5. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Rye
“The road’s washed out? You’re kidding me. Please tell me you’re kidding me . . . Okay, okay . . . No, Sue, I know . . . No, I don’t think we need to call the coast guard in yet. Look, just, um, give me the list of all the things you’d check. I had first aid training, but that was years ago, and I’ve got a decent . . . Yeah. All those are in my first aid kit, for sure . . . Yeah. He’s out of the wet clothes, and I’ve got . . .”
The low voice continued, but the words became muffled as the sound moved farther away, accompanied by heavy, uneven footsteps.
Rye didn’t move. Fear kept him anchored right where he was, holding his breath until his chest burned.
And actually, he wasn’t sure if he could move, even if he’d been brave enough to try. His whole body hurt . Intense, aching pains that seemed to penetrate through him. Into him. Deep and unrelenting.
But at the same time, he became aware that he was surrounded by... softness. And it was completely unfamiliar to him.
He managed a shallow breath and tried to flex his fingers, but they were stiff and numb, and the movement only made him hurt more.
“Yeah, I’ll call you back...” The voice became louder and clearer, and Rye’s heart thudded harder as he heard the footsteps stop. “Yeah, thanks, Sue. Let me know, okay?... Sure, yeah, yeah... Goodbye.”
There was a quiet grunt of some sort and then shuffling, maybe. Rye scrunched his eyes closed and forced himself to lie as still as possible as the footsteps approached. As this man approached. Rye’s heart was still beating hard, but now also much too fast and unsteadily, and it hurt. And he was reminded how everything hurt. Everything and all at once.
He closed his eyes tighter, as though the act of not seeing his new captor would mean the man wasn’t actually there .
“Hey there, you’re gonna be okay, alright?” The voice was as soft as whatever was surrounding him. “What’s your name?”
Ryan Henry Davis.
Rye didn’t say a word.
“That’s okay, that’s okay.” There was some more noise—squeaking like a chair was moving on the floor—and then the bed shifted just slightly, as though the man was leaning on it. “My name’s Jake, and I found you out on the beach. How are you feeling?”
Fucking horrible.
Rye coughed as bile rose in his throat at the curse word his brain threw at him, and the movement sent pain stabbing through his chest. Another cough came, and another, and soon, he was curled up on his side, sucking in lungfuls of air, trying to stop the barrage. Sharp pains, short and burning, seemed to flare through his chest with every cough, and his fingers found and somehow managed to grip whatever the softness was that surrounded him.
The gentle voice continued, just loud enough that he could hear it over his coughing. “You’re okay now. You’re okay. Deep, slow breaths. You’re doing great now.”
His coughing eventually subsided, though he was left with a metallic taste in his mouth and an even greater aching in his chest.
“There you go,” said the man—Jake. He’d said his name was Jake, and—
Rye shuddered and suppressed a groan as he shifted just enough to pull the blanket—the soft thing was a blanket, he realized—up higher around his shoulders. His bare shoulders.
Discomfort settled deep in his gut. God, he was naked under the blanket. Fully naked. And—and—
“I’m sorry,” Jake murmured quietly from beside him, and Rye froze again and held his breath, scrunching his eyes shut tighter.
“I’m sorry, but you’re making me do this, you know. Fuckin’ stop with the crying bullshit, and I wouldn’t have to do this.”
He braced himself against what he just knew was coming. A fist to the face, at least. But then nothing happened. Jake didn’t say anything more, or touch him, or hit him or force him.
Rye exhaled sharply and finally risked opening his eyes.
Two large hands were wringing together almost nervously. And he could see a light-blue knitted sweater and dark sweatpants. Rye stared, his vision narrowed on the man’s hands. Jake’s hands. Large and clean and soft-looking, with neatly trimmed nails and no jewelry .
The man—not Jake, not this man, but the man who had held him captive in a dark, cold basement for however-many years— that man had had rough hands. Calloused and scratchy, his nails bitten down to stubs. And he’d worn a ring on the middle finger of his left hand—his dominant hand. The one he’d always used to hit Rye.
This man’s hands were different.
They stopped wringing, and Jake seemed to shift in his chair. “I’m sorry I had to undress you,” Jake said, his voice still soft and low.
Rye closed his eyes and swallowed back his fear.
Jake continued. “It’s been raining, and your clothes were soaking wet and cold when I found you. You were at risk of hypothermia.”
Hypothermia. Rye repeated the word in his head. It meant being too cold, he thought. Or something like that. And that made sense given that he’d been outside in the rain. He still felt stiff and freezing.
“But I’m glad you’re awake now because I was—uh, I was really worried.” Jake’s voice faltered for the first time since he’d started talking, and Rye forced his eyes back open, immediately finding Jake’s hands. Jake cleared his throat. “I called an ambulance, but they can’t get through. The road’s washed out from the rain. But you’re going to be okay, alright? I’ll take care of you.”
One of those soft-looking hands began moving toward him, and even though it was slow and careful, even though Jake’s words were gentle and kind, Rye flinched away hard, scrunched his eyes shut, and curled in on himself. There was a noise, like some strangled whimper escaped him, and some other sound that he couldn’t quite hear over whatever was going on in his head.
Screaming. His own screaming and the angry, awful voice of the man. And roughness. Rough hands, rough words, rough touches.
He held his breath, waiting for whatever was to come. It would inevitably come. It always did.
But somehow, this time, nothing happened.
“You’re okay. I’m sorry to startle you.” More soft words, said in a kind, gentle voice. “The nurse I spoke with on the phone said I need to keep you warm and check your vitals—your heart rate and breathing and temperature. And I need to treat the wound on your cheek. I’m sorry I didn’t explain that first. Is that okay with you?”
Rye swallowed hard and shook his head. No. If he had a choice, which the man seemed to be suggesting, then the answer was a firm no. He doubted he really had a choice, though. That wasn’t how things worked.
“Ah, okay,” Jake said slowly. There was a brief pause. “That’s okay, that’s okay. You’re allowed to say no. ”
A sharp, ragged breath left his lips. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected, and he didn’t quite know how to respond, except to not respond at all. Instead, Rye pulled the blanket up to his chin and scrunched his eyes shut tighter.
“Tell you what, I’m going to grab some clothes for you—they’ll be too big, but that’s better than nothing. And then I’m supposed to try to get you to drink something warm. Do you like coffee? Or tea, maybe?”
Lemon tea with honey.
The discomfort in his chest grew as Rye held his breath again.
“Hey, now, no pressure,” Jake said quickly, almost as though he could sense Rye’s unease. There was a pained grunt and a cough and then footsteps, the same heavy, uneven ones he’d heard earlier, as Jake spoke again, his voice now farther away. “I’ll make tea, and if you want some, you can have it. Otherwise, you know, just rest.”
Just rest.
Rye opened his eyes, this time moving his head just enough to catch sight of Jake leaving the room. He immediately buried his head under the blanket as all the breath left his lungs.
God, the man was huge . Tall and strong-looking, with a head of thick, dark hair and a full beard.
And—and—he’d left the door open. All the way.
Rye peeked over the top of the blanket toward the open door, his stomach churning. He heard the footsteps recede, then some rustling, sounds maybe of a drawer opening, and then the footsteps again, coming back this time. He bit his lip, hard, and felt himself start to shake. A moment later, the man stood in the doorway, holding a bundle of clothing. Rye huddled more under the blanket as the figure limped toward him.
“Here you go.” Jake set the clothes at the end of the bed and didn’t step any closer. Rye vaguely wondered if he could hear Rye’s heart pounding in his chest. With a gentle nod, Jake backed up a step. “Take your time getting dressed, and I’ll make that tea, okay? Are you hungry?”
Starving.
He didn’t answer, but he blinked his eyes closed and willed his heart to stop racing.
“Okay. I’ll bring the tea when it’s ready. You just rest, okay?”
The footsteps retreated, and then there was a quiet click as the door closed. And Rye’s hands flew up and covered his mouth to muffle his cry.