Chapter 14
Saint
Iparkthecarhalf a mile from the house. I don’t technically have permission to be driving this particular car, and I don’t want to have to leave it in the driveway where it could be spotted. I swing my rucksack over my shoulder.
“Are you going to help, or what?” I say, motioning to the bags of groceries on the back seat. He looks so taken aback I can tell this might well be the first time he’s helped someone with something as mundane as grocery shopping. He picks up a bag in each hand. He does it in a way that lets me know he’s far from happy about it. “Go right, there’s a path behind that cluster of trees.”
“The Catskills are definitelyavibe, but it’s notthevibe. I literally do not know a single person who comes out here.” He’s been prattling on non-stop since I got him out of the trunk. He’s criticized my driving at length and has made his views known about how I handled this morning. He’s also had plenty to say about my incompetence as a kidnapper. Now it appears my ability to choose a suitable hideout is coming under fire, too.
“Ow, fuck,” he bleats with almost every step. The path runs through the woods. It’s shady, protected by a thick canopy of leaves. It’s strewn with damp leaves and pine bark and the odd twig.
“Chill. Don’t be so dramatic, it’s just a few twigs.”
“Dramatic? Uh?Dramatic? You aren’t the one walking barefoot, Asshole.” If I was nicer, I’d let him know that I packed his socks and boots in my rucksack. But I’m not, so I don’t. The walk isn’t far anyway, and this is payback for the fact he damn nearly drove me crazy in the car right after I saved his life. “You really know how to show a guy a good time, don’t you?”
“Jesus.” I’m so exasperated, he must be able to hear it in my voice. He turns to add something, but I beat him to it. I give him a hard look, and say, “You aresucha brat.”
He stops walking, turning around to look at me. He blinks and looks almost flustered. I smile to myself.
Bingo.
It’s wrong of me to use words like that. Words I know will affect him because I’ve stalked him. Words I think he’ll like because I’ve invaded his privacy by watching the porn he watches when he thinks he’s alone. It’s definitely wrong of me. Very wrong. But I don’t care about wrong. Especially not after this morning. If anything, I like wrong.
“Brat,” I say again. For good measure, I draw the word out, emphasizing each letter and finishing with a hard, explosive T. His mouth parts, as if he means to speak, but all that comes out is a soft puff of air. I can tell my use of the word has had exactly the effect I wanted. It’s struck a chord in him. It’s found a dark place inside him and has lit it up. Knowing that, seeing him like that, takes a match to something in me, too. It finds one of the many murky places in me and sets it alight.
He starts walking again. “You know you’re the worst, don’t you? You’re literally the worst kidnapper ever. I mean, I don’t even know if we’d still call this a kidnapping. It’s kind of a re-kidnapping at this point. Is that a thing, a re-kidnap…?”
“Damon.” My voice is soft and hard at the same time. It makes him stop in his tracks. He doesn’t look back. I follow the line that turns his neck into his shoulder. The dappled light of sun shining through trees hits the tiny blonde hairs on the back of his neck and makes them glow. “If you don’t adjust that attitude, I’m going to adjust it for you.”
“Adjust it for me, huh? Oooh, I’m so scared, Mr Asshole.” He couldn’t sound more sarcastic if he tried.
“You should be, boy. Know why?” I allow the full force of the threat to drip into my voice. He hasn’t started moving. He’s standing still. He’s facing forward. His rib cage isn’t moving either. He’s holding his breath. He doesn’t answer and he doesn’t inhale for as long as he can, and when he does, it sounds like a tiny, strangled gasp. “‘Cause if I don’t see a radical change in your behavior, when we get where we’re going, I’m going to bend you over and spank your ass right before I fuck it.”
He spins around, hair flapping and head twitching in fury. His cheeks are pink. He opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times, eyes flashing with rage and loathing.
“Don’t you threaten me with a good time.”
He says it with pure venom. It makes me smile and a low rumble simmers up from below my sternum. He spins back around and starts walking again. Quickly. Awkwardly picking his way along the path on his bare feet. His flimsy tank sways when he walks. His arms and shoulders dip and indent from the slight strain of carrying the shopping. Whatever you’d call his skirt-pant thing, clings to his hips, showing off the clear outline of the most perfectly fuckable ass I’ve ever seen.
The way I feel as I watch him gives me a strange feeling. A bad feeling. A feeling that if I’m not very careful, I’ll be the one who’s sorry.
*
I put the groceries down on the kitchen counter and then get to work opening windows and letting fresh air in. The lake house is one of those places that goes from feeling musty and unlived-in, to homey, in a matter of minutes. All it takes to transform it, is pulling back the full-length curtains and pushing open the sliding doors that lead out to the lake.
Usually, the second I take in the view, I’m hit by a feeling of blissful tranquility I only feel when I’m up here. Maybe that’s because I’ve never brought anyone else up here before. I can’t say I feel particularly peaceful right now. Damon is poking around, running his hand along surfaces and peering into kitchen cupboards. He seems almost satisfied with our accommodation, but a slight crinkle of his nose gives me the impression he’d have preferred it if I paid for the cleaning service to come weekly, rather than monthly.
“You going to help me unpack, or what?” He seems so bewildered by my request he can’t think of a response. I hand him a cucumber and a container of baby spinach. “Bottom drawer on the right.” I motion to the fridge. To my surprise, and his, he does as I say.
We perform a tense, ungraceful dance around each other as we unpack the rest of the produce.
“Are you sure you bought enough food, Asshole?” he says. “This looks like enough for ten people.”
“I bought what we need, and a bit extra.” I’d like to explain that I don’t have a clear plan yet and I don’t know how long we’ll be up here, but the last thing I need is for him to start up on my failings as a kidnapper again.
“Do you ever wonder if your obsession with food was caused by going hungry as a child?” He has a soft, sweet smile on his face, but his eyes shine with poison.
I’d like to say that I hear that and make a deliberate decision, that I think it through, that I make a conscious choice to act, but I don’t. I don’t make the decision. The decision makes me. I grab him by the arm and shove him until his back connects solidly with the fridge. I take both his wrists in my hands and pin them above his head. His eyes search my face, curious but unfazed.
