Carrying her into the bedroom, I lay her beautiful figure out with care. She sends a pang through my heart when I think of how I was about to let her wander off, get herself killed, just so that these feelings might finally subside. Shame fills me as my heart beats quicker.
A coward’s way out.
That’s what I tried to take. To wash my hands of responsibility. But her blood would’ve been on my hands regardless, and it’d never wash clean. I know that.
Looking down at her, those long, beautiful tresses framing her face, her body beautifully angelic in the nude, I know I have to make the hard choices. For her sake.
She can’t stay. I can’t play the role of lover.
8
Alicia
I wake up to the drab grey sight of my prison’s ceiling, though it doesn’t bother me so much anymore. As much as I feel embarrassed for making a pass at the man who abducted me—and then giving into passion and sleeping with him—I just want to feel his comforting touch.
Rolling over, I reach out, but he’s not there.
I look around and see that the room is empty. Only me. And I feel a loneliness deep down that hurts my heart.
Abandonment.
I crave his warmth wrapping around me, taking me again with such reckless abandon. It’s so unlike me to give in so readily, so eager to just have him take me. Maybe it’s the isolation of this place, I try to convince myself, but I know that isn’t it.
There’s something deeper within me that pulls me to him. For the first time, I actually have feelings for someone. More than lust or a high school crush, something deeper and darker than I could possibly bring myself to understand. I want my life to be tied to his, always.
But now he’s gone, and I don’t know what that means. Back in my cell, left to wonder about how he feels. Does he regret it? Is that why he brought me back here and left?
I push myself out of bed, my thoughts quickly growing morbid. Of course he regrets it. To him, I’m just some floozy who got in over her head, a distraction. He thinks of me as his troublesome obligation, so of course he’d extract some payment.
Plodding my way morosely to the bathroom, I expect to see bags under my eyes, but aside from the hurt lingering in my green eyes, I actually look healthy and rested. Maybe I did just need to get laid. Maybe I used him, just like he used me.
But even as I try to convince myself, I know it’s a lie.
By the time I finish tidying up, I hear the sounds of my large protector returning. His footsteps thud in the hallway outside before the door swings open and he looks in on me. That rugged, handsome face of his is completely serious.
There’s no trace of the passion that was there the night before, and I feel my heart constrict in my chest.
“You didn’t spend the night.”
“I had to arrange a few things,” he says, stepping inside and handing me a brown paper bag with a travelling cup full of coffee, I presume. “We’re taking a trip.”
I notice that he’s dressed in a nice maroon shirt, unbuttoned at the collar where some of his dark hair pokes out, and a black jacket over top.
He almost looks ready for a date in those dark denim jeans.
And my life suddenly explodes with color, and I smile instantly. It’s like all my fear and apprehension have been completely melted away within a second flat.
“Really? We’re leaving? Ohh, are we going somewhere warm to hide out for a few months until the heat dies down?”
“I’m going to drive you out of state, to a place I know well, to be safe with some people I trust,” he says with that hard stoicism of his. “As soon as you’re ready, I’ll take you out to the car and we’ll be done. You can eat breakfast as I drive,” he explains, laying down the sack and coffee upon the table.
“Sure, well...not like I have much here to pack,” I say with a roll of my eyes, heading to grab the few things I have scattered about. “And I’m assuming we’re probably not going to stop off at my place to get my luggage.” I’m trying to keep things light, but the fact that I can’t read him at all, that I don’t know what he’s thinking, is throwing me off.
Especially since he looks so damn good today.
“I’ll give you money to buy whatever you want where we’re going,” he says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a wallet. He flips it open and slides out a credit card, offering it to me. “There’s no limit, just try not to make a huge scene once we’re there,” he explains.
“So don’t go Pretty Woman on you. Got it,” I say with a sly wink. Tugging on the casual yoga jacket he’d brought me earlier, and slipping into my dangerously high heels, I look like a pampered housewife leaving rehab.