Devil's Lake (Bittersweet Hollow Book 1) (13 page)

Chapter 28

T
he man lay next to her on the double bed, curled away from her. He wore gray flannel pajama pants and no shirt. Blackish gray hair swirled over his chest, up his neck, and down beneath his waistband. He breathed evenly, snoring slightly through parted lips. Long gray hair lay flat against his skull, spilling onto the pillow.

She looked down at her body, covered in a sheet.

Oh, God.
No.

Waking rapidly, she took stock of her situation, lifting the covers.

Relieved, she found she still wore her underclothes, but noticed her wet shirt and jeans on a chair by the boarded up window. Her sodden sneakers lay on the floor beneath the chair.

What had he done to her while she blacked out?

She moved on the bed, wiggling her legs and hips. She didn’t feel sore, so she didn’t think he’d forced himself on her.
Thank God.

The room was simple, walled with rough boards whose chinks were filled with what looked like dry mud. One chair. A small table. A door leading to the bathroom. Closet, closed. And another larger room on the other side. Probably a living room, she figured.

She wiggled sideways, sliding her bare legs off the mattress and to the floorboards below. Slowly, carefully, she edged toward her clothes on the chair. They were still damp, but not wringing wet like they must’ve been when she was dragged out of the lake, unconscious.

She squirmed into them, slid on her still-wet sneakers and looked around the room. All windows were boarded up, even the little window in the rustic bathroom.

The man snored louder, snorting once and turning onto his side.

Barely breathing, she eased out of the bedroom into the living room, which she discovered was the only other room in the cabin. A mini-kitchen stood off to the right. A table and two chairs separated the kitchen space from the couch and chairs that faced a fireplace. Jackets and caps hung from a wooden peg by the door, which was firmly shut. She approached it, praying he couldn’t lock it from inside, but her heart fell when she saw the four-inch steel padlock attached to a chain looping through the door handle and to a bolt on the wall.

She tried it, anyway, and with a sob of frustration, fell to her knees by the door.

Locked in.

Trapped.

Panicking, she shot to her feet and tried to pry one of the boards off the windows. Attached from the inside, she realized they were fastened with long, heavy screws, three on each side. The wood seemed almost petrified, it was so thick and heavy.

She looked around for a tool to pry one of the boards off.

There, by the fireplace. A long brass tool hung on a hook. She lunged for it, trying to be as quiet as possible in her squeaking sneakers. Slowly, carefully, with shaking fingers, she inserted the flat-tipped end of the tool beneath one board, pushing hard on it.

It didn’t budge.

Again, she leaned her weight against the tool and pushed as hard as she could.

The board didn’t move, not even a fraction of an inch.

Frustrated and exhausted, she collapsed on the floor in a heap.

What’s he going to do with me? Kill me? Rape me? Keep me like a little wife to cook and clean and polish his boots?

Sobs overtook her, and still, the steady snoring came from the bedroom.

What should I do?

She glanced toward the bedroom again, thinking of ways she could immobilize him and steal the key. Maybe she could knock him out with the fireplace poker? Tie him up?

Could she overpower him?

No. He was too big. Too strong.

Her mind continued to race, but a sense of helplessness and fear descended on her. After another twenty minutes, her tears dried. Maybe she should just wait and see what the situation was. She might be able to slip out later in the day, or during the night. Once she knew where the key was, she—

Before she could finish her sentence, his voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Good, you’re up.” He lumbered into the living room and sat on the couch, watching her. “Trying to escape already? Well, aren’t we the little wildcat, huh?”

She shook her head and looked away, leaning against the wall beneath the window.

“Fireplace poker didn’t work for you?” He laughed, metallic and rough. “I don’t think so, sugar.”

Anger coursed through her. “Stop calling me that! I have a name.”

He rose and approached her. “Looks like I’ll have to teach you a lesson in respect.” He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her toward the bedroom.

Chapter 29

I
t wasn’t a punishment for the weak.

No food, no water, for one whole day.

He’d duct taped her mouth and shackled her to the bed like a dog on a chain, with only a chamber pot to use in an emergency.

She lay beside him the next morning, weak and ravenous, but seething with anger.

How dare he? How could he? Who does he think he is?

She turned to face away from him, but the restraint on her wrist wasn’t made for comfort. Wiggling up on the bed, she managed to flip over and put one hand beneath her cheek, while the other remained tangled by rope.

She had to figure out how to play him. How to appeal to him.

It seemed he wanted obedience.

Well, I can fake it as well as anyone. I’ll be his goddamned geisha girl if he’ll just feed me.

Once she got her strength back and her head on straight, she’d come up with an escape plan.

Yes. That’s it. Pretend to be respectful and sweet. Go along with him. Watch and wait.

But what if he wanted more than she could give?

What if he expected all the favors of a wife?

She shuddered, suddenly feeling cold all over. The last time she’d made love with a man had been almost a year ago, when her college boyfriend Ben and she parted. He, off to the Peace Corp in Africa; she, back home to Bittersweet Hollow.

The Hollow.

Oh, how she missed it, even now, even though it had just been a few days. The peaceful green fields. Her beloved horses. Her mom and dad. Her new puppy, Boomer.

Tears crept behind her eyes, tightening her throat.

NO.

I will not cry in front of him. I’ll be strong.

With a deep shuddering sigh, she controlled herself.

I can do this. I can beat him.

As if he read her thoughts, he woke, sitting up on the side of the bed. Yawning, he grumbled the words at her. “Scheming again? Trying to figure out how to get away?” He ripped the tape from her mouth.

She turned toward him, masking her face in tranquility. “No.”

“Learned your lesson yet?” He stood and yawned, stretching his arms over his head.

His movement was so human, so natural-looking that it cast her situation in an even more surreal light. How could such a monster look so normal? Act so normal? And yet be so absolutely abnormal?

“Yes. I’m sorry.” She rubbed the sides of her mouth where the tape had reddened her skin.

He almost smiled. “Well. You should be. I went through a lot of trouble to bring you here.”

She nodded meekly. “I know. Thank you.”

In a flash, his face turned red. His bushy eyebrows shot down, his jaw tightened, and his eyes bore into hers, reminding her of a mad dog. He leaned forward and grabbed her hair again, yanking her toward him. “You’d better not be playing me, bitch.”

The switch from mild-mannered psycho to raging bull surprised her. She realized maybe she’d laid it on too thick. Maybe it wasn’t believable. This time, she let the tears out. He’d expect that.

“No. I’m not playing you,” she said, weeping openly. “I’m…I’m just so hungry. But I miss my family a lot, too. I really want to go home.”

He tossed her onto the bed, knocking her head against the headboard. “That part of your life is over. I’m your family now. Me.” He growled at her.

 The hairs on the back of her neck raised as a chill stole down her neck.

He leaned in so close she could smell his horrible morning breath. “Me. And me alone. Get it, sugar?”

She gulped, wiped her cheeks, and nodded. “Yes.”

“All right. I’m untying you now. Go make us breakfast.”

“I need the bathroom. May I?” She nodded toward the closed door.

“Yes. And empty that smelly pot while you’re at it.” He motioned toward the chamber pot on her side of the bed. “It’s disgusting.”

She wanted to scream at him, to tell him he made her use the gross thing, to tell him to shut the hell up and go screw himself.

But she didn’t. Like a beaten slave, she shuffled to the pot, lifted it, and took it into the bathroom with eyes cast downward.

She didn’t dare ask him if she could shower. He’d probably explode. So she did her business, washed her body as best she could with a facecloth, drank for a full minute from the faucet, and combed her hair with the black comb on the counter that had his gray hairs protruding from it. She’d cleaned it out, had run it under boiling hot water from the tap, and then after wetting her hair under the faucet, ran the comb through it. She’d managed to hang on to the hair tie from the other day, and pulled it back into a tight ponytail.

When she came out, she went straight to the kitchen. He talked to her while she made scrambled eggs, toast, and fried ham.

“Today you’re going to start on a schedule. You’ll wear the clothes I bought for you, they’re in the closet. Get rid of those skanky jeans and that disgusting shirt. And you will not,” he said, lunging toward her and pulling on the ponytail, “wear your hair like this. I want it loose. Flowing. On your shoulders.”

With an apologetic nod, she quickly removed the hair tie. “Okay. I didn’t know.”

Grunting, he pulled out a kitchen chair and sat, waiting for her to serve him. “Now you do. Don’t forget.”

In a way, she realized that having her hair loose might be easier on her. He probably could get a lot more leverage from a ponytail, yank harder and throw her further across the room.

What a sick thought.

Her brain commented on the whole scene as if it were a critic watching a movie.

Really? You’re going to obey him? Just like that?

She stirred the eggs, forcing herself not to gobble them hot from the pan. Her stomach hurt. Her throat was parched, even though she’d drunk from the bathroom spigot a few minutes ago.

She laid the table, sat primly in front of him, and waited for him to tell her to eat. When he gave her the signal, like a master to his dog, she controlled her gnawing need to shovel it into her mouth, and ate as if it were a normal breakfast.

Later, when she cleaned up, she secretly gobbled all the rest of the food she’d left in the frying pan.

Chapter 30

H
e pushed back his chair and belched. “Not bad, for your first day. Tomorrow, add more garlic powder to the eggs.”

Portia cringed, and finished washing the pan in the tiny sink. It wasn’t easy, and the water had started to go cold. “Okay.”

He stood and watched her dry the pan, then sniffed the air like a hound. “You need to clean up. You stink.”

She turned to him, ready to throw back a retort, but bit her lip. “The hot water’s almost gone.”

“Then you’d better hurry through your shower. Come on. I’ll show you how to work it.” He pulled her into the bedroom. “Take off your clothes.”

She stared at him. “Now?”

He stared back, his face impassive. “Yes. How do you expect to shower without undressing?” He actually chuckled, turning toward the bathroom. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen you naked before.”

She froze.

What?

When had he seen her?

She’d been in bed last night with her underwear on. Did he take them off her, then put them back on? Or was he thinking of another time, another woman?

A staggering thought hit her.
Were there others before me?

She heard the water turning on in the shower.

He closed the curtain with a screech, then came out holding a towel. “This is the only one we’ve got that’s clean. I need to get to the Laundromat.”

She unbuttoned her shirt. “Okay. Thanks.” Sliding past him, she peeled off her shirt and held it in front of her. “I’ve got it now.” She accepted the towel and clutched it over her breasts.

“What? You’re gonna be shy now?” He roared with laughter. “Forget it. We’re living together. You’ll be giving me what I want, every night. Sometimes in the day. There’s no room for bashfulness here.”

He jerked the towel and her shirt from her in one swift motion. “Take it all off, now.”

She stood, shivering before him, but couldn’t move.

With a leer, he lunged for her hair again, twisted her around, and unfastened her bra. She tried to hold it in place, but he ripped it away and tossed it into the other room. “Are you deaf, sugar?”

“No.” Shakily, she unsnapped her jeans.
He’s insane. He’s going to rape me. He just as good as told me.

I need a plan. Now.

Nothing came to her.

Could she knee him in the balls? Would it incapacitate him long enough for her to find the key to the door?

Probably not. She needed to know where he kept the key, and that meant watching him next time he left and came back inside.

“You’re losing your hot water.”

Hurrying now, she turned her back to him, slid out of the rest of her clothes, and got into the shower, pulling the curtain closed behind her. The water was lukewarm at best.

He dragged the curtain to the side and openly stared at her, his lower lip hanging as if he were a caveman seeing his first female.

Up and down, his eyes raked over her body. “Soap’s on the shelf.”

She turned away from the telltale bulge in his pants to pick up the huge bar of yellow soap. No shampoo. No body wash. Nothing she was used to. Fear made her hands shake and her breath come quickly.