“Yeah, I’ll call you back...” The voice became louder and clearer, and Rye’s heart thudded harder as he heard the footsteps stop. “Yeah, thanks, Sue. Let me know, okay?... Sure, yeah, yeah... Goodbye.”
There was a quiet grunt of some sort and then shuffling, maybe. Rye scrunched his eyes closed and forced himself to lie as still as possible as the footsteps approached. Asthis manapproached. Rye’s heart was still beating hard, but now also much too fast and unsteadily, and it hurt. And he was reminded how everything hurt. Everything and all at once.
He closed his eyes tighter, as though the act ofnot seeinghis new captor would mean the man wasn’t actually there.
“Hey there, you’re gonna be okay, alright?” The voice was as soft as whatever was surrounding him. “What’s your name?”
Ryan Henry Davis.
Rye didn’t say a word.
“That’s okay, that’s okay.” There was some more noise—squeaking like a chair was moving on the floor—and then the bed shifted just slightly, as though the man was leaning on it. “My name’s Jake, and I found you out on the beach. How are you feeling?”
Fucking horrible.
Rye coughed as bile rose in his throat at the curse word his brain threw at him, and the movement sent pain stabbing through his chest. Another cough came, and another, and soon, he was curled up on his side, sucking in lungfuls of air, trying to stop the barrage. Sharp pains, short and burning, seemed to flare through his chest with every cough, and his fingers found and somehow managed to grip whatever the softness was that surrounded him.
The gentle voice continued, just loud enough that he could hear it over his coughing. “You’re okay now. You’re okay. Deep, slow breaths. You’re doing great now.”
His coughing eventually subsided, though he was left with a metallic taste in his mouth and an even greater aching in his chest.
“There you go,” said the man—Jake. He’d said his name was Jake, and—
Rye shuddered and suppressed a groan as he shifted just enough to pull the blanket—the soft thing was a blanket, he realized—up higher around his shoulders. His bare shoulders.
Discomfort settled deep in his gut. God, he was naked under the blanket. Fully naked. And—and—
“I’m sorry,” Jake murmured quietly from beside him, and Rye froze again and held his breath, scrunching his eyes shut tighter.
“I’m sorry, butyou’remaking me do this, you know. Fuckin’ stop with the crying bullshit, and I wouldn’t have to do this.”
He braced himself against what he just knew was coming. A fist to the face, at least. But then nothing happened. Jake didn’t say anything more, or touch him, or hit him or force him.
Rye exhaled sharply and finally risked opening his eyes.
Two large hands were wringing together almost nervously. And he could see a light-blue knitted sweater and dark sweatpants. Rye stared, his vision narrowed on the man’s hands.Jake’shands. Large and clean and soft-looking, with neatly trimmed nails and no jewelry.
The man—not Jake, notthisman, butthe man who had held him captive in a dark, cold basement for however-many years—thatman had had rough hands. Calloused and scratchy, his nails bitten down to stubs. And he’d worn a ring on the middle finger of his left hand—his dominant hand. The one he’d always used to hit Rye.
Thisman’s hands were different.
They stopped wringing, and Jake seemed to shift in his chair. “I’m sorry I had to undress you,” Jake said, his voice still soft and low.
Rye closed his eyes and swallowed back his fear.
Jake continued. “It’s been raining, and your clothes were soaking wet and cold when I found you. You were at risk of hypothermia.”
Hypothermia.Rye repeated the word in his head. It meant being too cold, he thought. Or something like that. And that made sense given that he’d been outside in the rain. He still felt stiff and freezing.
“But I’m glad you’re awake now because I was—uh, I was really worried.” Jake’s voice faltered for the first time since he’d started talking, and Rye forced his eyes back open, immediately finding Jake’s hands. Jake cleared his throat. “I called an ambulance, but they can’t get through. The road’s washed out from the rain. But you’re going to be okay, alright? I’ll take care of you.”
One of those soft-looking hands began moving toward him, and even though it was slow and careful, even though Jake’s words were gentle and kind, Rye flinched away hard, scrunched his eyes shut, and curled in on himself. There was a noise, like some strangled whimper escaped him, and some other sound that he couldn’t quite hear over whatever was going on in his head.
Screaming. His own screaming and the angry, awful voice of the man. And roughness. Rough hands, rough words, rough touches.
He held his breath, waiting for whatever was to come. It would inevitably come. It always did.
But somehow, this time, nothing happened.
