Wanderlust(8)

How could I get out of this? I couldn't. I knew that with the same certainty that I knew my mother would die in that house. But I had to try. I knew what he meant by unfinished business. He was offended by my refusal earlier. It wouldn't help to pretend I didn't know.

"I'm sorry I didn't accept your offer," I said, hating the note of pleading in my voice, the tremble that betrayed me. "I should have. It was rude of me."

"Very pretty," he said. "And you got there so quickly. I'm impressed."

I tried to pretend that was promising. "Please. I wouldn't... I won't do it again. Maybe tomorrow we could try again. We could go on a date, you and I."

"Tomorrow you'll be gone from here and so will I. But you can stop talking about the bill. I would be in this room either way. I knew it as soon as I saw you there."

Any hope of talking my way out of this deflated. He was sitting between me and the door, but even if I got past him, it would take several precious seconds to open the door. Then outside, there was no one around. My room was in the back. All the windows around me had been dark. My car sat alone in the lot.

No one would see me run. No one would hear me scream.

He waited with a smug patience, as if he waited for me to catch up to the forgone conclusion.

"Are you ready to cooperate?" he asked.

Hell no. My lips firmed.

He smiled, white teeth glistening from the shadows. He looked the Cheshire cat, that incorporeal grin, the unapologetic wickedness.

Except he hadn't done anything to me.

So far he'd just sat in my room. Disturbing but not harmful. He’d done nothing illegal, if I didn’t count trespassing. All I had to do was walk out the door and leave. March straight to the office and demand a refund. A laugh wanted to bubble out of me, but I forced it down, knowing it would border on hysterical. This was only the rambling of a terrified mind trying to make sense of things that didn't make sense, desperate to feel safe while so obviously in abject danger.

He hadn't threatened me explicitly, but it was there. In his presence, in his casually arrogant words. If I tried to leave, he would restrain me. He would hurt me tonight, violate me tonight, the only question left up to me was how much. If I cooperated, would he be gentle with me? But it was too soon. I couldn't bring myself to submit to this yet even if it might make my life easier.

I edged toward the phone on the nightstand.

He leaned forward. "What are you doing?"

"Just...just calling the front desk." I forced a challenge in my voice. "If he gave you the key, then it shouldn't be a surprise to him."

It was a long shot, of course. If the manager had given him the key, he was an accomplice to whatever this was. But maybe if he heard my voice...if I seemed more human reaching out over the phone line, more scared, he might do something to help me.

I gingerly lifted the bulky plastic receiver as if it might bite. As if he might spring into action, finally revealing the violence that must be his intent. Instead he watched, eyes glittering while I listened to dead air. The line had been cut. Or maybe it had never worked. He seemed to expect that.

My hand trembled so hard that the phone clattered on the cradle before sliding to the side, useless, broken.

My voice cracked. "Please. I don't know what you want from me."

"Don't you?"

I drew myself up. "You need to leave. I'm not going to...have sex with you."

My words hung in the air, somehow worse now that I'd voiced them, as if I were the one suggesting it instead of him. He was as still as a deep pool, a limitless source of patience, allowing me to work myself up into panic while he watched in amusement.

"Enough," I said, more firmly. "You want to sit there? Fine. I'm leaving."

Clutching the towel to me, I strode to the door. I flipped the lock but before I reached the latch, his heavy palm came up against the door. He didn't block the latch or the knob. He simply leaned his weight, his thickly muscled bulk against the door and waited. This close, I could smell the faint scent of aftershave, of musk at the end of the day. His heat seeped into my back, electrifying and strangely comforting after the cold chills of fear.

"Let me go." The command came out soft, a plea.

"I'm not doing anything to you," he said. "Yet."

I was confined by the unopenable door to my front, penned in by his broad body from behind. Well and truly trapped, and he hadn't even touched me yet. I wondered if that was the game. Maybe he was waiting for me to push him, to strike him. Then he could say his actions were self-defense, in whatever twisted mental world he lived in.

My throat felt tight. "I don't want to fight you."

"Then don't. I think you know what I want. Do I need to spell it out for you? Ask me to."