Chapter 20
Chloe
I wake to a stiff, sore body and the smell of dust and lemon cleaner. Thin light seeps through a grimy window, painting murky shadows across unfamiliar shapes. For one terrifying heartbeat, I don’t remember where I am.
Then the memories flood back.
Bullets cracking my window. Fleeing through backyards. Bree. Hiding in Brenda Smith’s basement.
Last night with Kolya. Kneeling in front of him. Gagging on his cock. His threat to paint my chest with his cum…
My skin warms.
I’m curled around his jacket on the loveseat. The man himself stands at the window, a formidable profile against the gray morning light.
The thick, stale basement air presses down on my shoulders like a weighted blanket. I shift, wincing at the crick in my neck from using folded clothes as a pillow. My toes are freezing.
More flashes from last night hit me in waves. His fingers digging into my hips. His hand over my mouth to muffle my cries. The cardboard boxes of family photos beneath us. Heat rushes to my face, pooling in my cheeks and between my legs simultaneously.
Men with guns are hunting us, and I’m getting aroused by memories of sex over Brenda Fucking Smith’s storage boxes.
I push myself to my feet and stumble toward the tiny half bath in the corner.
After I use the facilities, Kolya’s broad back silhouettes against that sad excuse for a window. He doesn’t acknowledge me. His focus remains fixed on whatever sliver of the outside world he can glimpse through that narrow pane, as if his gaze can keep the monsters at bay.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” My sleep-worn voice comes out scratchy. Clearing my throat, I try again. “It must be late.”
He still doesn’t move. “No reason to. We’re not going anywhere.”
His flat voice sends a cold trickle down my spine. Not going anywhere?
Then I hear the voices. Laughter. The unmistakable sizzle-pop of a grill firing up. Children shrieking in delight.
Oh no.
I inch closer, my bare feet silent on the concrete. “Is that…?”
Kolya nods once. “Labor Day weekend barbecue. The party’s begun.”
As if on cue, I hear the creak of a gate opening, followed by footsteps crunching along the path right outside our window. A woman asks about potato salad, and a man responds with a too-loud laugh that reeks of forced joviality. The thumps pause just outside, then continue toward the backyard.
I exhale softly. “Labor Day.”
Of course Brenda is hosting a barbecue. Because why wouldn’t she? Naturally, the woman who sends peanut butter cookies to a classroom with an allergic child would host the neighborhood barbecue that traps us in her basement.
I stop beside Kolya, close enough to luxuriate in the heat radiating from his body without touching him. He smells of sweat, gun oil, and sex. Our night together clings to his skin like the glitter from the craft store.
“We can’t get past them?”
I already know the answer.
The basement window sits near the back of the house, alongside the path that leads to the backyard. Brenda’s guests would immediately spot anyone climbing out.
Upstairs, children shriek and footsteps race from room to room.
Sneaking out through the house would prove equally impossible as escaping via the basement window.
“We’ll leave once it gets dark. There will be fireworks.” He soothes me like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal.
The reality of our situation sinks in.
We’re trapped. In Brenda Smith’s basement. For hours.
My heart rate accelerates, each beat a tiny hammer against my ribs.
Kolya is unmoved by my rising panic. His stillness both infuriates and comforts me. At least one of us can stay calm.
I start to pace.
Three steps one way, pivot, three steps back.
My identity is “Miss Chloe.” Kindergarten teacher. Lesson planner. Craft organizer. Ever since the island, my routine has been my salvation. Taking away this structure and focus leaves me with nothing.
There’s no “I need to prep for tomorrow’s class” to distract me. No myriad of tiny little chores and errands to occupy my mind and stave away the darkness.
There’s only the danger, the basement, and Kolya.
And wonderful sore spots I need to stop thinking about.
I can’t just stand here. I need to regain some sense of control.
I spot a pile of old blankets haphazardly stuffed onto a lower shelf.
Pulling them out, I begin folding each one with methodical precision.
After that, I straighten a stack of cardboard boxes and align their edges.
Then I find an old rag and start wiping dust from a metal shelf, working in neat, overlapping strokes.
Kolya’s voice cuts through my concentration. “What are you doing?”
“Organizing.” I continue wiping, moving, doing.
“Brenda’s basement is a disaster. Look at this.
” I gesture to a collection of fondue pots piled in a corner.
“Six. She has six fondue pots. For all her fondue emergencies.” I wander toward another shelf.
“And…fourteen ceramic spoons. Who needs fourteen ceramic spoons? She’s a hoarder.
I’m surprised we haven’t found a dead cat in here yet. ”
I’m babbling, but that’s better than screaming, which is what I really want to do.
Kolya plays witness to my fussing, tracking my movements with his unnerving gaze. When I spin to work on a new shelf, I catch his lip twitching from the corner of my eye.
“You don’t have to just stand there. But I guess you can’t exactly do anything else, can you?” I dust the shelf faster, more frantically. “Which means I can’t do anything but feel you watching me. All the time. And last night is still…” I stop, suddenly aware of what I’m about to say.
The constant throbbing between my legs is a big distraction, a reminder of last night. And I want more.
Absurd.
Every rational cell in my body screams, Run!
If only I could.
My life has become a made-for-TV thriller, except I don’t have the luxury of a commercial break.
I drag a box from under a shelf, sneeze at the dust cloud that rises, and busy myself with manic cleaning.
“You’re just waving the dust around.”
“Shut up.”
Kolya shifts position, shoving his sleeves up his forearms. A scar snags my attention, a jagged line about three inches long on his left forearm, pale against his olive skin.
“That looks nasty.” I nod toward the scar. “Football?” I joke. I don’t know much about Kolya, but I’ll eat that box of Christmas ornaments for breakfast if he’s a sports guy.
He doesn’t answer at first, clearly pondering how much of himself to reveal.
I’ve crossed some invisible line by prying into his personal life. “I was just making small talk. You don’t have to tell me.” I pretend to focus on a particularly disgusting shelf.
After a long moment, his reply slices through the space. “Not football.”
I’m desperate to ease the tension. “Not a sewing accident either. Right?”
His mouth twitches again with that almost-smile.
The tiny crack in his stone facade startles me. I smile back hopefully, but his almost-smile vanishes.
I duck my head, praying he won’t clock my disappointment.
Behind me, he utters a deadpan response. “Knitting.”
I spin back around, a laugh bubbling up my throat. My humor instantly dies when heavy footsteps thud directly overhead.
A child’s voice pipes through the floorboards, then grows louder, nearing the basement door. “Mom, the door’s stuck! What’s in there?”
I freeze, the rag falling from my nerveless fingers.
Kolya guides me behind a shelving unit with one hand. The other draws his gun in a smooth, practiced motion. He angles the weapon away from me but holds it steady, his body serving as a barrier between me and the door.
I’m certain the child on the other side can hear my heart hammering through the wood.
One twist of the knob, one curious peek, and we’re exposed. A kid would scream at the sight of us and bring the entire barbecue down on our heads, followed by the police.
And then our hunters would know exactly where to find us.
Did I leave boob prints on the boxes?
“Hunter, get away from there!” A woman’s voice, but not Brenda’s. “That’s just storage. Come help with the cooler.”
The tiny footfalls recede.
I release a shaky breath.
Kolya stays tense for another minute before slowly lowering the gun.
My eyes fix on the weapon, its lethal shape alien and frightening in this suburban setting. “Guess you don’t babysit much.”
Again, Kolya’s mouth quirks. “Not my field.”
Ha! See? That’s two almost jokes. By the time we escape, I’ll have him ready to perform stand-up.
I return to my self-appointed task of organizing shelves. Opening a random box, I peer inside. Then I promptly slam the top shut, nearly catching my fingers in the process.
Oh my god.
Brenda has a box of sex toys.
Expensive ones, from the glimpse of velvet bags I caught. Suddenly having sex on the box of family photos seems way less dirty in comparison.
A tiny, twisted part of my mind wonders how I can use this newfound knowledge against her later. Except that would require me to out myself.
After a beat, I re-open the box and peek inside again.
Yup. Still there. What the heck are these things?
I mean, I’m not a prude, but I don’t even recognize some of this stuff.
Against my better judgment, I reach for a little rubber ducky and squeeze, nearly fumbling the thing when it starts buzzing. Hastily, I shut it off and drop the duck back in the box. The vibrator bounces off a leather eye mask and settles against a thick-veined length of purple silicone.
I didn’t know they made dildos that cumbersome.
“You scared?”
Yelping, I glance over my shoulder. Please tell me Kolya didn’t see what’s in the box.
No, he’s referring to the men with guns. Not Brenda’s surprising capacity…for intimate play.
I redirect my attention to the toys and wrinkle my nose. Why does she have a display of glass decanter tops in various sizes? “Of course I am. Aren’t you?”
Horrifyingly, he crosses over to me.
I freeze with my hand buried in the box. To my everlasting embarrassment, he gazes down at what I’m holding.
“Any particular reason why you’re fondling someone else’s anal training set? A nice one, too, made of solid glass.” He winks. “And, yeah, I’m terrified.”
I have no clue if he’s joking or not.
I recline against the shelf. “You ever have to hide in someone’s basement before?”
Wait. What did he say? Anal what?
My eyes widen. That’s what those are? I drop the set like it’s a hot plate and wipe off my hands on the hard edges of the cardboard
Despite his silence, I can tell he’s amused at the blush burning my cheeks.
“Once. Didn’t end with fireworks.” At the sight of his lecherous smirk, heat cascades through my body. “Though, if you’re wanting to try something new…and down to share toys… Nah, don’t see any cleaner in there. Got to keep it safe.”
What the heck?
“Maybe later.” I clap my palm over my mouth. What am I saying? Did he think I was talking about the…trainers? “I didn’t mean…”
“Fine. I’ll find something else to do with my time.” With a hint of a grin, Kolya grabs one of the tea towels I was folding. He sits on a blanket, pulls out his gun, and starts polishing the cold metal.
He said anal with such nonchalance.
Why doesn’t that scare me?
I’m morbidly fascinated by his efficient movements, the way he handles the weapon with casual familiarity. “So…private security. What kinds of jobs do you do?”
His hand slows. “Whatever the boss says.”
Recalling his earlier words, I take a wild guess. “Things that make ‘dangerous people’ not like you?”
He returns his attention to his gun. “Usually.”
“And then they chase you through suburban neighborhoods?”
“Apparently.”
After a long breath, I go for the question that’s been niggling my brain. “What if these guys are after…me?”
His dark brown eyes slide to mine, and he’s quiet for so long I don’t think he’s going to answer. “Does anyone have a reason to hunt you, Chloe?”
“I…don’t know.” When I close my eyes, traumatic memories barrel in.
The tropical storm. Gunfire. Screaming. My terrified nine-year-old self hiding under the porch of the closest beach bungalow. A man running, his gun in hand. His gaze meeting mine between the wooden slats.
My eyes snap open to find Kolya studying me with an almost telepathic intensity. But how could he know about the island?
He breaks eye contact, and some of my tension eases.
“You don’t say much.”
Just his eyes come up this time. “You talk a lot.”
We stare at each other, the charged moment stretching between us. Then I smile.
Kolya smiles too.
A real smile this time, one that displays his teeth and crinkles the skin around his eyes.
He may as well have hired violinists to play tableside because that smile is a crack in the armor. A true glimpse of the man beneath.
He finishes with his gun and sets it down beside him.
Time passes, marked only by the changing quality of light filtering through the grimy window.
The sunlight leaking in softens into a golden hue.
Music blares outside. Someone’s decided Bon Jovi is a necessity for a proper Labor Day barbecue.
And they’re not wrong. I do feel “Shot Through the Heart.” And Kolya’s to blame…
I command my brain to stop with that cheesy nonsense and focus.
I go over and sit beside Kolya. “I’m bored.”
He cocks his head. “Want to do something?”
I laugh softly. “If only Brenda Fucking Smith hoarded board games.”
“I wasn’t thinking of a board game.”
I turn and peer into dark, dark eyes that gleam with the same hunger from last night that inspired me to bend over cardboard boxes without a second thought. My body responds instantly, heat pooling between my legs. “…Game?”
He licks his lips. “Simon says kneel.”
My knees weaken as that dirty thrill of excitement races through me, soaking my pussy. I obey, rolling up onto my knees like a puppet on a string.
“Fuck Simon.” Kolya stands up and unfastens his belt, his eyes never straying from mine. “Kolya says open your mouth like a good little cocksucker.”
I whimper. Why do I find that so hot?
I lower myself to the right height and open my mouth, ready for whatever he wants to do to me. Or for me to do to him.
And in Brenda Fucking Smith’s basement, with a Labor Day weekend barbecue in full swing overhead and armed men hunting us outside, Kolya grabs my jaw with one hand and zips down his fly with the other.
I’ve never felt more alive.