Chapter 10
Ten
Lane
“Fuck,” I groan. “Fucking asshole.”
How the fuck did I let Ryell get that close to me, and how did I end up practically begging him to make me come?
I flop back onto the bed, still breathing heavily from how he rubbed off against me.
Reaching into my pants, I take my hard dick in hand and jerk myself, wanting to come so I can clear my mind.
Even though I told myself to fight, to get out of his hold, my body fucking leaned into him, wanting more of what he gave me last week.
Was it last week?
Ryell has only brought me seven meals, and judging from how hungry I am when I eat, it seems he’s feeding me once a day.
Looking down at where my hand is tugging my dick, I notice that even after a week, I’ve shed some pounds.
Then I realize I’m jerking off to my fucking kidnapper, who happens to be a prolific serial killer.
I let go of my dick in disgust and pull my pants up, cursing because he’s so far into my head.
For the past however the fuck long I’ve been here, I’ve broken down when he was away, but shored up my anger when we came face-to-face. I purge my emotions when I’m alone, so I have enough fight for him.
I pull my legs to my chest and think about what just happened. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have given in so easily when he asked to draw me. His instincts were on high alert as soon as I laid on the floor. I knew he was going to call me on it, and I wasn’t that surprised when he did.
Getting to my feet, I grab the baby wipes he left for me a few days ago and clean myself up as much as I can. I would give anything for a hot bath, but the wipes are better than me walking around in my own filth every day.
Once I’m clean—or as clean as I can be—I sit back on the bed.
My dick has deflated, so I can think clearly. How did Ryell know I was crying at night? How did he know I was breaking down?
He has to have a camera somewhere, but it’s probably somewhere I can’t reach to block it or fucking rip it down.
Even still, I look around, trying to locate my spy.
I check every corner outside of the cell, then the bars.
Just as I start to give up, I notice the small lens in the corner of the cell opposite where I’m sitting.
No matter if I lie at the head or the foot of the bed, Ryell could see me.
It’s just out of reach of my chains, so I don’t even attempt to get it down.
Wanting him to know I’ve found his secret, I flip the camera the bird. I’ll just have to keep my feelings buried inside, only letting them out when I escape this hellhole. I can cry my fucking eyes out when I’m sitting in a therapist’s office.
I can do it. I’ve been trained for this. Then again, when I was going through training, I knew I’d get out, that there was an end where I’d go home. No matter how realistic the scenario, I knew it was fake. I’m not sure whether I’ll be walking out of here or leaving in a body bag.
I’m stronger than this, I know I am, but my brain hasn’t gotten the signal. I haven’t given up, but I feel like I will soon if I’m not freed.
This isolation, with no one around and no one to talk to? It’s fucking hell. I had enough of it growing up, and I can’t take it again. I’ve become too used to being around people.
For some fucked up reason, my body still wants Ryell’s touch. Every time he enters this room to give me my meals and sketches me walking a track in the floor, heat blooms over my skin. I’m left fucking disappointed when he leaves with minimal words and absolutely no touching.
That was probably why I gave up so easily when he entered my cell. It’s what I’ve been craving, even though I want my freedom too. Though I should want my freedom more.
Before I can think more about what the fuck just happened when Ryell came down earlier, he returns with a tray of food and his sketch pad.
My stomach rumbles, but I don’t move, watching his hands to make sure he has nothing that will hurt me.
Every day, I expect to see a gun, a knife, something that will end my life, but he always has food and his sketch pad.
He slides the food into the cell through the small opening at the bottom, and I make myself wait for a minute before I walk over and pull the tray toward me. Even though I’m fucking famished, I take my time, chewing every bite slowly. He might have me captive, but he won’t make me a fucking savage.
Like he’s done every day for a week, Ryell waits for me to start eating before he opens his sketch pad and draws. As has been my normal routine, I pace the cell, not keeping still for him to get a good angle or whatever the fuck.
It’s not like he’s a photographer, needing me to be still so the image won’t blur, but the first few days he sketched me, Ryell growled for me to stop pacing. So I’ve done the opposite, knowing it’ll piss him off.
His silence is killing me. Any other day, he’d taunt me, asking how I liked my accommodations, how I slept, or any other bullshit he could think of. I hate it, but it’s better than this…silence.
“Is Ryell your real name?” I blurt out, wondering why this is the first time I thought to ask this question. I’m sure it isn’t. Why would he tell me his real name…unless he knows I’m not getting out of here, no matter how much I try?
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look up from where he’s dragging his charcoal pencil across the page in front of him.
“Where are you from?” Maybe he’ll answer this question.
No such luck, he just keeps sketching.
“Hey, motherfucker!” I shout, stopping directly across from him, fisting my hands to my side. “Fucking answer me!”
He doesn’t rise to my anger. In fact, he pretends as if he doesn’t hear me. His breathing doesn’t change, his expression doesn’t change, his posture doesn’t change. Almost as if…he doesn’t notice me as a person. Hell, not even as a pesky fly swooping in front of his face.
“Ryell, I know you hear me fucking talking to you! Don’t fucking ignore me!” My voice cracks on the last word, and I fucking hate it. I hate showing him any vulnerability, any weakness.
Again, no response from him.
“You better fucking kill me because I will make your life fucking hell when I get out of here!” I threaten.
With that, Ryell stands up and rips the page out of the sketch pad. Still not looking at me, he strides over to the cell and slides the paper through the bars. I let it flutter to the floor, trying to catch his eye. But Ryell acts as if the cell is empty.
“Fuck you, Ryell! Fuck you! You monster! You’re a fucking monster!”
His stride doesn’t change as he walks toward the door, leaving me yelling at his back, just as I do pretty much every fucking day.
I snatch up the paper, intent to rip it up, but a message in thick block letters catches my eye.
SLEEP WELL.
Sleep well? What the fuck? I sleep like shit every night.
With a growl, I start to rip the paper, but my vision blurs. My head swims, and my legs feel like noodles. I drop to one knee, not able to make it over to the bed to collapse onto the thin mattress.
“Wha…?” I try to raise my hand to rub down my face, but it feels like lead, too heavy for me to lift.
Before I can figure out what’s going on, I fall onto my back, and I remember nothing else.
I come to on the floor, my arms tucked behind my head and my legs spread with my knees dropped to the side.
Even though I’m awake, everything is still fuzzy, and I’m trying to figure out how I got here.
Where the fuck am I? Why am I cuffed? Are those bars?
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
Slowly, I sit up, looking at my surroundings. When my eyes land on the man in the chair, everything rushes back to me, though my body doesn’t respond to the sudden burst of adrenaline.
“Did you sleep well?” Ryell asks me with a grin that is more evil than anything I’ve ever seen.
“Did you…” I clear my throat so my words don’t come out garbled. “Did you drug me?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? That’s all you have to say?” I struggle to my knees and have to take a break because my head is spinning. My stomach roils, and I rush over to the toilet and vomit. Tears stream down my face from the force of purging my stomach.
When I’m empty, I roll to the side and wipe my mouth.
After I flush the toilet, I crawl around the floor and feel for the baby wipes, trying to clean myself up as much as possible.
I wish I had a toothbrush, but since I don’t, I run a wipe through my mouth to rid myself of the taste of vomit.
The water bottle Ryell brought with my meal still has a bit of water left in it, so I gulp it down, feeling drained.
“Why did you drug me? Why did…” I swallow past the bile that threatens to come up.
He flips his sketch pad around so I can see what’s on the paper. A sketch of me, laid out and posed for him. Just how he wanted me. My shirt is lifted to show my belly, and my pants are undone so the band of my underwear peeks out.
With a jolt, I sit up and check my body. I still have on my clothes, but that means nothing. Thinking about him manipulating my body when I wasn’t aware of it makes me sick.
Ryell scoffs, catching my attention. “I’m a murderer, Lane, not a rapist. I can promise you, when my dick is in you, you’ll know.”
I scoff in return. “Yeah, because I fucking trust a murderer.”
“I’ll probably be the only person that will never lie to you. I have nothing to lose by telling you the truth.”
“Until I get free.”
He smiles darkly. “If you get free.”
I continue to assess myself, especially my hole, but it’s free of lube and doesn’t hurt to the touch. There is also no semen on or around my cock and no precum as if I got hard.
After my assessment, I grab another wipe and clean my hands, then clamber onto the bed. “I’m sure you’ve fucked plenty of your captives,” I sneer. “Why would I be any different?”
Ryell tsks at me. “Oh no, Lane. You’re special.” I glare at him, and he laughs. “Think about it, Agent. When your forensic techs inspected my victims, did they notice any signs of sexual assault?”
Although I don’t want to, I recall the victims we’ve found over the past few years I’ve been on this task force. None of them had any sexual activity in the days leading up to their bodies being found.
That means nothing. “You could have—”
He holds his hand up, silencing me. “I only kept my victims for three days at the most.” He shakes his head. “You know that. You’re a part of the investigation. You know when they went missing and when their bodies were found. I don’t have sex with my victims. Just you.”
“Why?” I ask, though I feel almost ashamed for my moment of weakness.
His smile grows. “Because I wanted to. Imagine the man you’re hunting making you come on his dick.” My stomach drops as I grasp the implications of what he’s said.
Even though it’s been a thought in the recesses my head, Ryell puts it out there bluntly. I wasn’t smart, I didn’t think about what it meant to go home with a random man. While I had no way of knowing a serial killer would be my hookup, my guard was down when it shouldn’t have been.
Ryell pays absolutely no attention to my existential crisis. He leans back in his chair and gets a faraway look in his eyes. “You were perfect that night, you know that? I’ve never had someone so responsive. Want me like that again?” His gaze drops to mine.
“No,” I growl, meaning it with my mouth, but my body heats as I think about how he fucked me. My dick gets hard, and there’s no hiding it. With how I’m sitting, it’s obvious. If I adjust myself, he would still notice how I responded to his words, so I don’t move.
Just as I thought, he sees. Ryell hums as his eyes drop to my crotch. “When you’re ready to admit it, let me know,” he says as he stands and walks closer to the cell. “I’ll fuck you so good, you’ll forget your name.”
“That. Will never. Happen,” I say, glaring at him.
He hums again, rips the page from the sketch pad, and slides it through my bars. I watch it flutter to the ground. “We’ll see.”
Then he leaves. I don’t shout at him this time. I’m too shaken by what just happened to do more than look at the sketch.
Closing my eyes, I try to get the room to stop spinning and for my stomach to stop protesting.
I’m not sure how he drugged me—probably something airborne since I didn’t feel groggy until he’d left the room—but it has my stomach out of sorts.
I’m hungry—since I vomited up my only meal—but I don’t think I’d be able to handle sustenance right now.
I wait a few minutes until I’m sure Ryell isn’t coming back, then I crawl over and grab the sketch.
His art is breathtaking. It almost looks like a photograph, except my eyes are open and staring out from the page. From how he drew them, I can almost feel my yearning.
I scoff, but instead of ripping the paper apart and throwing the pieces out of my cell like confetti, I fold it and place it under my mattress. Lying down, I slide two fingers into my mouth, trying to organize my racing thoughts.
I can use that. Ryell will look at the camera footage and see that I squirreled the picture away.
Maybe if I bring it out every night, he’ll think I’m infatuated with what he drew—and maybe with him as well—and drop his guard.
He’ll think that I really want him to fuck me, and he’ll make a mistake.
It’s my only chance to get the fuck out of here.