he heard me.
I try to push his arm away, just to feel how heavy it is, and I accidentally move the thick plank of muscle over my lungs. Sucking in air takes more effort now. I shift to move a little bit and even moving beneath his arm feels difficult.
This man is enormous and his arm is way heavier than I expected. He can really trap my ass against this bed with just one arm... Fuck.
"Stop fighting and sleep," He grunts after I try to use more of my weight to push him off. "It won't work and it'll just piss me off."
"Good night, Ethan."
He grunts, which I assume he considers to be a response.
I tell myself that I won't fall asleep, but the jacket thrown over the blankets, and Ethan's large physical presence give my body a sense of safety that it really shouldn't be feeling considering the circumstances. It's enough safety that I fall asleep with the giant man's arm slung on top of me.
* * *