Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
PAIGE
How did things go wrong so quickly?
One second, I was talking to Cillian, feeling more optimistic than I had in weeks. My mind was wandering to hopeful possibilities—of our weekly phone calls shifting to more frequent ones and maybe even meeting in person one weekend soon.
I was envisioning his face, as I often do, wondering how closely the image in my head matched reality.
He has scars, I know—he told me about the accident several months ago—and I can tell he’s still insecure about them.
But in my mind, they’re not grotesque or disfiguring. They’re marks that show he survived.
He’s six-foot-two, nearly a foot taller than me, which I like. It’s just the right height for me to rest my cheek on his chest while we sleep or to tuck my head beneath his chin whenever we hug.
Is it crazy to be thinking about sleeping with a man I’ve never met? Maybe.
Although my college roommate, Aida, met her husband on an online dating site, and it’s been working out for them. Yes, she saw Jeff’s photo before she went out with him, but that’s the only difference between me and Cillian. Besides his face, I know everything else about him that matters.
I know he used to be a Green Beret until he separated from the Army to get married and start a family.
I know his marriage didn’t work out, but he doesn’t hold ill will towards his ex.
Like he explained, “I was sad about it at first. I felt like I’d failed.
But over time, I realized we weren’t meant for each other.
I hope Raisa finds the right person, but it isn’t me. ”
And the unspoken part that I’ve thought about more and more as time’s gone by—could the right person for Cillian be me?
When we’re midway through a three-hour-long phone call, laughing our butts off about something ridiculous that happened at work, or exchanging tips for our never-ending home renovation projects, I find myself longing for more.
Not just to talk to Cillian over the phone, but in person.
To show him the projects I’ve finished and the ones I’m still plugging away at.
Maybe Cillian could take me hiking, and we might even end up holding hands as we walk.
Kissing at the end to celebrate our accomplishment.
Yes, I’ve thought about kissing Cillian. Many times. I think about his eyes darkening to a deep evergreen as he leans towards me, desire heating within. I think about his strong arms embracing me, hugging me close to a broad chest thick with muscle.
He hasn’t come out and said it, but he has to be in good shape, considering how often he works out. Near-daily trips to the gym, weekly hikes, plus a fully equipped workout room in his basement… I’m not sure how he couldn’t be in great condition.
Would I like him even if he wasn’t? Absolutely. One of the cool things I’ve discovered about getting to know Cillian is our relationship goes so much deeper than physical attraction. He understands me. It seems like he cares about me. And I definitely care about him.
“Don’t just sit there! Do something!”
The barked command makes me jolt, and I let out a muffled yelp of fear.
My thoughts are rudely yanked away from pleasant things like Cillian and kisses and back to the terrible situation I’ve found myself in.
To the reason my night is not going as I expected.
As I focus on the red-faced man pacing in front of me, he stops mid-stride and steps towards me.
My heart flies to my throat. It hammers in frantic drumbeats, echoing in my head.
I jerk away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. Not tied to a chair, like I am, with my wrists and ankles bound tightly enough to rub my skin raw. The chair rocks a little, and I’m seized by a momentary vision of falling backwards and cracking my head open on the unforgiving basement floor.
As I try to keep the chair balanced, the man reaches out and steadies it.
Which is good, I guess, except now he’s even closer to me.
Close enough for me to see the red veins in his eyes and the flecks of dried toothpaste on his chin.
Close enough to catch a whiff of an unpleasant blend of body odor and cheap cologne.
“Why aren’t you fixing it?” he snaps. His eyes narrow and his brows furrow into a thick, unruly V. “You’re supposed to fix things!”
I shake my head in an instinctive denial before I can stop myself. It’s not a denial of his demand, exactly, but of the whole, horrible thing.
“What?” His lips bare back in a snarl. “This is your fault. And you’re going to fix it.”
In hindsight, even a silent no probably wasn’t the best idea. Especially considering the circumstances—me tied up and held hostage in my basement by an obviously unbalanced man with a gun.
Honestly, I’m amazed I’m not freaking out more.
Somehow, I’ve managed to keep from dissolving into hysterical sobs or suffering a complete mental breakdown.
Which is good, because if I start crying my nose will get all stuffed up and with a scarf shoved in my mouth, I could end up suffocating myself.
And a mental breakdown certainly won’t help me figure out a way out of this thing.
Maybe thoughts of Cillian have kept me sane.
He wouldn’t lose it if he found himself in a situation like this. Not former Special Forces soldier Cillian, who spent a third of his life facing enemies far more frightening than this. He’d be calm. Focused. He’d probably already have three different ideas about how to escape.
I wish Cillian were here right now.
I wish I’d been braver and asked him out on a date.
I wish I’d actually met him. Hugged him. Told him in person how much our phone calls mean to me.
But now…
I may never have the chance.
Threatening tears sting my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to keep them at bay.
My body shudders. Cold sweat prickles along my back. My heart feels like it’s about to burst from my chest.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” the man asks. He rocks back on his heels and crosses his arms across his chest. “Are you going to help?”
He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m supposed to answer. Which would be a neat trick, considering I have a large piece of fabric jammed in my mouth; one that I haven’t been able to dislodge no matter how hard I’ve tried.
If I could talk, maybe I could get somewhere with him. Figure out who he is. Find out why he broke into my house and what he wants me to fix.
Widening my eyes at him, I mumble around the fabric in an unintelligible plea.
Confusion washes across his face.
Crap.
How the heck am I supposed to help him if I can’t even talk?
Darn those tears again. They’re right there, moments from escaping.
“What?” he demands. “So, you are going to help?”
I nod my head frantically. Then I turn my head and gesture at the wadded-up fabric with my shoulder.
As he stares at me, frustration builds.
I should have upgraded my home security, like Cillian suggested.
But no… I was convinced a video doorbell would be plenty.
After all, what burglar would want to break into my little ranch with the thirty-five-year-old roof and faded siding?
They’d be much better off picking one of the newer developments a few miles from here, with the giant houses and perfectly manicured lawns and BMWs and Audis parked on spotless driveways.
This man isn’t just a burglar though, is he? Since he grabbed me in the bedroom however long ago—ten minutes? fifteen? twenty?—he’s shown zero interest in stealing anything. He just shoved a gun in my face and told me to shut up, then dragged me into the basement and restrained me.
And thank God, he hasn’t touched me aside from that. No, he’s just been pacing around, ranting about bad luck and how unfair life is and how I’m supposed to magically fix things.
What did Cillian do when he heard me yelp? Was he worried? Did he call the police? But what could he tell them, really? Cillian knows I live near Fredericksburg, but not my actual address. He doesn’t even know my last name, which I’m really, really wishing I’d told him.
“Aha!” The red-faced man snaps his fingers, and I jerk at the unexpected sound. “The gag,” he adds proudly, like he’s just discovered something incredible. He leans forward and reaches his calloused hand towards my face. It’s all I can do not to recoil from it.
Inches away, he stops. “If I take this out, you have to promise not to yell. Even if we’re in the basement, your neighbors could hear.”
Well. That sounds pretty good to me, really. But I obligingly nod my head.
He lifts his gun, brandishing it in front of me. “If you get any ideas, I’ll shoot you.”
My heart lurches.
Then he pulls the fabric from my mouth and tosses it to the floor. My skin crawls from the graze of his fingers against my face.
“Okay,” he says. “You’re going to tell me exactly how to fix things. Got it?”
I try to respond, but my mouth is too dry. It takes several swallows before I can get any words out. “What—” My voice cracks. “What do you want me to fix?”
“My life,” he snaps. “It’s all fucked up. And you need to tell me how to fix it.”
Um. What?
How in the world am I supposed to tell a complete stranger how to fix his life?
After another swallow to moisten my mouth, I say, “I don’t understand. How do you think I can help? I don’t even know you.”
A few seconds while he just stares at me. Then his lips draw up into a terrifying smile. “Oh, you do know me, Paige. Can’t you recognize my voice?” He pauses. “I sure recognized yours.”
My lungs seize.
My stomach falls to my feet.
What?
Could he?
Would I recognize his voice? With some of my regular callers, I do.
Cillian, of course. Flora from Norfolk, who calls every other week for exactly thirty minutes, not for a reading, but just to tell me about her week.
Paul, who’s been calling once a month since I started and spends more time asking me for advice about meeting women than predicting his future.