Inescapable

Chapter 3

Iris had a moment’s disorientation when she opened her eyes the following morning. A few seconds later memories of the previous night came flooding back and she went from pleasantly warm and sleepy to alert and tense in an instant.

She jerked upright and grabbed up her phone to check her texts. Nothing from Mr. Quinn. Worse, her messages to him remained unread.

Shit.

She would try emailing him and then calling him.

It had just gone eight a.m. here. It was probably a little too early to call him on a Saturday morning. But if she sent an email to his business account—the only address she had for him—he’d probably only check it on Monday morning. That meant—if Trystan Abbott was true to his word—Iris could quite conceivably spend the weekend in a jail cell.

God, she couldn’t do that. She literally couldn’t. She wouldn’t survive it.

She was legitimately starting to freak out now. She only hoped that The Dickhead—as she’d start to think of her reluctant host—was in a more reasonable frame of mind this morning. Hopefully he’d be in the mood to give her a fair hearing.

She pushed the covers down over her legs with a groan. Seriously, she’d much rather bury her head under the warm comforter and not surface again until she knew for sure that the situation with The Dickhead—TDH for short—was resolved. But she knew nothing could be fixed by hiding her head in the sand, or under the comforter, as it were. She had to be proactive about this and figure this shit out.

She got out of bed and bit back a yelp when her bare feet hit the icy tiles.

She had nothing to wear on her feet, her trainers and socks had been left sodden after the misadventures of the night before and she hadn’t found any type of footwear in the closet belonging to her mystery benefactor with the statuesque supermodel proportions.

All of which meant Iris had no option but to brave the cold floor in her bare feet. Not ideal.

She stumbled her way to the door and tried the handle again, just in case TDH’d had an attack of conscience and unlocked the door while she was asleep.

No such luck.

She hated this. Last night she’d been too exhausted to fully comprehend what being locked in here meant, but this morning she wanted to crawl out of her skin at the sheer terror of being trapped.

She needed to clear up this misunderstanding as soon as possible. She had to make that unreasonable man listen to her.

She put her ear to the wood, hoping to hear some signs of life. She heard faint music, and the low gravelly undertone of his voice. Which meant he was out there, awake, aware, and basically ignoring her very existence.

Ooh,but that burned. It annoyed the ever-loving hell out of her.

She whipped out her phone and dialed Mr. Quinn’s private number. It went straight to voicemail and Iris gritted her teeth as she left her message.

“Mr. Quinn? Uhm… Hi, this is Iris Hughes. As I stated in my text message, Mr. Abbott was not expecting me. He’s accused me of trespassing and has locked me in a—uhm—well, it’s quite a nice suite of rooms actually. But I’m still his prisoner and this just isn’t on. He’s threatened to call the police. At this point I wish he would do it and that they’d get here soon because I’m going to have to report him for false imprisonment, or kidnapping, or something. The situation is really deteriorating quite badly and I’d appreciate it if you’d—y’know—call him to straighten this out? Please? Thank you ever so much. Uh… goodbye?”

She disconnected the call, annoyed with the deference she’d heard in her own voice during that call. She’d meant to sound tough, no-nonsense, not like some meek out-of-her-depth little lamb.

Ugh. Typical.

“Iris Hughes, legend in her own mind.”

She started banging on the door.

“Mr. Abbott, let me out, please.” Iris was proud of how level her voice was. How reasonable her tone. No sign of her incipient panic. “We need to talk.”

She stopped to listen again and the low rumbly voice had gone silent.

A few seconds later she heard the scrabbling of huge paws on the wooden floors down the hall, the eager running steps came ever closer until she could her wet snuffling at the door, following by a scratch and whine.

At least someone was on her side.

“Hello Luna, puppy, can you please ask The Dickhead to let me out? I’ll give you all the treats in the world if you could do me that solid.”

“Bribing my dog isn’t going to get you very far.” The deep voice on the other side of the door caused her to squeak in alarm. Shit, how the hell had he managed to get to the door without making a sound? Was he some light-footed elf or something? “And calling me a dickhead isn’t doing anything to ingratiate you to me either.”

Iris glared at the door, wishing she could incinerate the solid wooden slab between them with the force of her fury.

“I’m done trying to ingratiate myself to you. I demand you let me out! This is proper kidnapping.”

“As opposed to? Improper kidnapping?” There was absolutely zero inflection in his voice.

“Look, when are the police coming? I’m going to counter arrest your entitled superstar arse for kidnapping.”

“Blackmail? Have we finally unearthed your real reason for coming all this way?”

“My real reason for coming all this way, you arrogant jerk, was to interview you, as per an arrangement made via your manager. An arrangement you allegedly agreed to, by the way.”

“So you keep insisting.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Iris said in helpless frustration. “That was the arrangement. Maybe you should call him.”

“Convenient for you that you showed up just as Quinny left for his annual spiritual retreat, isn’t it?” Sarcasm was rife in his words and Iris clenched her fists.

“It’s not convenient at all. Do you have the number of this retreat? This is urgent, we need to clear it up.”

“I don’t need to clear anything up. The burden of proof is on you.”

“Well, then give me the number and I’ll call him.”

TDH made a snorting sound that, on anyone else, could be considered a laugh.

“Right, like you don’t fucking know he’s on silent retreat at a Buddhist monastery in Nepal.”

“He’s… what?”

“Un-a-vail-able right now,” TDH emphasized each syllable in true dick-ish fashion, and with no lack of smug satisfaction.

Iris’s mouth opened and closed in shock. Who the hell did shit like that? Real people didn’t swan off to Nepal to meditate with silent monks, come on.

“B-but he can’t be. I spoke to him on Thursday before I left for the airport. He assured me that everything had been arranged.”

“Suuure, he did.”

Iris’s legs gave way and she slid down the door in a gelatinous, disbelieving puddle of despondency.

“Then open the door and I’ll show you the emails and texts he sent me.”

“Electronic correspondence can be faked,” he said, sounding bored.

Iris’s head dropped into her hands and she stifled a sob.

“You said the burden of proof is on me,” she said, her voice hoarse with tears. “How can I prove anything to you when you won’t even look at the evidence?”

He remained silent for a long while and she was just wondering if he was still there, when he spoke, “I prefer not to waste my time.”

“Fine, you don’t have to believe me, I’m happy to leave. Please, just open this door.” Her voice was soft and pleading. “As soon as I’ve arranged a tow truck for my rental car, I’ll leave and never darken your door again.”

“Easier said than done, lady. The storm won’t let up till tomorrow. You’re lucky as hell you crossed the bridge from town before the rain started because the river broke its banks and swept the bridge and most of the road away. There are also felled trees blocking the roads. We’re cut off for at least two weeks until they’re able to fix the roads and repair the bridge. Repairs can only start after the storm passes and they’re forecasting two more cutoff low-pressure fronts following in quick succession after this one. So, two weeks is an optimistic prediction.”

“W-what?” Iris’s voice shook as she considered her situation. To be stuck here—with him—for two weeks or more, was a horrific possibility. And—dear God—what if he chose to keep her locked up that entire time? Iris wasn’t sure she’d stay sane if he did.

He was so fucking hateful she doubted he’d even share his food with her. Would he just leave her in this room to slowly starve to death? And when they finally came looking for her, would he justify his actions as self-defense?

So sorry, Your Honor, but she was an intruder. I feared for my life and privacy. I couldn’t feed her because it meant opening the door and possibly exposing myself to her toxic presence.

“I don’t want to die,” she whimpered quietly.

“What?” She could hear the consternation in his voice and wondered if she’d misunderstood the implications of the news he’d just imparted.

“Are you going to keep me locked in this room until the roads are cleared?” It was hard to keep the nausea at bay at the mere thought of being trapped within these restrictive walls.

Silence.

“I-I need my bags.”

More silence.

“I need my medication.”

“What medication?” His voice was gruff and teeming with suspicion.

“Anti-anxiety medication.” She offered the personal information reluctantly, but he needed to understand the urgency. She didn’t take it often, but kept the prescription filled just in case.

This situation definitely qualified as stressful, and if she was going to remain locked in here, she was going to need her meds.

“I have some in my jacket pocket,” she explained. “I transferred them from my handbag—I didn’t want to weigh myself down with too many things from the car—but the rest is in my big suitcase in the car.”

“Anti-anxiety meds? What triggers the anxiety?” he asked. The question sounded like it was torn from him by a thousand hellhounds.

“Stress,” she emphasized. “You know, like the stress that comes from being unjustifiably imprisoned when you suffer from a fear of being locked in?”

“That so?” He didn’t sound at all sympathetic, or convinced. “What else?’

“Hunger—by the way there’s no food in here.”

“I see. Any other triggers?”

PMS—the fluctuating hormones could send her spiraling some months, while during others she would be perfectly fine—but she wasn’t about to disclose that information to Grumpasaurus sex—uhm—rex over there.

“This conversation is about to be a trigger if we don’t change the subject,” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t often speak of her anxiety—she lived an active, normal life in spite of it. But she did need her meds in case of flare-ups. And she definitely needed it for what she recognized was going to be a very challenging few days, possibly weeks, in this man’s company.

“Look, it doesn’t matter what triggers the anxiety. With my meds I can keep it at bay.”

She could almost feel the air from his loud, exasperated sigh through the door.

The lock turned in the door and it swung outward before she had a chance to react. Two seconds later, she was staring up at the tall, brooding, bearded Trystan Abbott, who was glowering down at her huddled form on the floor.

She wasn’t sure—because of the bushy beard—but she was almost certain his lips thinned at the sight of her.

“You’re a weird fucking chick,” he said almost to himself, before turning away from her to haul her big, bright, pink hard-shelled suitcase into the room. He lifted it clear over her head and dropped it on the floor by the kitchen counter.

Iris scrambled to her feet and stared at the open door, poised for flight, before his harsh voice stopped her in her tracks.

“You can run, sure, but you’ll find yourself out in the storm again, with no way back to the nearest town. And rest assured, once you’re out there, you won’t be allowed back in here. So, what’s it to be? You can make a run for it—and believe me, that’s my personal favorite option—and wander around, in the rain and howling wind, with hundred-year-old trees being torn up all around you, flash floods, and mudslides, until maybe you make it to town alive. Or stay here in this room and out of my fucking way until the police can finally reach us and arrest your ass.”

“If I could just get a tow truck for my car.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a little slow on the uptake, aren’t you? No truck can get here, the road is gone. For that matter, so’s your car. A tree totaled it during the night.”

“What?” Iris felt the blood drain from her head at that bit of news.

“Your rental… it’s toast. Luckily, just the roof and hood, which meant I could get into the trunk to retrieve this pink monstrosity.” He indicated toward her suitcase. But Iris was too preoccupied to take offense at the slight against her beloved neon pink luggage.

“I was going to stay in the car last night, but thought I’d take my chances and walk here instead,” she said, mostly speaking to herself.

“Well then, I guess you cheated death four times last night. First the river, then the car crushing and then the big bad wolf.”

That diverted her train of thought enough to raise her eyes to his pitiless face.

“What was the fourth time?”

His eyes were shards of silver ice and his lips were pressed into a thin line before he said, voice quiet and intense, “Me, sugarplum… The last woman who thought she could manipulate me died, lady. So don’t fuck with me.”

What?

Was he referring to Trish Nesbitt? Iris had meant to ask him about Ms. Nesbitt’s death during the interview. It had been an accident. Why would he imply that he’d had something to do with that?

“You mean Ms. Nesbitt? But that was an accident. Why?—”

“No.” That was it, just a single, implacable word. And it effectively shut her up.

“There will be no questions,” he continued after a long pause. “No answers. No fucking interview. You will stay in this room. We will not speak. And when the time comes, you’re to face criminal charges. That’s it. End of.”

He stalked to the door, all big, bristling male, and Iris noticed for the first time that he was wearing a pair of faded jeans paired with a red and black plaid flannel shirt.

She felt a nervous giggle rise up in her throat and clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress it. Too late. A soft, merry little chortle escaped, and he whirled around to pin her with a glare.

“What the fuck is so funny?”

She pressed her lips together and dropped her hand before shaking her head.

“N-nothing.” But the word emerged on another traitorous burble of laughter. God, he looked pissed off. And Iris could have cursed her irreverent sense of humor for choosing this time to surface.

“It’s just the hair”—Oh God, Iris, she begged herself. Shut up!—“and the b-beard and the whole lumberjack ensemble”—Jesus please, strike me mute and spare me from this folly—“You’ve really committed to this crazy hermit shit, haven’t you?”

Gah, too late! Why did she have to have a chronic case of foot-in-mouthitis?

TDH’s face froze, only the slight twitch below his left eye served as proof that he was still alive, as he continued to stare at her with zero expression on his face.

“You’re here only because you’ve forced your way into my house and now somehow, by default, I’ve become responsible for your health and well-being. I’m trying—even though it goes against my own desires—to be a decent human being. But you’re treading a very fine line. And it won’t take much to remind me that I actually have fuck all responsibility toward you and kick you the hell out.”

Iris clamped her lips together and nodded curtly. Right. Point made. No more hot takes from her then.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Thank you for taking me in.”

Jeez, was she really thanking her jailer for imprisoning her right now? Talk about your classic gaslighting job.

His eyes narrowed on her face, as if he were trying to gauge her sincerity.

Apparently, he didn’t like what he saw because he muttered something foul beneath his breath before he shook his head and strode toward the door.

“Please, don’t lock the door.” She directed her plea at his broad back, and he stopped in his tracks, his shoulders tensing.

“You have everything you need in here. There’s no need for you to roam around the house. You stay in here, out of my way, out of my life, and out of my business. Trust me, we’ll both be happier for it.”

“I promise I’ll stay in here, you don’t have to lock the door.”

“If you’ll stay in here anyway, then me locking the door won’t make a difference, will it?” The question was almost silky, despite the gruffness of his stupid lumberjack/Batman voice.

“It will make a difference to me,” she countered, before adding in sheer desperation, “I have cleithrophobia. It’s a fear of being confined.”

“Bullshit. You just made that up.”

With that, he closed the door and Iris remained tense, breath bated until… the key turned in the lock. She swallowed back a sob, and her shoulders sank.

It wasn’t a lie. She was cleithrophobic. Even though there was plenty of space in here, the thought of being trapped, of being unable to move about freely, or to leave anytime she wanted scraped at her nerve endings and left her feeling on edge and short of breath. The pills helped calm her, but if her situation didn’t improve, her increasing fear and anxiety would override the medication.

This was her worst nightmare.

She didn’t even want to consider how she’d react if he carried out his threat to have her arrested. She didn’t think she could stand being kept in a jail cell.

Last night she’d been too tired to really think about it, and there’d been a sense of optimism, the absolute belief that everything would be sorted out in the morning. Today, there was only the prospect of two endless weeks imprisoned within just these walls. With nothing for company except her own thoughts. And God knew, her thoughts tended to veer toward histrionics and chaos rather than calm and logic.

She was about to descend into a chaotic whirlpool of worst-case scenarios when the lock clicked again. Her head whipped up and her heart leapt in the hope that he’d changed his mind. The door opened and a big, veined hand clutching her smaller carry-on suitcase appeared around the edge of the wood. The case was deposited on the floor, and nudged inward, before the door abruptly shut and locked again.

The hope in her chest shriveled and died, but she shoved it aside and focused on her case. It matched the big one. Neon pink and hard shelled. It looked none the worse for wear and for the first time Iris dared to hope that the interior had remained dry despite the deluge that had fallen—was still falling—from the skies over the course of the last twelve hours.

There was mud caked around the wheels and the bottom of the case, but it was still sealed.

Her laptop was in the case and Iris sent up a quick prayer to every deity she could think of before rolling the case to the small sitting room, sinking down onto the carpet, laying the small bag on its side, and unzipping it slowly.

She held her breath as she opened it, and then exhaled slowly as she cast an eye over the not-at-all wet—or even slightly damp—interior. Her laptop was in its protective lime green neoprene sleeve, the surface of which was dry to the touch.

She carefully unzipped the bag, and her laptop was nestled in there, looking just fine.

Iris exhaled slowly, thankful for this one good thing that had happened in the last forty-eight hours.

She considered the new title of her article.

How I Was Imprisoned by That Surly Bastard, Trystan Abbott.

Okay, that was a little rough… but it was only a working title. Still, if TDH wouldn’t sit down to the agreed-upon interview with her, then she would have to write an honest account of her extremely negative experience with him. And he wouldn’t be able to deny any of it. Because if he made good on his promise to have her arrested, then Iris would have her newly acquired future criminal record to back up the facts of her story.

She inhaled deeply, trying to center herself, and lay her big suitcase beside the smaller one. She eyed the cable tie for a moment, before grabbing a pair of kitchen scissors from the knife rack. She had her bag open in no time at all.

She spent the next half-hour pleasantly occupied with packing her clothes into the small closet and chest of drawers in the bedroom. It soothed her to have some familiar things around. Her laptop sat on the round dining table and her e-reader on the nightstand. Her toiletries and cosmetics were dotted around the bedroom and bathroom. She changed into her favorite jeans, and an oversized fluorescent yellow hoodie. She’d packed enough clothes to last for at least two weeks, and twice as many panties and bras.

Mr. Quinn had arranged for her to spend three weeks with his client, but Iris wasn’t always the most organized of people and she’d been concerned that she may have under packed for the trip. But she was happy to note that she’d brought enough warm clothing and underwear to last for the duration of her stay. Hoodies, cardigans, jeans and sweatpants, lots of short-sleeved tees though—she rolled her eyes at the sight of those—and a flippin’ bikini, of all things.

She’d also packed—thank the gods of small things—socks! So many, many warm pairs of thick socks. She immediately rolled a pair onto her cold, numb feet and spent a few minutes massaging some warmth back into her extremities.

Once she was fully unpacked, she tucked her suitcases into an out-of–the-way corner in the small living room and curled up with her laptop on the big easy chair facing the front door, hoping to find an email from Mr. Quinn. She didn’t necessarily believe Trystan Abbott about his manager being uncontactable. It beggared belief that an important, busy man like Mr. Quinn wouldn’t check his phone at least once a day.

She swore beneath her breath when she realized that she wasn’t—of course—connected to the Wi-Fi, and picked up her phone instead.

“Shit!” Looked like her international roaming data plan had run out. Her own fault for cheaping out and getting a plan that was good for only twenty-four hours. She’d fully expected to have access to TDH’s Wi-Fi after arrival and hadn’t seen the need to switch out SIM cards or get a more comprehensive roaming plan. Now she was as cut off as she’d been when her battery had died.

She needed to remain in contact with family and friends, people who loved her—it was essential to her mental and emotional well-being—if she was to remain trapped in here.

She stared into space for a few moments, dreading yet another frustrating interaction with TDH, but knowing that she’d have to bow down to the inevitable and attempt to persuade him to share the Wi-Fi password with her. She was still considering her current predicament—choosing for the moment not to dwell on the bigger picture—when the key turned in the lock, catching her off-guard.

She didn’t have time to react, before the door opened—without warning—and he stepped into the suite with a tray balanced on one brawny forearm.

He didn’t spare her so much as a glance, merely stepping inside, taking a few strides to the dining room table and placing the tray on it. Luna followed him into the room, and padded over to where Iris was sitting. The dog’s head was the same height as Iris’s and she booped her wet nose against Iris’s cheek, clearly demanding an ear scratch.

For a moment, Iris forgot all her woes and giggled. She tucked her laptop between her bum and the side of the chair and used both hands to frame the dog’s endearing face.

“You’re such a sweetheart,” she crooned into the dog’s ear, before giving her the scratches she deserved.

“Luna, let’s go,” TDH called the dog in his most commanding Batman voice, and Luna spared him just one glance, before blatantly opting to ignore him in favor of Iris’s scratches. “Come on, Luna.”

“Please, can she stay with me for a while?” Iris asked, hating the beseeching note in her voice. But maybe, with Luna’s companionship, the room would stop shrinking with every breath she took.

“No.”

“I promise not to trick her into revealing any of your deepest darkest secrets.”

He looked directly at her for the first time since entering the room and visibly flinched at the sight of her.

What the heck?

“Jesus, I didn’t think I’d ever see a color more hideous than your luggage, but that hoodie has it beaten by miles.”

Iris gasped.

“How rude,” she spluttered. “We can’t all walk around in mopey blacks, grays, and neutrals, like you.”

“I’m literally wearing a red shirt right now,” he pointed out. Iris blinked, nonplussed by that indisputable fact.

“Red and black,” she eventually retorted with a disdainful little snort. “Besides, you’re such a grumpy little storm cloud, you leech the color out of everything. So that red might as well be gray.”

He was staring at her in that probing, intense way of his again, and Iris betrayed her unease by shifting her weight from foot to foot before continuing doggedly, “Anyway, my point is, some people happen to like color.”

“There’s color and then there’s whatever the fuck that is,” he said, pointing at her hoodie. He looked more animated than she’d seen him since arriving here. “You look like a glowstick.”

“Just because I’m your prisoner doesn’t give you license to relentlessly mock me.”

His face tightened and his eyes went flat, as if her words had reminded him of exactly who she was and what she was doing there. Iris instantly regretted the loss of that bit of animation from his expression, and now wished she’d bantered with him instead of getting so offended. But she was exhausted, stressed, and quite honestly, petrified that she was going to wind up in jail at the end of all this. The uncertainty was eating at her, and the fear and vulnerability had her on the verge of a panic attack.

“Eat your breakfast,” he snapped, jerking his head toward the tray on the table, and Iris registered the food for the first time. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was he’d brought her to eat, but her eyes flooded with tears of gratitude.

He took a step back, appearing uncomfortable at the sight of her tears.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered. Her words were punctuated by her growling stomach and his brow lowered at the sound. She swiped at her wet eyes, embarrassed by her weepiness. “I wasn’t sure if you’d bring me any food and there’s not much to eat in here.”

His frown turned into a glower and he moved his shoulders in a jerky, awkward up-down motion.

“It’s not my intention to starve you,” he muttered. “I’ll bring your lunch at one.”

“Can Luna stay until then?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“I said no. Luna, come.” The dog gave Iris’s knuckles a regretful lick and turned toward her owner. She walked, with almost defiant slowness, toward where he stood waiting at the door and gave a last little whine before vacating the room.

He turned to follow the dog, dragging the door shut behind him in the same movement.

“No, wait,” she called, remembering something. She was shocked when he actually paused, not looking at her, merely waiting. “Can I have the Wi-Fi password? I need to stay in contact with my family, or they’ll worry.”

He didn’t reply. Didn’t acknowledge her request in any way at all. Instead, he shut the door with a quiet click and, a few long moments later, locked it.

Iris moaned. A quiet, despairing sound. Her entire body collapsed in on itself as the oppressive weight of the walls and ceilings closed in on her. She focused on her breathing, hoping it would tamp down the dread burgeoning in her chest.

When the panic didn’t subside fast enough this time, she rushed to a window and slid it up until she was able to lean her upper body all the way out. She didn’t care about the rain—from which the eaves provided some protection—or cold, instead she focused on the ground beneath the window. She could leave if she needed to, she could climb out of this window and be free. It wasn’t so bad. She had options. She was fine.

It helped and as the panic subsided, she realized she was damp and actually shivering from the icy cold. She retreated inside, and—despite the plummeting temperature in the room—left the window partly open.