Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“I’m sorry, doll-face,” he says again, his eyes filled with pain, but I cringe at his words and his touch.
I look at him sympathetically, but inside my entire body is screaming as I say, “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.” It takes everything in me not to vomit, not to climb across the table and claw his fucking eyes out.
When he pulls his hand away from my face, it accidentally knocks over his orange juice, spilling it on his shirt and shorts.
“Fuck,” he growls, grabbing the glass and launching it across the room, where it hits the wall and shatters in to a million pieces.
I instantly recoil and pray that he doesn’t take anymore of his anger out on me. I take a deep calming breath and reach across the table, my hand resting over his.
“It’s okay, Tyson,” I say, my fingers stroking his hand. “Why don’t you slip out of those wet clothes and I’ll throw them in the washing machine?”
He turns and glares at me, his eyes icy and mouth set in a firm line, but when I smile sweetly, his tenacity fades and he kisses my hand.
He stands and strips off his clothes, holding them out to me, as if he’s waiting for me to take them.
“I’m just going to set these down right here,” I tell him, placing the clothes on the chair next to me. “That way we can finish our breakfast, okay?”
Jason nods and attempts to start a conversation asking about my job. I have no idea where Rachel works, so I’m having a hard time answering his questions and I can tell he’s growing annoyed.
Letting out a loud huff and slamming his fork down on his plate, he leaves the table.
I’m not sure what to do next, so I finish the food on my plate.
Choking down every last bite in hopes of keeping him happy.
Maybe if he sees I’ve eaten the food he’s made, I can avoid him going ballistic on me again.
It also helps my body recover from the obvious drugging I took when Jason took me hostage on the boat.
Carrying my plate to the sink, Jason turns around quickly and pulls me against his chest.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had you, Rachel,” he murmurs and I can feel his erection pressing into my hip through his boxers. The tears pool in my eyes and I fight back the sob that threatens to leave my mouth.
I can’t have sex with him.
He can’t rape me.
In that second I consider pulling a knife from the knife block and stabbing him over and over again until he’s dead.
But instead, I draw away from him, a smile still plastered on my face as I tell him I need to put his clothes in the washing machine.
“You’re so good to me,” he says, stroking my cheek.
“And, just leave the dishes, I’ll get everything cleaned up when I’m done.
” This time I run my fingers down his chest and peck him lightly on the lips.
Each simple gesture makes my chest burn with pain as I try with all my might not to kill him with my bare hands.
“Why don’t you go have a shower? I’ll join you in a few minutes,” I add, winking at him.
“Thank you, doll-face,” he mutters, but his face turns evil once again and he adds, his voice laced with cruelty, “Don’t even think about trying to get away. There’s someone stationed outside who will shoot you on the spot.”
I nod my head in response, but I can feel the fear grip me. I have no idea if any of this will work, but I have to keep hope alive or else he just might kill me.
I pick up the clothes from the chair and walk towards what I assume is the mudroom and laundry room and when I open the door I find I’m correct.
I open the washing machine, toss the clothes in, adding soap and closing the lid.
But right before I leave the room, I check the door that leads to the boat dock, but like everything else I’ve encountered, the deadbolt is locked and the key is missing.
I feel my chest constrict and a small whimper leaves my lips. I wipe away the tears that have already begun to fall down my cheeks. Staying in the mudroom just a few seconds longer than necessary, yet in that short amount of time I notice how important those few seconds are.
Draped over the stationary tub, is my raincoat and sticking out of the pocket is the long-range walkie-talkie Beck insisted I carry with me at all times.
I grab for it, turning the knob on the top, but I find the battery is dead.
Once again defeated, yet I recall Beck rambled on and on about the capabilities of these stupid things.
Telling me about some internal high-tech GPS tracking device that allows the walkie-talkie to be tracked up to fifty miles and something about being able to triangulate it with the other walkie-talkies to get an approximate location.
I tuned him out, but now I have never been more grateful for his obsessive need to keep me safe or his attention to detail.
This might be the only thing that saves my life. I pray with everything in me that the battery on the walkie-talkie just went dead and Beck was able to track me using it.
Now, I just need to wait and hope I can fend off Jason’s advances for a little while longer. And if not, I’m going to need to fight.