Chapter 10
“ D o you miss her?”
The sun pokes through the window on the eighteenth day, teasing us. We are facing each other from our respective corners, our legs sprawled out in front of us, our toes almost able to touch. Dean is slouched back against his pipe, his eyes fixated just over my shoulder.
“Who?” he wonders absently.
He knows who, but I answer anyway. “My sister.”
Dean blinks, slow and lazy. There is a far-off look on his face as a wave of silence passes between us, and I wonder if he’s going through memories in his mind like a film reel.
He finally nods his head one time, just as slow.
“We were supposed to get married in two weeks. Mandy wanted a winter wedding with velvet shawls, a horse-drawn sleigh, and white Christmas lights.”
A nostalgic smile breaks through as I reminisce wedding planning together with Mandy. We had ruby red bridesmaid dresses with snow white shawls. It was magical.
It would have been magical.
I glance at Dean, silently begging him to look at me. To see me.
To assure me I’m still real.
“She was really excited to marry you,” I say, my voice a small whisper.
Amanda Asher .
My last memory of Mandy was her practicing her future signature on the bar tab that fateful night .
I watch Dean’s jaw clench in reaction to my words, his eyes closing as he accepts the fact that he might never marry Mandy.
He might never get married at all. He might never have children or watch another football game or eat a medium-rare steak or pet a dog or sleep in a goddamn bed with an alarm clock waking him up to tell him, ‘ Good morning. It’s early as shit and you have to spend ten hours at work today doing hard labor, but at least you get to breathe in the fresh air and feel the sunshine on your skin . ’
Dean’s head falls back against the pole, his eyes still closed. But when he opens them, he finally finds my face. My sad, jade eyes. My pasty skin and matted hair. He sees me, and it feels like a tiny miracle.
I’m real. We’re real.
“We’re getting out of here today.”
As soon as he says the words that make my heart skip a dozen beats, Earl’s boots can be heard clunking down the wooden steps.
It’s Dean’s day. Thank God .
“Rise and shine, pets. Ready for a new day?” Earl exclaims, his face beaming with evil joy.
He paces over to Dean, the sound of his steel-toed boots against the cement always so loud and antagonistic. Earl unlocks the cuffs, then steps away with the gun pointed directly at Dean’s skull.
But instead of walking towards me like he usually does, Dean remains where he stands. He is completely still, his expression blank, as he stares Earl down with a scathing glare. “You’re a fat, fucking bastard,” he says, his tone low and levelled.
Earl stands stock-still while I watch the scene in terrified silence, my fingers curling around my pole and gripping tight.
Then Earl slugs Dean across the jaw with his fist.
I flinch, crying out in protest, yanking at my chains to draw Earl’s attention back to me. When Dean slowly pulls himself up from his knees, his fist is closed tight, hiding a small treasure.
Earl presses the barrel of the gun against his back and shoves him towards me. “Don’t fuck with me, kid. Next time it’s a bullet in your face instead of my fist,” Earl warns. “You’re on borrowed time.”
My breathing is ragged and quick as Dean approaches me, face to face, blue eyes on green.
My gaze drifts to his busted lip, already swelling and smeared with blood.
I inhale, almost choking when the breath reaches the back of my throat.
Then Dean leans in. He presses those full lips to mine, and I immediately taste the metallic, coppery blood on my tongue, mixed with sweat and a trace of mint from the toothpaste.
I part my mouth, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and he breathes in deep, so deep , as if he’s sucking up my lifeforce for survival.
As he continues to kiss me, I feel him reach his arm around my body, finding my cuffed wrists.
But instead of placing his thumb against my pulse point like he usually does, he pauses.
His mouth breaks away from mine, and Dean grazes his lips against my right cheek until they are pressed up to my ear.
The tickle of his hot breath makes me shiver.
Then he whispers in a scratchy voice, “Don’t let go of your cuffs. Don’t let them fall.”
Another breath gets caught in my throat as I instinctively curl my fingers around the metal, gripping as tight as I can. Dean takes a moment to unbuckle himself and push his jeans down to his ankles, then lifts me up with both hands.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he orders.
I ignore the tingly sensation those words procure and do as he says, holding myself up so Dean can try to unlock my cuffs with the belt clasp. It feels like an impossible feat, but my God , I’ve never wished for anything more.
Dean enters me, averting his eyes like always, unable to witness my reaction to what he considers a horrifying violation. I should agree, I really should, but my guess is that my eyes tell a different tale.
It’s better that he doesn’t look.
When we get into a comfortable rhythm, Dean finds my wrists again, pressing his chin into the curve of my right shoulder and hiding his face from Earl.
From the other side of the room, it probably appears that he’s really into pummeling me against this pole—when really, he’s trying to set me free.
I don’t miss him massaging my wrist today because I’m too distracted by the notion of escaping and finally getting out of this prison.
Please work. Please, please work.
I count down the seconds in my head, trying to keep my face focused and unreadable. It feels like more time is going by than usual and a stir of panic rumbles in my belly. I attempt to keep my breaths even, my eyes closed. I wait and wait and wait.
And then Dean pulls his lips back to my ear and says softly, “I need you to moan, Corabelle.”
Moan ?
I swallow with uncertainty.
“Please,” he whispers, the plea muffled against my ear and creating more goosebumps.
I nod my head and conjure up my most convincing moan, masking the sound of the cuffs releasing behind me, hiding the evidence of our monumental win.
Holy shit , he did it. Dean did it.
I clutch the metal in my hands for dear life, making sure they don’t hit the ground and give us away. Dean takes a moment to focus on his “task” and finishes inside me a minute later. He doesn’t say he’s sorry this time. He doesn’t cry or beg for my forgiveness.
He pulls back and winks.
We wait for what feels like an eternity, when in reality, is probably less than an hour. We wait until we’re confident Earl has gone to work.
Earl has a routine. He works Monday through Friday, leaving in the morning and returning shortly after sunset. Today is Thursday, so he should be well on his way to work by now, giving us less than eight hours to get the fuck out of here.
My heart is about to burst inside my chest with anticipation and anxiety.
There is a lot riding on this—there is everything riding on this.
I have no idea how to get Dean out of his chains, so it’s going to take a while to figure it out.
I’ve never picked a lock before in my life, let alone professional grade handcuffs.
“He’s gotta be gone by now,” Dean says to my right, prompting the nerves in my belly to do the Mamba. “You ready?”
I let out a hard breath. “I’m ready.” I finally let go of the metal and feel the cuffs slip from my wrists.
It doesn’t seem real at first, so I just sit there, forgetting I can move.
I can walk. I can do a freakin’ happy dance if I want to.
I pull myself up to unsteady feet, pinning my gaze on Dean.
Then I run to him.
He’s standing in front of me, his eyes wide and expectant, his chest heaving with fretful breaths. I catapult myself right to him, slinging my arms around his neck and touching him for the first time in weeks. Touching anyone . My hands are my own. My body is mine.
I skim my fingers through his hair, tugging gently, reveling in the feel of the soft strands.
Dean doesn’t tell me to hurry up and get moving—no, he gives me this moment.
He lets me run my palms down his neck, over his shoulder blades, then back up and around to his chest. I plant them there for a few moments, taking in the hurried beats of his heart .
He feels warm and safe and alive.
This is really happening .
I lift my eyes to his, overcome with emotion. A similar sentiment is staring back at me, and it almost stops my breath.
I find my bearings and pull my hands away from Dean’s chest, taking a small step backwards. “I don’t know how to get you out of those,” I tell him.
“I know. I’ll walk you through it. I dropped the pin behind your pole—bring it over here and I’ll tell you what to do.”
I nod, making my way back to my corner of nightmares and sliding the front of my hands over the dusty floor, my eyes casing every inch as I search for the little gold pin. When I spot it, I pick it up, pinching it between my fingers, and I dart back over to Dean to await instruction.
I settle behind him as he returns to a sitting position and take his hands in mine.
He starts walking me through the steps, but my mind feels foggy and unfocused, and my hands are trembling, so I keep dropping the clasp.
He mentions single locks and double locks and stopping points.
Clockwise, counter clockwise, springs and bars.
It’s so much. It’s too much.
“I-I can’t get it, Dean.” I feel myself panicking, the metal shaking in my inept hands. “I suck at this. I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, hey. It’s not easy to do. You’re doing great.”
I keep going, cursing under my breath as sweat lines my brow. At least thirty minutes drag by, causing my anxiety to swirl and spin. I fall back onto my butt with a cry of defeat, swiping my damp forehead with the back of my hand. “I can’t do it.”