31. Haven
Chapter 31
Haven
A loud bang wrenches me from the deepest, most luxurious sleep I’ve ever slept. I sit up with a strangled gasp, swinging to the source of the sound. I’m still in Professor Rooke’s house. And if this was one of those ‘spot the difference’ puzzles, the only thing I can see is a dark smear on one of the bedroom windows.
The fuck was that?
More importantly, why the fuck am I still at Professor Rooke’s house?
I take a few quick breaths, trying to calm down my racing heart. Talk about a fucking jump scare.
“Prof—” I cut off. “Bastian?”
There’s a weird echo in this house that tells me I’m alone. It should be comforting.
No awkward conversations. No regretting just about everything that happened yesterday. Instead, it makes me feel exposed, like there’s no one to protect me if a wolf charges through the door to tear out my throat.
Geez, my imagination mill got to work early this morning. Must be the fantastic night’s sleep I had on these duck down pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets.
I’d still be sleeping if it wasn’t for the thirst. My throat is dry, my mouth gummy and gross.
Slipping reluctantly out of the warm, soft, impossibly silky bed, I pad over to the window to take a closer look.
“Aw, shit, man,” I murmur. “Sorry, buddy.”
There’s a bird on the other side of the glass. Judging from the angle of its neck, its flying days are over.
I head into the bathroom and take a few sips of water from the faucet before emptying my bladder—another reason I was pulled from sleep.
When I go to wash my hands, I spot my sundress on the railing where I left it to dry yesterday. My underwear is on the floor. I stare at it so long I have an afterimage, but then I see the rumpled towel on the rail.
Bastian must have dried himself off and tucked the towel in there without realizing he’d dislodged my underwear.
I force myself to snap out of the mental image of Professor Rooke drying off after a shower.
That’s going to live rent free in my head for days to come.
I lean on my palms so I can get closer to the mirror.
It still looks like I barely survived a date with Patrick Bateman.
My hair looks like shit. There are dark smudges under my eyes. But whatever Professor Rooke put on my neck has drastically improved the marks on my throat. And those painkillers he gave me were the stuff of dreams. I mean, I feel nothing.
Nothing.
Okay, I feel a little sexy, my bare legs rubbing together under this soft hoodie that smells like my professor? Who the fuck wouldn’t?
A massive shift to how I felt yesterday when I stopped at Lookout Point. When I was still tender, stinging, aching, and so fucking stuck in my head, I didn’t know if I was coming or going.
feels good when I hurt you like this, doesn’t it?
Fuck, I wish I was normal and sane, but I guess I’m not. Because it did feel good. His hand wrapped around my throat made me want to leave my body…and that was before he added his fingers to the mix.
When I step back and lift my hands to do something about my hair, I notice white streaks on my palms.
I hadn’t seen the ghostly traces of powder on the white granite countertop.
Baby powder?
Dried shaving cream?
…coke?
I quickly wash my hands and then scrub them with a towel. I probably can’t get a contact high from just touching it, but still. I need a clear head if I’m going to remember where the hell I parked my car so I can get out of here.
Bastian’s hoodie is so warm and cozy I have to work up the motivation to change back into my sundress, but I can’t exactly leave with his clothes, either. I’m many things, but I’m not a thief.
That’s when I notice the stack of clothes beside the vanity. There’s a note on top of them.
These should fit better.
The pile yields a black t-shirt, so washed out that whatever had been screen printed on it is illegible. A pair of sweatpants, just as worn. These feel like something you dig out of the attic, but they smell freshly laundered. Not a moth-eaten hole or rip in sight.
They’re a hell of a lot better than my sundress, so I slip into them and try to ignore the way Bastian’s laundry detergent smells on me.
There’s another note on the kitchen counter, on top of a few pages of stapled papers.
Hope you slept well.
Make yourself comfortable + help yourself to anything you desire.
I’m sure you’ll find this week’s study material most fitting.
Everything about it feels polite and professional…but my eyes keep darting back to one phrase.
anything you desire
Is this what being sexually frustrated feels like?
It’s fucking awful.
The house is so silent, it feels like it’s holding its breath as I wander into the kitchen to take a peek in Bastian’s fridge. And even though he gave me permission, it still feels all kinds of wrong to rifle through the contents, pulling out this and that.
Oat milk, cottage cheese, blueberries, free-range eggs, avocados, spinach. No wonder he’s in such good shape. The most decadent thing in here is the bottle of white wine in the door.
There’s frozen meat in the freezer compartment. Ice cubes. And a big tub of ice cream.
I fight back a squeal.
It’s rocky road.
I snatch it out and start pulling open the drawers to find a spoon. My sigh of pleasure as I plop down on a kitchen stool and crack open that ice cream is a sound I haven’t heard in a long, long time.
My eyes drift closed as I scoop a bite of ice cream into my mouth and let it dissolve on my tongue. Does this guy have any idea how lucky he is? I’d kill to live in a place like this. Ice cream in the freezer. Healthy, gorgeous looking food in the fridge.
It’s so quiet.
I take the tub with me as I go to stand by the massive sliding glass doors leading into the backyard. It’s impossibly beautiful out there, late afternoon light filtering through the leaves in slivers of gold and amber.
God, how I’d love waking up in a place like this every morning. Having a cup of coffee on the porch in one of those rocking chairs, listening to the surviving birds singing, the rustle of leaves.
My significant other busy in the kitchen, making blueberry pancakes.
Is it weird that Kai pops into my head, not Bastian? I suppose my brain is trying to keep things age-appropriate, and there’s nothing appropriate—age or otherwise—about me waking up beside Professor Rooke.
I take another few bites of ice cream as I soak in the luxurious ambience.
I’m interrupted by a very rude, but very intriguing thought.
God, how could I forget?
The spoon dangles from my mouth as I hurry over to Bastian’s bookshelf with its dark, gleaming wood. I squat so I can easier peer into the bottom row of books.
What the fuck?
Just a bunch of paperback novels down there. Where are the spiral bound notebooks I saw the last time I was here? The ones I could have sworn were Activity Logs?
He must have moved them, but why?
…because he saw me looking at them?
Nah, that’s a reach, even for my insane levels of paranoia. But now I’ve got an itch that needs to be scratched, and a tub of rocky road for a faithful sidekick, and permission to help myself to anything I desire.
Answers, Sir. I’ll have some answers, please.
One of my knees pops as I stand to look around.
The professor’s house is a large, rectangular block. The master bedroom spans the entire width of the east wing, with the living area between it and the kitchen area. There’s a wall with another inset sliding door like the bedroom has, except this one has always been closed.
Thankfully, it’s unlocked.
I assumed it was an office or a scullery.
Turns out it’s a long passage with a study at the end. Dark furniture, thick, slate gray carpets, even darker art prints. If it wasn’t for the wrap around glass windows opening to such a spectacular view of the surrounding woodland, it would be depressing as fuck in here. But this feels almost like an animal hide, a place where Professor Rooke can observe without being seen.
“Wow,” I murmur, trailing my fingers over the soft leather of a dark gray leather office chair. Everything in here looks like it costs a couple thousand dollars, even the massive glass ball with a blue butterfly trapped flawlessly inside the crystal.
There’s another bookshelf in here, much smaller. Journals and stacks of paper covered in hand-written notes, like discarded drafts of a book. I rifle through some of them, but it’s all psychobabble that is way too highbrow for me to decipher.
Something shiny catches my eye. I turn to the desk and stare at the big gift-wrapped package sitting near his computer’s keyboard. I walk over and run my hand down the beautiful black paper, the embossed gold design skimming against my fingertips.
Must be a gift for someone, but there’s no card, no name.
I gently pick it up, weighing it. I thought it was a box, but it’s too floppy.
Heavy, too, and unfortunately still sealed up tight. If I could peel off the tape without damaging the paper, I’d have risked opening it.
I search the rest of the room, but I don’t find the spiral-bound notebooks. I’m just about to leave when I see the practically invisible door beside a monochromatic painting. The wood is painted the same color as the wall, and even has a rough texture applied to it, as if to make it blend in.
I dismiss the painting until I get close enough to make out the details. I thought it was an abstract, but it’s a high contrast print of a black-and-white photograph, washed in a pinkish sepia.
It’s a photo of an electric chair, the wall behind it washed in deep shadow. There’s a small signboard near the top right of the wall, nearly indistinguishable.
SILENCE
I’m surprised this wasn’t included in Bastian’s presentation on cruel art the other week. Dante and Virgil have nothing on this cruelty. I look away from the chilling artwork and try the handle on Professor Rooke’s mystery door.
Screw that. I’ve made it this far. A silly photo won’t scare me off.
But the door is locked.
I jiggle the handle a few more times, and then stop, tilting my head at a sound.
The rough texture brushes my skin as I carefully press my ear against the door and hold my breath.
There’s a low hum coming from the other side of the door.
Maybe it’s a generator or something. From the solar panels covering the roof, I assume this whole place is off grid. Guess the electrical stuff has to go somewhere inside the house, and it’s not like this place has a basement.
click
I jerk away from the door.
That sounded like it was right by my ear.
Relax, Haven. It definitely was not the sound of an electric chair warming up.
But trying to reassure myself does nothing to slow my furiously pounding heart as I hurry out of Bastian’s study like the devil is nipping at my heels. I shove the ice cream back in the freezer, toss the spoon in the sink, and bundle up my sundress with the notes Professor Rooke left for me to study.
My appetite for sleuthing, rocky road, and this head trip of a house have disappeared.
How bizarre.
A gust of icy wind hits me when I open the front door. I reluctantly turn around to fetch the hoodie I was wearing last night, pulling it over my head before leaving.
Now I just have to find my fucking car.
I’m almost disappointed when I spot the fender of my sedan peeking out between the trees. I’ve been walking for about fifteen minutes, sticking to the road leading away from Bastian’s house so that I don’t get lost in the woods.
It must have stopped drizzling last night, because the ground, while a bit spongy, is pretty much dry again. But thank God for this hoodie, because I think my toes have frostbite. If I’d left that house without this warm top, I might have ended up in the hospital with hypothermia.
The car complains mightily when I start it up, so I let it idle a few minutes before urging it back onto the road.
I try really hard not to dwell on the fact that the last thing I remember before Bastian’s house was climbing over the barrier at Lookout Point.
I try really hard not to think about Kai, either.
I’m so busy keeping other stuff out of my head, Professor Rooke sidles in like he has every right to be there.
The soft, warm fabric of his hoodie.
The scent of his body wash on my skin.
“Hush, sweet girl.”
The way his tongue felt when it slid over my skin ? —
I slam on brakes, and the car behind me hoots as it swerves around me.
My hands are white knuckled on the steering wheel, and I’m trembling as I detach one to flick on the hazard lights.
Jesus, Haven. How about we stick to fucking reality for a bit?
I slap my hands on my cheeks like I’m trying to wake myself up.
Again. A little harder. Until they’re stinging.
You cannot fuck your professor.
You will not fuck your bully.
Haven Lee is a good girl, and all she’s interested in is creating the best damn life she can for herself.
“Haven Lee is a good girl,” I whisper to myself as I blink back tears.
My hand is still shaking as I switch off the hazard lights and accelerate down the road. But at least all those nasty, dirty thoughts have fled.
I arrive at the diner an hour before my shift starts. I smear some foundation on my neck and help myself to a half-eaten burger off a plate that’s waiting to be washed. Then I slip into the tiny, cramped staff room to read Professor Rooke’s notes while I fill the void in my stomach left behind by the rocky road that’s now only a fond memory.
My professor starts off with new material. A fascinating study conducted by psychologist Stanley Milgram, where authority figures instructed participants to electrocute test subjects at increasingly dangerous voltages.
The twist was, they didn’t know the test subjects were actors, or that the machine they were using was a dud.
Some admitted they figured it out. Maybe the acting was a little too theatrical, but most had no idea that they weren’t doing real harm to a stranger…just because someone in a uniform told them to.
Professor Rooke states that the illusion of authority creates as strong a power dynamic between individuals as does actual authority.
But this perception of power can be influenced just as readily with the introduction of knowledge and manipulation, especially in the form of blackmail.
And fuck, that sends a very real shiver down my fucking spine. It’s like Bastian was with me and Kai the whole of yesterday, watching over us like a demented god.
Professor Rooke’s study material ends with a group discussion focused on identifying what circumstances might cause a shift in the power dynamics between people.
Guess I’ll be missing that.
But in a way, I’m glad.
I pored over my grant application at the beginning of the year to make sure it was perfect before I submitted it to AHC. And while it mentioned that there were prerequisite courses for maintaining the grant, I could never have imagined one of them would be a class like this.
But since I’m majoring in social work, I guess I’ll need to know how things like authority and power dynamics work.
Maybe then I could figure out why Professor Rooke thought he had to do a background check on me.
I can’t believe he went to my uncle’s house. What worries me even more is that my dad isn’t there anymore.
Was that the end of his snooping? Or did he try to find my high school records? Middle school? How far back did he go?
I can’t believe he’d be motivated enough to track me back all the way to the trailer park where I hung out with Kai.
But what I really can’t believe is that all he found wrong with my application was a fudged residential address.
Unless he did find more.
Maybe he’s planning some blackmail of his own.
I press my fingers against my lips when my mouth curls into a smile.
I’m in no position to be enjoying this, but I can’t help myself.
I’ve always loved playing games.
So why, when Bastian sends me a message, why wouldn’t I text back?
@rooke.bastian
I have news.
Join me for dinner tonight.
@lee.haven
Can’t. Working.
@rooke.bastian
You have a job?
@lee.haven
I’m living out of my car. What do you think?
@rooke.bastian
Get someone to cover your shift.
I should tell him to go fuck himself. And while I’m pondering which emojis to use to lessen the sting, he sends another text.
@rooke.bastian
This is important, Haven.
Oof, is it getting hot in here? Yes, Daddy .
What the hell’s gotten into me?
Maybe it’s the fact that Bastian is the only person in Agony Hollow who’s treating me like a real person with real feelings, and not a punching bag or a chess piece.
I’m looking at you, Melissa Parker.
My foot taps furiously on the floor as I stare down at my phone, still trying to figure out how to reply. It’s been a quiet night, so I know Danielle will let me go without an issue…but do I want to go back to Bastian’s domain so soon?
It’s like he knows me already, though. Because, fuck, am I curious about why he wants to see me so badly.
Maybe he’s going to interrogate me about the missing ice cream. With whips and stuff.
I think I’d like that.
@lee.haven
K
What should I bring?
@rooke.bastian
Your appetite.