Page 16 of Be Mine
Pulling the blankets back, I swing my legs over the bed, trying to stand, but they wobble when I try to straighten, weakened from whatever drugs he gave me. Bracing my hands against the wall to steady myself, I take a deep, albeit shuddering breath.
Glancing around the room, I assess my surroundings. The bedroom is cozy and clean—hardly a place you would expect a psycho to lay his head down, but I don’t have time to contemplate Noah’s decorative choices. There’s a window on this side of the bed, large enough for me to wiggle myself through, and from what I remember last night, it’s a bungalow, the fall would be minimal.
Using the wall to hold my body up, I shuffle towards it and give it a heave. It doesn’t budge.Shit. The lock. Flicking it upright, I give it another tug, and another, and another, but there’s no give. Not even a crack I can scream for help out of. Skirting my fingers along the edges, I try to find something else. A nail or screw or something that’s holding this seemingly ordinary, goddamned window in place, but there’s nothing.
Slumping against the wall, I press my forehead to the cool pane. I just need a moment to think.
Pushing off the wall, I begin to scour the room. If he left my purse in here, maybe my phone is there, too. Or his phone. Or a computer. Or fax machine. Or literally any other obsolete object that could help me.
I pull out all the drawers, look under the bed and in the closet, but besides meticulously folded clothing, there isn’t a single item in here. He has some form of OCD that is way outof hand. No person should be this orderly. He’s a special kind of psychopath, no doubt one that will be featured in a documentary in the near future.
Put Your Head on My Shouldersby Paul Anka is playing somewhere in the house, like some creepy soundtrack to my demise. Panic dances its way up my spine because my only options are out that door.Ok, you got this. He hasn’t harmed you…yet. Just play whatever this little game of his is until you find an opportune moment to get the hell out of here.
I follow the sound down the short hall into a small living room. It’s as immaculate as his bedroom, like cleaning and organizing is a favorite pasttime of his, but offers much more character with a touch of vintage-inspired décor.
The walls are a mustard yellow, the floors a polished wood. A velvet couch in cobalt faces the TV, and that’s when I notice the source of the music is a record player housed in a gorgeous oak stand. The wall adjacent is filled with what must be hundreds of vinyl, and as I near, I let my fingers dance along the edges. Some of them look so worn, they must be originals.
The needle dances smoothly as the record spins on the turntable, the malt shop tune having a dreamlike quality. The sickly-sweet lyrics about a man hoping an embrace, a tender kiss will bring him closer to the woman he loves.
Clanking dishes pull my feet forward before I can think better of it. Noah is shirtless. In his kitchen. Standing in front of the stove. I don’t miss the vast expanse of his back or the way his plaid pajama pants hang low on his hips, fitting snugly against the curvature of his ass.
His usually immaculate hair is mussed, and it makes him look even more divine. Why is this man so flawless?
“Sit,” he orders over his shoulder as he flips a pancake, a stack of at least a dozen more sitting on a warming plate next to him.
I turn towards the breakfast nook in the corner, taking tentative steps forward and lowering myself onto the bench. The kitchen matches the rest of his home, spotless, but classic decor. The table is set for two. A pot of coffee. Sugar and creamer. Maple syrup. Fresh fruit. And the long stem red roses he sent me yesterday in a vase are at the center of it all.
It all looks so normal. So domestic. I’m wondering when the other shoe is going to drop, when this false sense of security is ripped away from me, and he’s hauling me to a dark, dingy basement and chaining me to a wall.
He plates the last pancake, rinsing the pan and spatula before loading them in the dishwasher and carrying the large stack over to the table. I observe him warily as he sits opposite me, scooting in his chair. My hands shake uncontrollably at his proximity, so I lower them under the table discreetly, hiding my fear.
Loading his plate with a handful of fluffy, perfectly round pancakes, the smell is enough to make my mouth water, even if my stomach is still feeling the effects of last night. I wait for him to speak, but it’s radio silence on his end, so I break first.
“Did you…did we?” God, my voice sounds pathetic.
His eyes snap up to mine. “Did we what?”
“You know what.” I could wither under his stare, fold in on myself with every flash of frost that bites when he casts his eyes upon me, but I choose to hold onto my resolve.
“No, I don’t seem to. Why don’t you elaborate, Frankie?”
“Did we have sex?” The wordrapeis on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it. I let the insinuation hang in the air between us.
He does the unexpected—he laughs. The deep octaves reverberate off the walls. His abs flex with the movement, and I narrow my eyes at him. How can someone so sinister be so damn hot?
He picks up his orange juice. “No. I want you sentient and livelywhenI take you.” His eyes are alight with amusement as he regards me over the glass. And I don’t miss the emphasis onwhen.
I watch him with rapt fascination as he takes a healthy swig of orange juice,with pulp, and that in itself tells me he’s a monster. Setting it down next to his plate, he digs into his pancakes, dousing them with warmed syrup and cutting the stack into bite sized pieces.
“You vomited all over yourself. I bathed you and put you to bed.”
I look down at the oversized t-shirt, the one that smells subtly like him. I touch the ends of my locks that are still slightly damp.
“Why drug me?” I whisper, looking up at him with unshed tears I refuse to set free.
He sets his fork down, leaning in and resting his elbows on the table. Those frosty blues that have been haunting me sweep over my face, taking me all in.
“Would you have come willingly?”
