“Not yet, that was the plan for the day. I’m behind on all of the paperwork after dealing with this banking bullshit,” he informs me.
“Go read it, Rip. After you do, you’ll see the light at the end of the tunnel,” I promise him. “I’m gonna check in with Booker and see if he has any leads on Britton. But I’ll be around if you want to go over what I found out.”
“Come to my office once you finish with Booker. I may have some questions,” he orders.
“I’ll be there,” I remark, leaving him to go do some reading while I walk down the hallway to Booker’s office to inquire if he’s been able to uncover anything crucial on my woman’s whereabouts. My feet falter when those thoughts filter through my brain. My woman? When did I start thinking of her that way and why didn’t I realize that’s what I was doing before now?
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Britton
Professor Stratton has falleninto 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’msick 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 stickingto 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.
