Maybe I am if I’m fantasizing about the man who’s blackmailing me. No matter what he’s doing, he’s still not the worst one here. He gave me options. He had the choice to call the cops and do worse but didn’t. It was nothing but a little innocent compromise. Wasn’t it? Lifting my head from the water, I blow bubbles and fold my knees. I don’t stop soaking until he calls me down to eat, and we have steak. I didn’t have to wait until this is all over, after all.
Neither of us talk much while we eat, and he makes sure I’m drinking enough water the whole time, setting two painkillers next to my plate. “For the pain and to help you sleep better. New places can be hard sometimes. I’ll go set your room up while you finish.”
“You sure you want to leave me up here by myself?”
He strokes my forehead. “You’re feeling a little warm. The Tylenol PM should help for that too. And there really is nowhere for you to go. I doubt you want a repeat of yesterday.” He lowers his eyes at me. “When you’re done, rinse your dishes and place them in the dishwasher.”
He leaves after that, not looking back or saying another word, and I’m feeling too tongue tied to respond. He’s right. If he found me the first time, he can do it again. I was walking for hours too. Did he really come from work, or had he been looking for me that whole time? Either way, he didn’t pick me up by chance and I knew that as soon as he said there was no La Quinta. The chills from then are back when I think of running, and of him always being the one to pick me up and bring me back here.
Doubt I’m worth all that trouble, but I want to believe it’s what would happen anyway. That I’m trapped here. I don’t know when I’ll be ready for him to be that good guy again, but that time hasn’t come yet. He’s a bad guy. He’ll hurt me soon. I’ll never leave here and will always be his patient. There are no clocks in the house and it’s always dark in the basement. I might not always have a sense of time, and I’ll be here for one month while assuming it’s only been a week.
All these twisted and ominous thoughts make me want to weep and smile at the same time.
Six
Riley
Two days go by, and there really was a real bed all this time. I’ve slept comfortably in it in between appointments. They were basic follow-ups on my finger. He cleaned and rebandaged my wound and checked for pain in surrounding areas. While I was asleep last night, I fell off the bed, bumping my head, with no recollection of it happening, and I woke up on the floor in pain.
He rushed in and treated me for that too, monitoring me throughout the day and checking for nausea or dizziness.
“You’re sure you’re okay? Not feeling too heavy on your feet?” he asks as I water the plants hanging above the kitchen sink.
“I’m sure.”
My hand brushes a little too hard on the edge of the clay pot when I randomly lose my balance.
“What was that?” He looks away from the whistling tea kettle, looking at me briefly with raised brows before turning off the stove.
“I . . . I guess I’m a little dizzy after all. Either that or I’m not getting enough sleep and probably need a nap.”
“Do you usually take naps?” He removes the kettle from the burner.
I shrug. “Sometimes. Mostly when I have to skip lunch that day. Helps bypass the hunger I feel at the time.” I frown at the red staining the bandage on my finger when I look at my throbbing hand.
His lips turn down too, eyes filling with what appears to be disappointment and whatever was swimming in there that day he stitched me up. Not protectiveness but something close . . . maybe.
“That’s not healthy. You should never skip meals.”
“That’s easy for someone like you to say. Not everyone’s able to have steak dinner every night.”
“I usually don’t,” he says nonchalantly, reaching for two mugs. “It just seemed like you really enjoyed it the first time I made it, so I ordered some more from the store not far from here.”
“Again, easy for someone like you.”
He huffs a laugh. “I guess so, but I won’t feel bad for what I have. I’ve worked hard for it.”
“I work hard too.”
His laughter deepens, turning into a rumbling noise. “Is that what you call taking things that don’t belong to you?”
“You mean from rich people who already have so much that they don’t know what to do with it? I bet most don’t even realize they’re missing anything.”
He fills both cups, not saying anything for a long time, and when he opens his mouth again, he’s looking directly into my eyes. “I bet they miss it more than you realize. Some people work so much that those things you don’t think they even notice anymore are all they have.”
“Is . . . is that how you feel about what I took from you.”
“Maybe.” He rubs his lips together and then his gaze follows mine to my bleeding finger. “We should take care of that.”
