10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Wyatt
There isn't a spin I can put on this that will take that look out of Shaun's eyes or the feeling out of my gut. The wife has clearly been treated poorly, probably for a long while. Nothing the husband said led me to expect her to be in this condition. I expected spoiled. I expected pampered. I expected whining. I did not expect the breathing skeletal remains of the woman he married. I did not expect this malnourished, overly-exhausted, withdrawn version of a woman I'm supposed to torment. A woman I've been paid to torment.
After just a few moments of a good look at her in the daylight, I have to admit I'm not feeling very inclined to return her to the man who hired me, much less torment her.
“Well?” Shaun demands, literally tapping his foot.
I shrug with an attempt at nonchalance. “He hired us to take her and make her wish she was back home. I don't ask for backstories or reasons, I just do the job.”
He gives me a flat look and then jabs his thumb in the direction of the door. “That's not a normal job. She's already in really bad shape. I can keep people hungry, keep them tired, make them really glad to be rescued. No problem. But it seems more like we're the fucking rescue party.”
I shrug again.
“You don't think she looks miserable enough already?”
“It's not my job to have an opinion. It isn't your job, either. Our job is to keep her and make her glad to see her husband again. That's it.”
“Oh bullshit. I'm not stupid. I can tell from the look in your eyes. She's not going to ever be glad to see that mother fucker. What was he like?”
This time the shrug is genuine. “Rich old white guy. Likes his money and his position. All he said about her is that she needed to learn her place.”
Shaun's jaw ticks. “If she hasn't learned it by now, she's not going to.”
“It doesn't matter,” I sigh. “We took the job and we're going to do it.”
He rolls his eyes, scoffing as he turns and goes back into the house. I take a few seconds to lean against the porch railing and collect my thoughts. I shouldn't have taken this job. My initial gut feeling was to turn it down and I ignored it. We're doing this job. The money makes it worth it. It's unfortunate that the wife is already in bad shape, but this is a job. Just a job. That's it.
Shaun is slumped on the couch when I get back inside. He's got the television remote control in his hand but hasn't yet turned it on. He's staring at the wife.
And she's not impressed with it. Not even a little.
“What?” she clips.
Shaun keeps staring but doesn't answer. I watch his eyes roam from the roots of her blonde hair to the tips of her toes, but he doesn't say anything. His gaze settles back on hers and she stares back at him, only breaking it with an occasional blink.
“We've been hired to take you.”
She blinks at him.
“We've been hired to make you miserable.”
She tilts her head.
“We've been hired to do anything we want to you, as long as it doesn't leave a scar.”
She smiles. It's small, but it's definitely there.
“You like that?”
She blinks at him again. “No.”
“You're smiling, though.”
She nods. “How much did he promise you?”
“It doesn't matter,” I answer. “We were offered a job and we took it.”
She smiles. “Okay.”
Shaun looks at me, one eyebrow cocked. “Okay, she says. Okay.” Then he snorts a laugh and turns on the television.
The wife and I watch each other for a full minute while Shaun starts flipping through the channels. I'm not sure if we're sizing each other up or if we're just... looking, but something inside me twists tighter every second we spend with our eyes locked together. I finally break eye contact with yet another sigh. I don't know how long the husband wants us to keep her and I am completely confident that it's going to feel like an eternity of turmoil. I'm probably going to end up far more miserable than she will.
The day is spent watching Shaun watch TV, watching the wife watch us, and bringing her cups of water that she won't drink. When dinner time rolls around, I'm starving and growing increasingly frustrated. Maybe this is what she does to drive the husband crazy. Maybe he spends his days trying to take care of her only for her to ignore or turn her nose up at his efforts like she's doing to mine. It doesn't matter. It’s obvious that she’s already in very rough condition and I'm not trying to deal with emergency-level dehydration.
I go to the kitchen and refill her cup again. I even put ice in it. I stalk back into the living room and hold it out to her. “Here.”
She looks up at me and then back at the television.
“I'm serious. Drink this water. I don't want to deal with you getting sick because you're stubborn. I'm not getting paid to kill you.”
Her dry lips press into a small line but she still doesn't reach for the cup.
“What? You don't drink tap water? You need that expensive water in the green bottle? Tough. Drink this.”
She moves as far from my outstretched hand and the cup as she can within the confines of the chair.
“Come on. Just a little bit. Just enough to keep your kidneys from becoming a problem.”
She glares at me and I realize that we've now got Shaun's full attention as he turns toward our battle of wills.
“Do we have any bottled water?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “And even if we did, she'd still get to drink tap water out of this cup. Drink the water, Larken.”
She flinches at the use of her name, but she doesn't even glance at the cup. She just glares at me even harder.
“What's the problem?” Shaun asks.
“She's a stubborn, spoiled, little princess,” I huff. “That's the problem.”
Her eyes narrow and Shaun laughs.
I can feel true irritation begin to wrap its way around my shoulders. “Fine. You don't want to drink, don't. But don't expect me to do anything when you start getting sick. You're already on your way to dehydration.”
She looks away from me and presses herself back into the chair as much as she can and adjusts her feet and legs so that they're tucked underneath her. The urge to launch the contents of the cup at her makes my eye twitch. I don't do it, instead I firmly place the cup on the coffee table and drop into the other chair on the other side of the couch.
Shaun is still staring at her. “When was the last time you drank anything?”
“Why do you care?” she asks sullenly. “You're just doing a job, right?”
“I care because your stubborn ass will make my job harder if you get sick. Just answer the question.”
She huffs, raising her chin. “Yesterday.”
Shaun smiles at her. “Then you're not in trouble yet. You're drying out but you're not too far gone. You'll drink when you get thirsty.”
“No, I won't. I won't drink anything you give me.”
He stops smiling and she balks at the sudden and stark change in his expression. “You will.” Then he turns back to the football game he was watching.
We have our next issue around midnight. I assumed we'd take turns sleeping to keep an eye on her. Just because she's been sitting there quietly this whole time doesn't mean I trust her not to shred her wrists and hands to get free and make a run for it if we take our eyes off her long enough. We are experiencing two impasses right now. Both should be relatively easy to deal with, but I'm beginning to understand that nothing is going to be easy with this woman.
She hasn't been to the bathroom all day. Not once. That's a stubborn-ass problem that will turn into a medical problem if we don't get a handle on it. She still hasn't had anything to drink. She also turned down the food I brought her. And now we have to decide whether or not we're going to leave her on the chair or put her somewhere more secure to sleep for the night.
I don't know why she's refusing food and water. Maybe it's some kind of power play. Maybe she's trying to make herself sick because she believes that we'll take her to the hospital where she can attempt an escape, despite what we've told her. That's not happening. She's staying inside this house until the husband calls her home, even if I have to hold her head under water to get her to drink it. She can go for a while without food, but going without water isn't an option.
I scrub the tops of my thighs with my palms and stand up. “You want the first shift?”
Shaun looks up at me. “Shift?”
“Sleeping.”
He nods, glancing at the wife before answering. “You can go ahead. I'll keep an eye on everything.”
I stretch my arms above my head and fight a yawn. “Alright. I'm going to the bedroom upstairs. I'll set an alarm for a few hours and then we can trade off. Call me if you need anything.”
He solutes me and turns back to the television. I'm going to have to find something else to do. I can't spend the next few days watching him watch TV. I'm already losing my mind with it and it's only been a day. I hope he enjoys playing cards or something. I almost bought a video game system to keep here but I didn't want it to be a distraction. I'm kind of regretting that now.
I pause in front of the wife on my way to the stairs and wait until she's looking up at me. “Be good.”
She blinks at me and then looks around me at the TV screen.
I release a sigh and head upstairs. Why does her attitude bother me so much? It's better than a bunch of whining and crying, isn't it? Right? Yes. So much better than crying. I hate crying and the theatrics that come along with it.
The moment I see the bed I realize how tired I am. The day wasn't physically taxing. It didn't really seem very mentally taxing, either. There have been days where I've done far more taxing work in a day than I've done today and I wasn't this tired then. I toe off my shoes and fall into the bed with every intention of falling asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
That isn't what happens, though. I can't stop thinking about how the douchebag husband's face looked when he was talking about making her happy to see him again in comparison to how stressed she isn't to be away from him. Sure, she's not thrilled to be here, but there's typically a fair amount of begging, pleading, crying, and negotiating that comes along with these types of jobs and she isn't doing any of those things. How bad is her life that being kidnapped isn't something to be afraid of? More importantly, how am I supposed to make an already unhappy woman miserable? She doesn't appear to have been beaten or anything but she doesn't look great, and I'm not so sure she's trying to go back to him no matter how miserable we make her. And all of this is just dragging that nagging feeling I've had this whole time right to the forefront. I took this job because of that feeling, but I never expected to have these wild thoughts about maybe letting her get away. Maybe relocating her somewhere her dick husband won't look. Thoughts like maybe I'm supposed to save her and that's what this is all about.
I don't know how long I laid in bed questioning everything about this situation, but when the gentle chimes of my alarm go off, my eyelids feel like they're made of sandpaper. I need about six more hours of sleep and I'm going to have to settle for some strong coffee. I look at the time on my phone. It's only been three hours since I came upstairs. The guilt I have about closing my eyes again quickly dissipates as I justify the extra hour. Shaun won't mind if I take just one more.
One extra hour turns into three and sunrise is making its presence known around the edges of the miniblinds when I wake up with my heart pounding. I don't even take the time to rub the sleep from my eyes before I jump out of the bed and dash down the stairs. My anxiety launches into the stratosphere when I find the living room empty and it climbs higher with every empty room I stalk through. When I started this search I was calling for Shaun in a fairly relaxed tone, but relaxation gave way to urgency and now urgency has died in the face of the anger building inside my skull. The last room to search is the smaller bedroom at the end of that hall and they better be in there.
They aren't. The bed, however, is unbelievably destroyed; which triggers my brain to conjure up every wretched and despicable thing that typically happens to kidnapped women.
I'm going to kill him.
And then I'm going to kill Larken's piece of shit husband.
It'll be easy. It'll be fun. I'm going to enjoy it. It's the price they can pay for subjecting me to this entire kerfuffle. I could have taken any number of other jobs, but no. I had to follow my gut and take this one and now look at this mess. Maybe it's better this way and I–
Knock, knock, knock, knock...
I zero in on the frantic pecking coming from the large wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The key, shining in the sunlight from the window, has been placed right on the center of the lid.
Why?
Why did he put her in there?
Why didn't he wake me up? What could have possibly been so urgent?
The knocking picks up speed and grows louder, turning almost into pounding.
I'm still going to kill him.
And probably the husband, too.
I stomp the few steps to the trunk and grab the key. This. This is why I don't take jobs with women or children. I don't like the way it feels and I don't put them in wooden trunks. The key turns easily in the lock and I throw open the lid to find Larken staring up at me with wide, terrified eyes. Her knuckles are bruised and scraped from all the knocking she must have been doing since Shaun put her in this thing.
“Are you alright?” I ask her, reaching in to pull her out.
Her head shakes in a quick and violent no. Obviously she isn't alright. Who would be? And for the love of all things, why does it bother me?
I was wrong. This is why I don't take jobs with women or children. The job is not to care if she's alright. This job, specifically, is designed to make sure she's the opposite of alright. And here I am, worried about how not alright she is. Unacceptable.
She sits up and tries to climb out of the trunk, but she's probably been in there so long that her legs and feet are stiff and numb so she doesn't get much farther than sitting up. I let out a defeated breath and bend down to pull her out. Then the worst possible thing happens. She clings to me. Well, as much as she can with her hands tied together. The result is the same.
This is not good.
This is, in fact, bad.
I feel my arm wrapping itself around her waist and pulling her closer to me.
Very bad.
Shit.
“Don't cry,” I order. “Don't you dare. I can't do crying.”
Her shoulder's do that tight, hunching thing that happens when people try not to cry.
Fuck.
“It's alright. I got you out. But you really can't cry. I don't do crying. You're alright.” My other hand comes around to rub her back and I can't make it stop. I stand there and let her lean against me, ignoring what my hands and arms are doing, until she's breathing slower. Gently, I pull back and hold her out in front of me. “You don't look any worse for wear. Have you been in there very long?”
She glances at the brightly lit window then back at me before she nods.
“What happened? Why did he put you in there?”
She shrugs, shaking her head.
I'm about to try to drag more out of her when I hear a car door shut outside.
“Are you better now?”
She holds my gaze for a few long seconds before she nods.
“Okay. Good. Let's go.”
I wrap my fingers around her wrist and pull her behind me down the hall and into the kitchen where I pull out a chair and push her into it before I turn a glare onto Shaun.
“Explain.”
He finishes dumping his grocery bags onto the counter and washes his hands before he turns to face me. “I needed some stuff.”
“Why didn't you wake me up?”
“You were tired.”
“Are you serious?”
“Are you?”
My violent thoughts from a few minutes ago threaten to boil over and the effort to keep them from shooting out of my mouth has my jaw clenching. “Yes, Shaun. She was in the chest.”
“And?”
And? And?! “Why did you put her inside a chest instead of just waking me up?”
He rolls his eyes. “You were tired. I heard your alarm go off and you didn't come down. You don't strike me as the kind of guy to sleep through an alarm so I figured you were exhausted. I let you sleep. She was safe, it's fine.”
I breathe through my nose, audibly, and count backwards from seven. Seven has always been a good number for me. I ask the next question when I get to one. “What was so important that you had to lock her in a trunk and not wake me up to go get it?”
“Why is this an ingredients house?”
“A what?”
Shaun walks to the fridge and throws open the door. “Blocks of cheese. Sticks of butter. Eggs.” He goes to the cabinets and starts opening them, leaving the doors wide open as he goes. “Raw pasta. Tomato sauce, not spaghetti sauce. Fucking flour. A jar of sugar. Sardines. What is wrong with you? Do you usually cook five star menus from scratch for the people you kidnap?”
“We had sandwiches yesterday.”
His brows raise. “You wanted me to eat peanut butter sandwiches for the duration of this job?”
“There is food here. And you should have woken me up.”
“Yeah, yeah. Did she take a piss yet?”
I transfer my wide-eyed glare to Larken. “You still haven't gone to the bathroom?”
She lifts her chin, pointing her spoiled little nose up in the air.
“That's it. I'm not dealing with a UTI or whatever happens when your bladder explodes.” I grab her arm and haul her back up out of the chair. “Come on. You too, Shaun.”
Her expression is understandably alarmed, his is one of joyous expectation, and I don't care about any of it. I lead the procession to the bathroom where I yank down her pants and shove her down onto the toilet. Keeping a hand on her arm, I turn toward the tub and start undoing my zipper.
“What are you doing?” she hisses.
“We are all taking a piss. If it needs to be a group activity then it will be one, but you aren't getting an infection or something on my watch. Shaun, pee in the sink.”
“That's disgusting,” Larken announces. “Where are you going to go?”
“The tub. Everybody ready?”
“This is disgusting,” she repeats.
“Don't worry, baby. We'll scrub it out for you, nice and clean, before your bubble bath,” Shaun laughs.
It's very quiet for a moment, then Shaun laughs again as the sound of him pissing down the sink drain sounds throughout the small room. I'm next to go and it's much louder when it hits the drain in the tub.
“Go, Larken,” I bark. “Now.”
I can almost feel her hot embarrassment burning a hole between my shoulders but she does go. Neither Shaun or I move until she's finished and we hear the sound of toilet paper being unraveled.
“He has to clean the sink before we wash our hands,” Larken decrees. “And I might need help with my pants.”
Shaun laughs even harder as he turns the knob on the faucet.
I pull her to her feet and quickly pull up her pants. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes,” she answers flatly.
“Well, get over it. Not going isn't an option. And neither is starving or dehydrating yourself.”
I get her settled and secured in the chair in the living room again, instead of the kitchen, before I go see what mess of garbage Shaun brought from the store. If he put me through all that stress so he could go pick up a bunch of gas station burritos and beef jerky, I'm going to go back to the original plan of killing him.