Chapter 12
Twelve
Lane
My lips still burn from the press of Ryell’s kiss.
I shouldn’t have let him do that. I should have reached through those bars to fucking strangle him.
But for some reason, I’m under his spell that has me losing all my fucking senses when he gets too close.
Instead of telling him to fuck off and trying to maim him for abducting me, I fucking let him kiss me.
I growl in frustration as I reach under my pillow and take out the sketch. I’m careful to angle my body toward the camera so he can see that I’m admiring his work. Maybe that will help him…I don’t know…feel sorry for me so he’ll let me go?
Scoffing, I shake my head. Not fucking likely. Ryell won’t let me go. He’ll keep me, draw me, then kill me, arranging my body for my co-workers to find. I shudder at the thought and push it as far from my mind as I can.
I look down at the sketch, really taking it in without the lens of trying to trick Ryell into freeing me. I hate that it’s so fucking good. I hate that he drew me so well, like he knows my body better than I do. I fucking hate it as much as I love it.
If I were a better man, a man that upholds the badge, one that’s not blinded by two explosive orgasms, one that’s not drawn to a fucking serial killer, I’d ball this shit up and toss it out of the cell and fucking end my life rather than let this fucking psychopath fuck with me.
But instead, I’m allowing it. Because I fucking enjoy the damn attention. I’m fucking pitiful.
One thing I can glean about Ryell from this sketch and all the others I’ve seen is that he’s patient.
He likes perfection. He’ll wait until what he wants is perfect, then he’ll pounce.
That’s a good thing for me, in a way. It’ll keep me alive until I can figure out how to pick the locks of these cuffs and find an exit.
I close my eyes and try to trace the layout of his house from what I can remember, but nothing sticks out as an escape route. Maybe I can climb through a window, but if he has those remote locks on his doors, I can guess that his windows are similarly equipped.
It’s so hard to think down here. I want to rebel and fight and find a way, but at the same time, I can’t.
My brain won’t come alive until Ryell visits, and how fucking pathetic is that?
I shouldn’t want to see him, talk to him, or hear his voice, but after whatever unholy shit he did to my body, it’s like I can’t function properly if he’s not nearby.
Just as I’m thinking of him, I hear his footsteps on the stairs. I sit up, stashing the drawing back under my pillow. I want him to see that I’m looking at the sketch but not that I’m losing myself in it. I can’t give him that much of me.
Ryell strides around the corner, and I can’t help but admire his figure, which makes me fucking sick in the head. I remember him naked, how hard and fit he was.
How he sucked my dick while fucking me.
The man did things to me that I can’t even begin to forget, and that’s on the forefront of my mind, not that he’s a fucking killer.
And…the way he talked to me in the bar. He was attentive, funny, giving and taking in our conversation in equal measures. I felt seen. I felt…wanted.
That’s the problem. After my childhood—
I push that from my mind and stare at Ryell.
He has a tray in his hands, full of food.
My stomach growls. If I thought a hunger strike would work on someone like Ryell, I wouldn’t touch what he brought me, but I tried for three days, and he didn’t even bat an eye when he saw the full trays of food remaining.
When I realized he didn’t care, I stopped denying myself.
As much as I want out of this basement, I don’t want it to be because I’m dead.
He slides the food through the slot, and I take it, giving myself a minute before I dig in, though my stomach is pissed at being denied food because of my pride.
As he always does, he sits in the chair across from my cell and pulls out his sketch pad. I stand and pace while I eat. Frustration is evident on his face.
For some reason though, pissing him off today feels hollow.
I try to ignore that feeling, but it sticks with me.
That alone helps my anger burn red hot, because I don’t want to be like this.
I want to be a normal fucking person and not feel anything but disgust when I look at him.
He’s taken more lives than Ted Bundy, for fuck’s sake. I should be revolted.
“You never told me why you didn’t become a teacher,” he says, and I stop pacing and look at him, confused. To answer my unspoken question, he says, “In the bar, you said you wanted to be a teacher. Why change from that to law enforcement?”
I don’t answer his questions. Instead I ask, “Is anything you told me that night true?”
A smile spreads across his face, and he sets his sketch pad by his feet. “My name. That’s the most important thing, right?”
“What do you do?” I ask.
He tuts at me. “Maybe I’ll tell you some day.” Ryell crosses his arms. I roll my eyes and pace. “You do that a lot. Why?”
“Do what?” I ask after I take another bite from my sandwich.
“Pace while I’m here. Do I make you nervous, Lane?”
I swallow the food in my mouth and shake my head. “No.”
He makes a noise in his throat as if he doesn’t believe me. “I like you, Lane. Have I told you that?”
“You say my name a lot,” I answer instead of acknowledging what he said. If I’m honest, him liking me warms something inside me. Something that shouldn’t like that a psychopath is into me but, nonetheless, is fucking preening.
“Yes, I do. I like how it sounds.”
“Are you fucking flirting with me?” I ask, finally understanding what’s going on. All this getting to know me shit isn’t a game. He really wants to get to know me, and he’s not trying to throw me off-kilter by saying he likes me; he fucking means it.
What the fuck timeline am I on where I enjoy that this fucking maniac is flirting with me?
The kind that doesn’t get enough attention.
I push that unwelcome thought away. I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need attention that badly.
Except I do.
Ryell simply smiles, not answering my question.
After I polish off my sandwich, I stuff the chips in my mouth and then guzzle the water in less than a minute.
I push the tray out of the cell and sit on my butt, not worried about pacing anymore.
I feel so weak, what with not having adequate food and water in…
a week? Two? Fuck, I don’t even remember how long I’ve been down here.
Ryell and I stare at each other, neither of us saying anything for a few minutes. His piercing, knowing eyes have me looking away, and I feel like I’ve lost.
“What is it like being an FBI agent?” he asks. I glance up to see if he’s just fucking with me. I can’t really tell. He has the best fucking poker face I’ve ever seen, and I hate him for it.
But I don’t feel like fighting today. My mind is all fucked up with my attraction to him, being alone down here with no one to talk to except him and not knowing if tonight is my last night on earth.
Even though I want to continue to fight and be angry and find an escape, right now, I don’t have it in me.
And I hate myself for that weakness.
Rubbing my hands over my biceps, I answer his question.
“It’s…kinda boring. Not like what you see on TV and movies and shit.
It’s mostly office work after we discover a crime.
Then we have to follow the trail, which usually takes several more crimes before we get there.
” I look pointedly at him, and Ryell doesn’t seem to care.
I don’t think he will ever feel guilty for his crimes, which is disheartening.
If he did, that would mean I had a chance at freedom. That would mean no more lonely days here, with no one to talk to and nothing to do.
The loneliness is the worst part.
When I got off work and went home to my apartment alone, I chose that.
I didn’t mind because I could leave when I wanted, head to Drab Dragon and be around anyone, especially my partner and favorite bartender.
I could call up Brock and ask him to grab lunch.
Hell, I could even go to the office and find a rookie to converse with for a few minutes.
But this forced isolation, not talking to someone for hours on end, not being able to go out when I want to get some social interaction, fucking sucks.
And it hurts.
I’m being ignored, and I can’t change it because I’m fucking stuck behind these bars.
Ryell tilts his head, those knowing eyes roaming over my face. “You’re upset.”
I glare at him, though I don’t have the energy to keep it up. “You fucking drugged and kidnapped me after fucking my brains out. Yeah, I’m upset.”
He smirks but shakes his head. “No. That’s not it. It’s something else. What is it?” When I remain quiet, his smile widens. “Come on, Lane. Spill. I’m good at secrets, remember?”
What could it hurt? It’s not like he would tell anyone since he plans to kill me at some point. Besides, who would he tell? And I’ll be dead, so any information he knows could no longer hurt me.
“I don’t… I don’t like being ignored.” I tap my temple. “Fucks with my head.”
“Why?”
I glare up at him, pissed that I even told him that. “None of your fucking business.”
He smirks. “It will be someday.”
Suddenly tired, I slump against the wall and shut my eyes. “Whatever, Ryell. Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not into it. If you’re going to kill me, do it. But don’t fuck around with it. Get it over with.”
Grinning, he scoops up his sketch pad and walks over to my cell, staring down at me through the bars. “I told you what I want, Lane. I want to draw you. In any pose I want. When you let me do that, we can move forward.”
“To what? My death?”
Ryell tilts his head to the side, gazing at me as if I’m a science project.
“No. Not your death. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.” He inclines his head to the dental chair that I keep glancing at but don’t look at too closely since it still has blood on it.
“I’d tie you up there, slit your throat, and watch you bleed out like I did Janet. ”
His cold and matter-of-fact tone makes me shiver. Why am I attracted to such a brutal man? Even with him talking about how he murdered someone, my body still wants him.
I’m fucking sick.
“You’re evil,” I tell him, spitting the words with as much venom as I can muster. But my exhaustion and spiraling thoughts just make me sound like a petulant child.
“So I’ve heard.” He knocks on the bars lightly, then walks backward toward the door. “Sleep well, Agent.”