8. Carsyn
EIGHT
CARSYN
O h my god. Was that a gunshot a few minutes ago? Hell, if Garrison Conway got himself killed and no one knows I’m here… Oh my God. Okay. Reason, rationalize, use what you know, Carsyn . I take a deep breath in through my nose and release it very calmly through my lips, then open my eyes.
Okay. There was definitely a fight in the house. Maybe a gunshot, maybe something else. I don’t know. But I do know that Garrison has a litany of weapons, and being in the sex trafficking trade, I think it’s safe to assume that he doesn’t just know how to use them, but knows how to use them quickly and accurately. If anything, he shot someone, not the other way around.
That thought alone makes me feel a little better, even though that means that Garrison Conway, the monster’s right hand, has hurt or killed someone else.
I don’t even know if I heard a shot. It was muffled and I’m drugged out of my goddamn mind. I heard fighting, muffled men’s voices, furniture getting bumped maybe? I don’t know. I do know I heard a fight, but now it’s almost completely silent.
My eye flick to the bag of supplies Garrison left with me. I wonder what’s in it? Maybe the key to the cuffs? Maybe he planned to get killed and when the paralytic wears off, I’ll be able to free myself.
No, why would he do that? If he kidnapped me, he wants me here for some reason. And dying wouldn’t change that, not to a man as cold and calculating as Garrison Conway.
Blinking up at the popcorn ceiling, I curl my toes, or at least, I try. Still nothing is budging. I can’t get up to check the bag, or to see what the hell was going on out there, so instead, I force myself to remain calm. Deep breaths in and long breaths out.
A few of those relaxes the tension in my brain, and as much as I’m afraid, I can’t help but drift into a twilight.
The next time my eyes open, I can curl my toes. Hell, I can even move my legs. Excited that the drugs have worn off, I push myself to a sitting position, my head still swimmy with fatigue.
And there he is.
The bad guy.
My captivity master.
Positioned in a chair in the corner of the room, one worn boot stacked on top of the other, hefty arms resting over his chest, mossy eyes laid on me.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe out, gasping from the shock of him sitting there, watching me in silence. Then it comes back to me. The noises, the pop, the thuds, the groaning and arguing. “What the fuck was going on out there?” I ask, my entire body burning from the fiery urge to get to my feet and run out there. To run, period. But I don’t move, because he doesn’t answer. Garrison just stares at me.
My eyes roam over him, looking for an injury, some indication, some clue as to what happened.
Garrison rises, and like a moth to a flame, my eyes slide to the crimson soaking the front of his jeans, below his knee, down to his boot. His hands are balled into fists, hanging down at his sides as he treads toward me.
Steaks, eggs, hot showers and strange touches aside, Garrison Conway is a very, very bad man. And with blood spreading through his denim, venom laced in his hateful eyes, I summon as much energy as I can, clambering to the headboard. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I can’t even believe I’m cowering. Fight. Always fight . That’s the type of woman I am.
Or who I thought I was.
Because who I am right now is still lightly drugged, chained to a wall, and captive.
All I can do is keep my arms wrapped around my legs and make myself as small as possible as Garrison knees his way onto the bed. I turn away from him, tears making my cheeks sting as I force my focus out the window. His hands grip the ankle he can reach, the one not shackled to the wall, and he tugs me.
I don’t know why I do it, but I scream. I know that no one can hear me. That we’re tucked somewhere into the vast countryside of the already desolate town of Buffalo Trails. Still, I can’t help but reach out, clawing at the comforter, crying, begging for my life.
He flips me onto my back, my legs hanging off the bed, and pins me to the mattress by my hips. His broad chest shuddering, wild breaths making his nostrils flare, he hovers over me, eyes narrowed on mine.
He doesn’t speak, but the way he looks at me beckons me to play nice, and asks me to be calm. Or maybe it’s a warning in his eyes that I see? Maybe he’s telling me to shut the fuck up unless I want the needle. I hook my calves and ankles around his thighs, digging my heels into his ass as I whisper, one last time, “please don’t.”
I don’t know if I’m asking not to be raped, or taken to another location to be handed off to someone else. I don’t know. And my body clings to him despite my brain telling me to keep screaming.
His mossy eyes pierce mine as he hovers over me with his monstrous hands pinching my hips. I know I need to get away. I know that escape is my only chance at survival. Because as confused as my body gets around Garrison, he is a bad man.
“Hold still,” he says, his voice hoarse as he reaches behind him slowly. My heart leaps, thinking he’s going to pull a weapon on me, but when handcuffs appear, I don’t know whether to be relieved or more frightened.
“Is this it?” I whisper, even though I try not to whisper. I try to be loud, to be brave, to be strong if these are my last minutes under his care.
His brows pull together. “Is what it?”
Garrison pulls keys from his pocket and opens the cuffs. His hands are busy and I’m wasting this time. I should be fighting. Kicking him in his dick, rolling off the bed and running out the goddamn door.
But I can’t stop watching him. I can’t look away from the way his eyes hold mine as he leans over me, staring down at me in silent intensity. “Arms up, wrists together,” he says. And I obey.
Why don’t I hit him? Why don’t I fight?
I bring my arms up and pull my wrists together, making it easier for him to cuff me.
I don’t know. Maybe somewhere deep down I know I can’t overpower him. I can’t outsmart him. He’s got muscles, guns, drugs, resources… I have nothing and am in handcuffs.
“Put your foot on the bed, the cuffed one,” he says, and it’s then I realize that I am going somewhere. He is transporting me if he’s cuffing my wrists but freeing me from the prison of this room.
“Please, please, please,” I hear myself begging, voice shaking as a tremble wracks my shoulders, rolling down my spine. Garrison tips his hat back, leans down and presses his lips to mine.
It should make me scream.
It should jumpstart my fear, and I should be pushing him away, lashing out, crying for help.
His lips are rough, and his beard and mustache grate my soft skin. He opens his mouth and I follow his lead, moaning when his warm tongue slides against mine. I’m vaguely aware that he’s moving his arm, but the little grunt of arousal he slips into my mouth as we kiss has my brain scrambled. He pulls back at the exact moment my ankle cuff and chain fall to the floor. I look down between us, and wiggle my foot.
“Please what?” he asks, reminding us both that a moment ago, before that kiss, I was begging. Begging to stay, to live, to… what exactly, I’m not sure. Just begging Garrison Conway to save me despite the fact that he’s the one who brought me here to begin with.
“Please don’t traffic me, please don’t pass me off to someone else. I don’t want to live in a shipping container underground. Please, I have to feed the horses and take care of the farm, and if I don’t pay the bills?—”
He stands, placing his hands on his gold belt buckle, and the view silences me. Garrison is tall and strong, the kind of man who can catch you in a footrace but also beat a man to death with his bare hands. There’s a crudeness to him, a roughness about his edges. I keep reminding myself he’s a bad man, that I cannot trust him, but my instincts are confused and I find myself staring up at him in silence, waiting for his lead.
“You aren’t leaving my sight,” he says, adjusting his belt before smoothing a hand through his beard, then righting his hat. My stomach clenches. “C’mon,” he says, motioning me to stand. I get to my feet, wearing the leggings and tank he laid out for me. Taking the chain between my cuffs, he guides me out of the room into the house. I haven’t been in the main house since the first night, days ago.
Pinching his hat, he sets it on the counter and fishes a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Thought you’d be up for some socializing,” he says, and for a second I think he means with him, but then he spins me to face the hearth where a man is chained, bloody, face swollen, frame slumped.
I blink at the man, eyeing his matted blonde hair carefully. Awareness flares inside me, but it takes a moment to register. The tread on the black boots the man is wearing is familiar, as is his black jacket and the small mole above his right eyebrow.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, bringing my cuffed hands to my mouth to catch my own surprise. The man shudders a little, stirring to upright where I finally get a good view of his face.
I recognize him alright.
One of the only good men in Buffalo Trails. The only man, aside from my brother and Nash, to help Kinleigh and all those other women Forrest had trafficked. My chin trembles as a tear slithers down my cheek.
“Liam?”