Chapter 7
For a moment, I consider not getting in the shower once he’s out the door, my shoes in his hand. Like that’ll stop me from running down the gravel driveway in my socks.
But then his words connect with my brain and I shuck off my bloody clothes with haste. Then spread a towel on the floor a second before I hop into the large, too-fancy shower.
Then again, I think as I pick up a clean wash rag that he’d left in the shower and dump a liberal amount of body wash onto it, everything here is too fancy for a casual forest hunting cabin. It feels like he’s paid someone to make it more than just livable.
It’s…nice. Not huge or anything. One bedroom, two bathrooms, and an open space on the first floor for everything else. But I could see myself living here, if circumstances were different.
In the quiet, semi-dark of the bathroom’s dim lighting and the loudness of the shower, I’m even willing to admit that in another situation—one where Jed isn’t a chainsaw wielding maniac—I’d go out with him if he asked. And either that says something terrible about my taste in men, or…
No, it’s definitely my taste in men.
My legs fold as I sit cross-legged on the floor of the shower, the rag still clenched in my hand as my black hair falls heavily down my back as it’s soaked by the spray.
A small part of me is thrilled that this isn’t like my bathtub, where my knees smack against the sides and I have to sit uncomfortably huddled on the floor of the shower when I want to relax under the hot water.
I even eye the bench, wondering if it’s comfortable enough to curl up on or if I’d just slip right off.
But even this is too much. I shouldn’t be this comfortable in another person’s shower. Especially a stranger’s.
Especially a murderer’s.
The blood on my skin streaks down in pink lines as I watch, eyes narrowed, unable to not relax as the hot water sings a lullaby to my abused, overworked muscles.
God, I could sit here forever. Or at least until the hot water is gone. I don’t even try to move, except to lean my head into my hands and let myself fall forward just enough so the water cascades down my spine to the floor below me. One day, when I make real money, I want a shower like this.
What if he’s telling the truth? The thought comes a few minutes after I let my mind drift, giving into the siren song of comfort and exhaustion from all the escaping I’d been doing today.
Not that it had been a very successful escape, but I refuse to just call it walking or skipping down the gravel road to the river beyond.
I really should’ve picked the other road, though… My teeth bite into my lower lip as I remember the way he’d looked at me. How he’d welcomed me to try it, even though if it were the right way, surely he would be upset and trying to stop me.
In fact…Jed has barely tried to stop me from doing anything, except grabbing the chainsaw, and according to him, that was mostly for my safety, not his. If I can believe that.
But what if he’s telling the truth? The thought nags at me, tugging at my brain insistently.
He can’t be. There’s no way he is, considering he kidnapped me and brought me here against my will after drugging me in the swamp.
Sure, he could’ve killed me there. Or here.
Or literally any time in between. But he hadn’t.
And even tonight, when I’d tried multiple times to pick up a chainsaw to run him through—or at least get him to back off so I could run—he’d only brought me inside, told me to shower, and asked if I was allergic to anything so he could make us dinner.
My stomach clenches when I realize I have no idea what I’m going to do if I walk out of this bathroom and find he’s made good on his word. Do I just…eat dinner with him? Let him explain things, like he keeps saying he wants to do?
I doubt he’ll let me stab him with a fork, and I’d really rather not lose fork privileges if future food is involved.
But there’s no way I can trust a murderer. Especially one with a chainsaw and a fetish for licking blood off of my arms.
Well, not just my arms. But that thought brings a few uncomfortable ideas, and it takes me screaming the lyrics of “Sk8er Boy” in my head to chase away the mental pictures that I refuse to entertain for even a microsecond.
A sound makes me open my eyes, but when I look up, I see nothing has changed. I listen, head tilted under the spray, but nothing happens.
Until it comes again. Louder this time, and it occurs to me that Jed is tapping on the door as softly as he can.
“Dinner will be ready in ten,” he calls, his voice almost…
shy? Embarrassed, maybe? He doesn’t sound completely comfortable, or confident, but I can’t figure out why.
He definitely holds all the power here. “I hope everything is okay.” I can feel him standing there, waiting, and it’s not until another few seconds have gone by that I hear the sound of his retreating footsteps as he walks back to the stairs on the other side of the room.
He’s considerate, for a chainsaw wielding maniac. Really considerate, in fact. It’s almost like he’s normal. Like he’s the kind of man I would love to drag home to my step-mom to prove to her I won’t end up old, alone, decrepit, and starving.
Jed really is so gorgeous. His blue eyes have no right to be as striking as they are.
Nor should his permanently tousled hair be so sexy.
I’ve seen him run his fingers through it a few times since I’ve been his ‘guest,’ so I figure that his hair is trained from that repetitive movement.
Is it a nervous thing? Or just a sub-conscious act he does without even thinking about it?
And why in the world do I care? Why am I letting myself think about him as anything other than a chainsaw wielding maniac with a great shower?
And amazing cheekbones, as my brain so unhelpfully points out. Sharp, angular, and perfect for all the photo ideas I have involving his face.
It really is too bad about the murderer part of him. That’s not something I can get past, for my own safety if not for anyone else’s, and I don’t see how I could ever trust that he isn’t about to chop me up the moment he gets bored.
The water temperature changes, some of the heat I’m absorbing into my skin lessening, and I blink when I realize it’s definitely been almost ten minutes. Hadn’t he said dinner was going to be ready in ten?
Though at this point, I’m expecting chopped up people, freshly dressed deer, raw meat, or something else that will horrify me beyond belief. The image sets nausea rolling in my stomach.
But I don’t have much of a choice. I sigh as I get to my feet and shampoo my hair quickly, just to get the sweat and dirt out of it.
To save time, I don’t use his conditioner.
Even though I know I’ll have to find some way to brush it out later when my hair maliciously curls and knots up after it’s been wet; but that’s a problem for another hour, if not another day.
Once that’s done I mess with the knobs, narrowly missing dousing myself in freezing water before I turn the shower off and ring out my hair, eyes on the fluffy towels and my bloody, stained clothes.
I really don’t want to put them back on. Hell, I’d give anything to have a change of clothes with me, or be able to wash these. But I doubt my captor is about to oh so kindly offer me access to his washing machine or let me borrow something from him.
I don’t even know if I could put on something of his and not be horrified about what might have been on it before.
Finally, when I can’t procrastinate anymore and the fear in my chest has frozen to an ice cube, I shrug on my dirty clothes, gritting my teeth at the feel of them, and stand in front of the mirror.
One way or another, I have to get this over with. My fingers drum on the vanity for a few moments before I finally tear myself away from it, going to the door and cracking it open like he might be there, waiting outside with a chainsaw.
He isn’t. Obviously. But I still tiptoe down the stairs, heading to the kitchen where a bunch of really delicious smells suddenly remind me that I haven’t eaten in probably at least a day and a half.
My stomach clenches at the thought, and I fight not to put my hand against it in an effort to stop it from gnawing itself to bits at the smell of food.
Real food. Not the Lunchables stacked sky high in my fridge or the popcorn I’m guilty of microwaving and pouring salt and butter over at three am.
I don’t realize I’m staring at the kitchen island and its array of food until Jed slides into a seat on the opposite side of it, eyes on mine and wary as hell.
As if I’m the unknown risk factor here and not him. While I watch him, Jed slowly jabs a fork into whatever he’s eating that looks suspiciously like Chicken Alfredo with broccoli, and takes a bite; chewing carefully, like the sound of it might chase me away.
“You didn’t give me any allergies or dislikes,” he points out, like I’m somehow accusing him of something bad.
“And I figured you had to be hungry. Since you haven’t eaten since before the preserve, right?
” He gestures with his fork to another plate, and my eyes fall on the already made up large, shallow bowl.
It’s filled with pasta, strips of grilled chicken, broccoli, and covered in a white sauce that sends tendrils of garlic-filled deliciousness my way to pull me in like a cartoon pie.
When my stomach growls again, I grip my shirt, still standing there unsure as my eyes flick back up to his.
“And…if I were going to kill you, I wouldn’t go to the trouble of feeding you,” he mumbles under his breath, stabbing another piece of chicken.
He…has a point. Unfortunately. Gingerly, I step forward to sit across from him, in front of the plate and the glass that’s filled with ice water. Up close, the food smells impossibly good, and I’m half-sure my stomach is going to riot if I don’t eat something now.