4. Carsyn
FOUR
CARSYN
M y hair is sticking to the back of my neck and my scalp is itchy as hell. I can smell myself, too, and I hate that. I want to take a goddamn shower already.
The door opens, and this time, I’m not sleeping in bed when Garrison comes in with coffee and eggs. I’m sitting at the window seat, back to the glass that separates me from freedom, glaring at him.
“I want a shower,” I complain.
He sets down the plate and coffee, looking way too good in a pair of tight jeans and a long-sleeved flannel. This morning, he’s already got his cowboy hat on. Damn the Wyoming girl in me. Captive or not, a man in blue jeans with a cowboy hat will always stir up my insides.
“I’m not stopping you,” he says, in reference to the ensuite bathroom. I’ve been using it to use the toilet and sink, but I haven’t had the courage to shower yet.
“You gonna come in while I’m showering? You got cameras? You gonna take advantage? Hm?” I press, eliminating the distance between us as I stomp toward him, my greasy hair stringy around my face. I must look like shit. Worse than when I got home from a week-long camp trip with just me and the horses.
Garrison uses those thick, work-worn fingers of his to push hair off my face. I force myself to recoil back, though somewhere in me, I like his soft touch. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, aftershave and coffee swarming me. “I’ll uncuff you. Just for the shower.”
Oh yeah. Last night… I panicked. I started freaking out about being trafficked and never seeing my family again and, well, I may have punched a hole in the wall and gotten myself put into wrist cuffs in addition to the singular cuff on my ankle. For the safety of the innocent house , Garrison said. Fresh out of his shower, he stood with a white towel looped around his hips, spackling the hole in the wall, rivulets of water trailing down his muscled back.
I didn’t want to watch him.
“My ankle, too?”
His eyebrows lift, hiding beneath the rim of his Cattleman. “Ankle stays on.”
“How will I get my panties off?” I ask, my chest tightening as his eyes slide to my red bikini thong before coming back to mine.
“I’ll hook you up to the wall over there,” he says, motioning to the metal loop in the drywall hidden behind the lampshade. “I’ll uncuff your ankle, take your panties off, then re-cuff you, then let your wrists free.”
My stomach drops and a knot appears in my throat. “I don’t want you to take my panties off.”
“Two nights ago, that’s why you were here. So I could slip my big, dirty fingers into your panties and tear ‘em off you,” he reminds me, his face expressionless as I fight the urge to envision everything he’s saying.
“That was when it was my choice,” I counter.
He points to the mirror. “I won’t look. You can watch me the entire time.”
I can’t help but scoff. “Your word? What does your word even mean to me? I’m chained to a fucking wall!”
He volleys his head. “Leave the panties on then. That’s the offer.”
I’ve been in these panties for three fucking days now. It was gross after one day, and now? I could tear my skin off for as bad as I want a shower.
With my chin held high, I shuffle past him and bring my joined wrists near the hook in the wall. “Fine.”
I keep my eyes on our reflection, surprised when Garrison does not break his promise. He cuffs me to the wall first then drops to a squat; his thick thighs spread wide as he slips the key into the cuff on my ankle. The metal cuff clatters to the floor, and our eyes lock in the mirror.
With his eyes held captive by mine, my entire body heats as his rough fingers graze my exposed skin. Up my calves, then thighs, he hooks his fingers in the straps of my G-string, the feel of his knuckles against my hips making me wet. He slides the soft fabric down and, still eyeing me, grunts, “Step.” Stepping out of the panties, one leg at a time, my pussy and ass a mere foot from his mouth, I quietly say, “thank you for keeping your word.”
Garrison re-shackles my ankle and gets to his feet, then frees my wrists, speaking to me over my shoulder, just a foot between his chest and my back. “Everything you need is in there. Soaps, conditioners, towels.”
“A razor?” I ask, my heart racing from the sheer proximity of him.
He nips at the back of my ear, and I instinctively spin, falling against the wall to face him, my lower half completely nude.
“You ain’t getting’ a razor, Carsyn.” His tantalizing gaze bores into mine. “Don’t worry, no one here minds if you have a little peach fuzz on that pussy.”
I do it before I can think it through. I rear back and deck him clean in the jaw. He’s a wall of a man, so he doesn’t hardly falter. Turning his head to face mine, he smirks.
“Now I just uncuffed you and look what you did with that freedom,” he scoffs, rubbing his jaw, the rough timbre of his words setting out a series of tingles and twinges in my belly. “Get in the shower before I break my word and take a look.” He leans in, bringing his lips to my ear, his chest pressing me into the wall. “Or worse, get myself a feel.”
Angry, disgusted and ashamed, I slip from the cage of his body and walk into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door behind me but for the inch where my chain must lie. He kept his word, he didn’t look. And though he disgustingly threatened to touch me, I can’t deny that my body is thrumming with energy, that my nipples are hard and my lips are swollen, my body ready to take him.
Cue the shame.
I turn on the shower, my body aching for the hot, renewing stream. Standing in front of the mirror, I pull off my tank top. It’s filthy but I can’t help that—I had to scour every inch of that prison of a bedroom. Had to make sure there weren’t any hidden keys or secret trap doors.
I stare at my naked body. Rough. Tangled hair, swollen eyes from all that secret crying at night, middle section looking thin. Yet I’m turned the hell on. Why am I aroused right now? What’s wrong with you Carsyn? I wasn’t walking around my house all swollen and wet when Colton was kidnapped. I wasn’t grinding Nash’s thigh while being emotional and angry.
It’s this man. Garrison Conway specifically, as much as I hate myself for it–and I do hate myself for it..
He turns me the fuck on.
But I hate him. I hate him with everything I have.
Confused, I pull open a drawer to find a hairbrush, and get to working on the knots in my hair while the shower heats up.
I’ve been in here a few times, but never paid much mind until now. He’s right. The cabinets are stocked full of plush terry towels, bottles of shampoos and conditioners, bars of soap, washcloths, mouthwash, shower caps, exfoliating facial cleansers. My breath catches when I spot the box of tampons and a pink plastic bag stuffed with pads.
I don’t want to be here long enough to need tampons.
Paralyzed by reality, I stand there, with steam forming clouds around me, fogging the mirror. I can’t take my eyes off the tampons and pads.
This isn’t temporary.
I’m not going back to my brother Colton and his girl Kinleigh. I’m not having coffee with Genevieve and Nash on the back patio while we watch the horses run though the long grass. I won’t be heading to the Buffalo Trails rodeo in four days, I won’t be making my famous cinnamon rolls for Gen’s birthday next week.
Reaching past the shower curtain, I carry my chain with me as I step inside. The water blankets me as I stand motionless, absorbing, my mind racing.
This. Isn’t. Temporary.
Garrison appears in my mind, his hat tipped down, muscled shoulders flexing as he roots around a bag of weapons.
He kept his word. He never tried to look at me. He’s also been feeding me damn good, despite the fact I’m only taking a few bites. The man can make a seared steak like no one’s business. Of course, I told him it was rougher than a cow’s udder. I fight back in the ways I can.
Despite the way he’s taking care of me, or the way my overly horny and deprived body responds, he is the bad guy. And I’m smart. I’m a smart, independent, strong woman who has worked the land her whole life.
I will figure this out.
I will get away.
And with that resolve, I manage to enjoy my hot shower, chained ankle and all.