Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Britton
Professor Stratton has fallen into some sort of delusional world.
He’s still calling me Britton, but he’s thinking of me as being Mara, him being Clint, and LoneStar being Trevor.
I can handle the make-believe portion of rewriting their ending, but what I can’t handle is the fact that this feels different, it’s as if he’s using the script as a template of the best and most successful way of taking LoneStar out.
When I bring up things that won’t work with his plot, he scratches it out and starts all over again.
It’s a blueprint, a map to murder, an outline to take out someone I’ve come to deeply care about, one that has me queasy and my head spinning.
The more bloodthirsty his schemes get, the more often I gag.
Bile is a constant companion.
I can write the shit as long as I know it’s fiction, but what he’s got ruminating in his head, that’s real life. I don’t want anyone hurt because of characters I made up in my head.
My fingers shake as I type the next scene he’s decided on.
“That’s great for fiction, Professor, but realistically, it’s got a lot of holes in it,” I cautiously point out.
“One man can’t take on an entire compound of bikers and come out victorious unless he’s a superhero.
Not the way you want it to happen, anyway. ”
I don’t want to give him any ideas on how he can take out a whole club, and maybe I should let him dig his own grave, but I’m stalling, trying to buy time because I’m convinced he has a mental illness and needs psychological treatment, not death.
“Gotta think about this longer,” he frustratingly says.
“I need to get to class, so you need to go into your room.” He jabs his finger down the hallway, and now, my fingers aren’t the only thing trembling on my body.
My entire being quakes with anxiety as I stare at the door he wants me to walk through.
“Professor,” I whine. “Please don’t make me go in there.”
“Until you’re over that mangy mutt and I don’t think you’ll try to escape and run back to him, that’s where you’ll stay when I have to go out,” he angrily spits, as if I’m the one who’s slighted him.
The thunderous look on his face keeps me from arguing with him as I slowly stand up on my feet and drag them down the corridor as if this is my death march.
It’s not that it’s a terrible place to be stuck in, but it feels like a prison.
Even though it has a mini fridge, microwave, attached bathroom, and other amenities, the fact that I’m locked inside with no freedom makes me feel claustrophobic.
As soon as the door is latched and locked behind me, I morosely chuckle then murmur, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
As I hear his vehicle pull out of the driveway, I slump down on the floor as tears gather in my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
I’m sick and tired of being weak. I’m not that woman, I’ve never had the luxury of being her.
I give myself a few moments to gather my courage and stand up, walking to the bathroom and starting the shower.
I’m not comfortable taking one whenever he’s here—it makes me vulnerable to his neurotic whims.
With him being a few colors short in the crayon box, I’m not taking any unnecessary chances.
There’s no telling how far he’s fallen into this rabbit hole of a relationship that’s never existed, and since I’m not a shrink, I’m crossing all of my T’s and dotting all of the I’s and protecting myself to the best of my abilities.
Day has turned into night and still there’s no sign of the Professor.
I’m hoping he’s forgotten about me but praying that he hasn’t.
Contradictory feelings, but understandable ones.
If he’s forgotten about me, I won’t have to listen to his ramblings and schemes.
At the same time, if he has, I’d probably rot in this room until I draw my final breath.
I rely on him to stock my fridge with food and drinks, although I could probably survive drinking tap water from the sink for a few weeks until I grow too weak to crawl my way into the bathroom.
Tonight however, none of that is a concern since I’m freshly stocked on groceries and other necessities.
I’m growing more frustrated as the minutes tick by on the alarm clock that’s sitting on the nightstand.
I’m not good with being patient and unaware of what’s going to happen next.
I like to be in charge of my day-to-day life events because nobody besides me has my best interest at heart.
I enjoy making my own schedule and sticking to it as best as I can.
But life happens and sometimes I have to rearrange my itinerary.
I surf through the device hooked up to the television set in the room, flicking my way through the channels that stream true crime documentaries until one named ‘Captured’ grabs my attention.
I get sucked into it, it’s about those taken by people they know and how they survive the subjugation.
Some get attached to their abductors since they’ve come to rely on them for everything, just like me with the Professor, while others lash out and fight like wounded animals—which is appropriate considering their position.
The second option usually ends up with them being tortured and that’s not something I’m interested in gaining knowledge of firsthand.
I can handle pain, but not like what these people’s tormentors put them through.
How they survived is a mystery in itself.
They were brutalized. The things I hear have me shuddering, fighting to keep the contents of my stomach from spewing out of my mouth.
Fingernails being ripped out of their nailbeds.
One woman was skinned like her captor was a taxidermist.
One was tattooed with the fucker’s name from one end of her body to the other, branding her with his ownership.
One hung from chains the entire time she was kept hostage. The fucker inserted an IV to give her fluids while giving her a catheter so she didn’t pee everywhere.
Sick. Sick. Sick.
Me, I’m all about using one woman’s survival as a layout for my own.
She befriended her abductor, made him think she was in love with him, who could judge her for that, it’s what kept her alive.
She sympathized with him, got mad at those who upset him, both in the past and the present.
She made him dinners, washed his back in the shower, spent evenings talking about hope and dreams—ones she made sure included him.
Eventually, she got him to trust her enough that they’d spend time on the porch, sipping on wine.
That’s how she was found. A neighbor saw her with him, had seen her ‘missing posters’ in town, and called it into the hotline.
Although there are no neighbors here, if I can earn his trust, he may stop keeping me behind lock and key and give me enough leeway that I can get the hell outta here.
It’s not going to be an easy task, one that may take more time than I’m happy giving, but I’m gonna have to bite my pride and take the plunge.
I fall asleep with that in mind.
“Wake up,” I hear said above me as my shoulders are violently shaken.
When my eyes get the memo that they’re supposed to open, I scatter toward the headboard and furiously rub them with my fists.
Once my brain and eyes get on the same page, I see Mr. Stratton hovering.
“You have to get up, Britton. Something’s happening and I need you to help me make heads and tails of it. ”
“Heads and tails?” I ask, still trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep away without the benefit of caffeine to help me get there.
“Snap out of it, Britton,” he scolds. “The rats are scuttling through the maze and I don’t know why!”
“Okay, calm down, Professor,” I beg, holding my hands up in the air. “Who are the rats and where is the maze?”
“Those pests you’ve been hanging around are the rats, Britton. Keep up!” he shouts.
“The Kings?” I ask, still rousing from sleep. How he expects me to keep up when he’s only giving me pieces of the puzzle and not the entirety of the problem is annoying.
“Yes, them!” he bellows, stabbing his finger at me. I jerk back because he’s gotten a little too close for my comfort. “They’re up to something, Britton. They’re riding out in groups, scattering like bugs. I don’t like it, it deviates from my plan!”
I gulp around the lump in my throat, hope floats through me. Am I the reason they’re reacting the way they are? I pray that it is because I’m about to snap and when that happens, there’s no telling how the professor will retaliate.
“What are they doing that has you worried?” I ask, keeping my tone as soft as I can force it to be. When he doesn’t answer, I approach it a different way. “What’s so unusual about their activity that has you perplexed?”
“I told you, Britton, aren’t you listening to me?” he asks, seething.
I clear my throat then recap what he’s said so far. “They’re riding out in groups, they’re running around, and they’re not making it easy for you to get LoneStar on his own.”
“Exactly!” he yells, snapping his fingers. An action he uses when someone gets the right answer to a question or interprets his analogy and breaks it down to intelligent variables.
“They do that sometimes, it doesn’t always mean something,” I lie, knowing that something has them riding in teams. They don’t do that unless something or somebody is a threat to the club.
“Not like this, Britton. You forget, I’ve been watching them for a long time,” he chides, reminding me that he’s been spying on the club since I got there. It’s my fault they’ve caught his attention, if it weren’t for me, they’d have never made it on his radar.
Flashing back to my vow last night, I pat the mattress near me and tell him, “Come sit, Professor, and tell me all about it.” I’m not petulant about it, if anything, I’m a soothing siren calling her catch home and singing her song of seduction so she can outmaneuver her hunter and become the predator.
He lowers his brows as he cynically looks at me before sighing, and doing as I asked. “If you’re up to something, Britton, you’ll regret it. I’m not in the mood to be trifled with.”
I fib by telling him, “I just want to know what we’re up against, Professor. We’re a team, right? We have to work together so Trevor doesn’t win.”
I’m going to Hell.
At this point, it’s a foregone conclusion with all of the duplicitous deceiving I’m doing.
I’m taking advantage of someone who’s obviously mentally ill.
I’m not a Bible thumper, but even I know what I’m doing is a sin.
But from what I’ve gathered from believers, all I need to do is ask for forgiveness when I stand before those pearly gates and it’ll be granted.
As long as my intentions are genuine, which they are.
I want us all to survive this and for Mr. Stratton to get the psychiatric help he desperately needs.