Oohhh, shoot. I remember now. Oscar Wendell, being starstruck, and then a mammoth dude at a thick door. Another room. Oscar suddenly not being so nice anymore. His eyes, which told me plain as the nose on my face that Idid notwant any part of whatever he was about to do to me.
Then?
Nothing.
Black, blank.
I have no clue what happened after Oscar. Did he rape me? Is this his sex dungeon, where I’m going to be kept as a sex slave?
This works me into a panic, and I fly upright, gasping, hyperventilating—this movement sends a white-hot lance of pain searing through my head, and nausea roiling in my stomach, sour and hot. I fumble at my lady bits, only to realize I’m covered by blankets. Thick scratchy green wool on top, soft fleece underneath. The wool strikes me as military issue.
I shove the blankets back and discover to my immense relief I’m still fully clothed. Shorts, shirt, bra, underwear. My sandals are gone, but that barely registers. My lady bits don’t hurt, and after the dry spell I’ve been living through, I can only imagine that I’d feelsomething,if something nefarious had happened to me. Maybe not, I don’t know—I’m fortunate enough to have never experienced that.
Now that I’m upright and fully conscious, I take better stock of my surroundings. A smallish room, maybe ten by ten. Epoxy flooring, can lights in the ceiling, off currently. The light in the room is provided by a small lamp on the bedside table. On the table with the lamp, a black folding knife, a stack of folded money and an ID held together by a rubber band—the ID is facing in, so I can’t see the name or face. A paper-wrapped roll of quarters. A cell phone on a wireless charging dock.
The bed is against one wall, a door to the right which I assume is the exit, and an opening left of the bed leading to a bathroom—I assume a bathroom due to the mirror I get a glimpse of at this angle. On the wall to the left of the bed, a tall six-drawer bureau, black.
On top of the bureau, a framed photograph. The frame bears the logo of the United States Marine Corps. The photo is of a group of men, soldiers in fatigues wearing helmets with cameras on top, assault rifles held barrels-down at angles across their torsos and carrying rucksacks. A huge mountain range spikes the air behind them, serrated blades of bare rock. They’re on a peak or at a cliff edge, judging by the sense of space behind them. I’m at a bad angle to see the top of the bureau, but I think there’s a set of dog tags in a pile by the frame.
Oscar Wendell did not serve in the Marines, so I highly doubt this is his sex dungeon.
There are no windows, I realize. The air is cool, or actually more like cold—I see a ductless AC/heater unit on the wall near the ceiling in one corner.
Suddenly, I come to the realization that I have to pee,now.
I scramble out of the bed and lurch to the bathroom—I’m unsteady, now that I’m on my feet. Can Istillbe drunk? Gahh, no more drinking, ever ever ever. I pee for about an hour, it feels like. The bathroom is small, utilitarian. A surprisingly spacious shower stall, the shower head installed near the ceiling so even a very tall man could fit under it. The shower contains a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo, nothing else. There’s a white USMC mug on the vanity near the sink, in which is a toothbrush and a heavy antique-looking razor, the kind for which you use actual razor blades as refills. A mirror cabinet above the sink. Another bar of soap in a small tray near the faucet’s cold-water knob.
Everything is ultra-neat and hyper-clean, which fits with what I know of military men.
I wash my hands, dry them on the gray hand towel and replace it exactly how I found it, folded into quarters and aligned square with the edge of the black pressboard vanity.
Exiting the bathroom, I find my clutch and shoes together on the floor near the door. I don my sandals, hang my clutch across my torso. I need to find how to get out of here and I need about eighty-seven Tylenol and a gallon of water.
I have my hand on the doorknob when it twists on its own and the door swings in, forcing me to stumble back, squealing in shock.
The squeal of shock turns into a flat-out scream of fear as I come face-to-face with a monster.
I stagger backward, teeth chomping down on the scream.
He’s easily six-six if not taller, and the most massively jacked and shredded human being I’ve ever seen in my life. You could hang a mantel on his shoulders, they’re so broad, with huge round bulges on the outsides sloping down to his arms, which are, of course, gargantuan and carved from granite. Flat, anvil-hard pecs above an eight-pack, each abdominal muscle defined. He’s shirtless, obviously, wearing only a very short pair of green, lightweight shorts; military issue, unless I miss my guess. Colossally powerful thighs—even his calves are strong-looking. He’s wearing no-show socks and flat-heeled lifting shoes. His skin is naturally brown, due to some variety of ethnicity, but I couldn’t even begin to guess at what that ethnicity would be; he bears quite a number of scars, thin white lines around his left shoulder, several large, puckered circles just below that, several smaller circles that are less puckered and more faded all along both forearms, and a long ropy line across his belly.
His black hair is curly and thick but short in a palm-wide stripe down the center of his head, stopping at the back edge of his crown, the sides shaved; his jawline is shadowed with stubble thick enough to almost be a beard. Dog tags hang at his chest, which is heaving with deep breaths. His skin is sheened with sweat, and he has two unopened bottles of water in one hand, the other hand cupped in a loose fist at his side. His eyes are nearly black, glittering with intelligence; they’re hard eyes, deep and distant, eyes that have seen the worst humanity has to offer and yet he’s still here. And yes, they communicate that in a single glance.
“Not gonna hurt you, girl.” His voice is a deep, velvety-smooth growl. It sends shivers down my spine, and those shivers don’t stop at my spine…they end up somewhereveryprivate.
I firm up my spine and calm my breathing. “You startled me.”
“Wasn’t expecting you to be awake for another few hours.” He underhanded tosses me one of the bottles, which I thankfully manage to catch. “Feel like shit, I bet.”
I laugh, and then wince. “Yeah, I’ve felt better.”
“Alcohol poisoning.” He takes a long step toward me, and I have to stop myself from shrinking away from him; he opens his hand, revealing a single thick white pill on his palm. “Pharmaceutical-grade painkiller. Figure you got a grenade goin’ off in your skull.”
I take the pill. “Can I trust your word that that’s what this is?”
He barks a low laugh. “Girl, had you dead to the world in my fuckin’ bed.” He moves into my space, hard dark eyes piercing mine. “Coulda doneanythingI wanted. Yet there you are, dressed, wakin’ up alone, and safe.”
I gulp and refuse to back away. His presence is hot, intense, almost crushing with raw power and primal threat. “A fair point.”
