Lost & Bound (2 page)

Callum

I feel like I’ve stepped into a dream. I
know my father has struggled since my mother’s death, but there is no way what
this chick is telling me is true. No way.

There has to be something more to it,
something she’s not telling me and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.
But as she kneels before me, her eyes filled with tears that threaten to fall
at any moment, I notice for the first time how beautiful she is. Her skin is
the color of caramel and her eyes like deep pools of chocolate. Her deep brown
hair frames her face perfectly and falls half way down her back. And don’t even
get me started on her body—it’s close to perfection. Curves in all the
right places and I’d be
lying
if I said I hadn’t
noticed her ample cleavage peeking out of the dip in her robe.

“I beg you,” she cries, pulling my
attention to her lips. They’re perfect and pink and distract my attention away
from her words. “Do not call your father,” she pleads, the desperation in her
voice is impossible to deny. I need to hear her out, it will give me a few
extra minutes with her and since she no longer has the knife, that isn’t such a
bad prospect.

I bend my knees and settle next to her on
the kitchen floor.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

It seems like an easy question, but she
just shrugs her shoulders hopelessly. “Between two and three years.”

Not the answer I was expecting.

“It was 2012,” she adds.

I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s like
swallowing back a serious case of denial.

“And you haven't left the house this whole
time?”

She looks toward the kitchen window and
shakes her head.

The large bay window has a view of the
woods behind the house. My mother used to love looking out into the endless
abyss of green, brown or orange, depending on the season. She loved that the
house was tucked deep into the woods, an escape from the reality of the real
world she used to tell me. The thought causes a knot to form in my stomach. It
would be easy to hide someone here.

“I tried to escape once,” she tells me. “I
made it as far as the creek. I didn’t know they would find me so fast, but this
thing is like an anchor.” She points to the bracelet around her wrist and I
wonder where the fuck you would buy such a thing.

“Who found you?” I ask.

“He has these men,” she says, her gaze
meeting mine. “They are his security team, I’ve seen them here many times. They
found me and brought me back to the house.”

Fresh tears escape from the corners of her
eyes. They run down her cheeks and I fight the urge to wipe them away. “Then he
punished me,” she sobs.

I know my father is a well-respected man in
the community, but I have no idea how he could get away with something like
this for over two years. He has men working for him. Men who know his dirty
little secret and do nothing about it.

“These men, they are the only ones who know
you’re
here?
”

She shakes her head. “There is a lady, she
comes most days. She stocks up the fridge and pantry, and cleans the house.”

My mouth falls open in disbelief. “Rosa?”

She shrugs. “I do not know her name. She is
not allowed to talk to me. She never answers my questions, she refuses to help
me.”

Fuck.

She can’t be talking about Rosa, the woman
who practically raised me when my parents were too busy to do so. She was loyal
to my parents, but she would never turn a blind eye to this mess.

“If I speak to her she tells your father.”

“And he will punish you?” I finish the
sentence without thinking.

“He will punish me,” she confirms.

My stomach aches from the weight of her
words. I bring a hand to my belly as it rumbles and the overwhelming need to
vomit comes surging from within. When I can hold it back no longer, I rush to
the sink and vomit into the basin. The stroganoff didn’t last long. I turn the
tap to hot and wash away the contents of my stomach, and then I splash some
water on my face. Taking the towel from its hanger I wipe it over my skin
before throwing it to the counter.

The girl is standing close by my side, her
face etched with worry.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Something wasn’t
sitting right.”

She moves around the kitchen as if it’s her
own. She takes a mug from the cupboard, places a tea bag inside and fills it
with hot water.

“Here.” She hands it to me. “Tea.”

I take the mug and nod my appreciation.

“It will make you feel better,” she adds.

I cradle the cup in my hands as I walk into
the sitting room. I collapse onto the sofa next to my duffel bag. She follows
behind and sits on the edge of an armchair a safe distance away from me.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

She looks down at her hands nervously
lacing her fingers together as she waits for my answer. She looks so vulnerable
and I am torn between believing her or dismissing everything she’s told me.

I take a sip of the tea and let the warm
liquid make its way down my throat, taking with it the aftertaste of vomit and
bile.

When I respond my words are
soft—cautious. “I believe you.”

Her gaze meets mine, her eyes narrowing on
my face.

“You believe me?” she says carefully,
making sure she understands the true meaning of my words.

I shrug. “I believe that you think it’s
true.”

She looks disappointed. Her shoulders slump
forward and her eyes glaze over.

“Ask me anything,” she says. “Anything you
want to know, anything that will make you
believe
me.”

I steer my gaze toward her face and it’s
hard not to feel sorry for this girl. Her eyes are wide, like a doe-eyed Bambi
and while her far-fetched story hasn’t rung true with me, I need more to go on
before I can completely rule out the possibility that my father’s turned into a
complete psychopath.

“What’s your name?” I ask, almost as if
it’s an afterthought. We’re way beyond the point of exchanging pleasantries.

“He calls me Emmy.”

My mouth falls open.

“Emmy,” I utter once before shaking my
head.
That sick fuck.
It’s the name he called my mother, Emma. There’s
no way this girl could have known that, and yet, I still have the seed of doubt
in my mind.

“But what’s your real name?” I ask. “You
know, before you came here.”

She knots her hands together in her lap.
It’s as if she can’t remember her own name, forgotten who she is—who she
was.

She meets my eyes, uncertainty painted all
over her face.

“Leila,” she whispers.

Leila
. I
repeat the name in my mind. It’s beautiful and innocent, just like her.

“And what do you call him?”

Her eyes go wide. “Who?”

“My father, the man who keeps you here.”

“Osborne,” she answers instantly, like it’s
a reflex.

My mother’s maiden name.

As I continue talking to this girl, the
more her story seems to add up. The things she says, the names she tells
me—she can’t know unless there is some truth behind her story.

“Where are you from?” I ask, I can tell she
hasn’t been in the States long, her heavy accent a dead giveaway.

“Brazil.”

“Nice,” I say and then feel like an idiot
for saying it.
There is nothing nice about this situation, asshole.

My father held this girl captive. A foreign
girl that no one would miss and no one would come looking for. From what Leila
says, few people know she’s in the house, and of those who do, none of them have
turned him into the authorities. If this is true, which I am beginning to
suspect it is, my father is more disturbed than I ever could have imagined.

“Are you staying here?” She gestures toward
my duffel bag.

“Uh, I was, before…”

How the fuck can I stay here now? How do I
tell him I know about his little piece of ass that he has locked up in the
basement?

“I don’t think so,” I say finally.

A look of disappointment crosses her face
and I feel like a complete asshole.

I offer her a comforting smile. “Hey, I
can’t very well stay here if I’m going to help you escape now can I?”

I watch her face as her lips turn into a
smile, a dimple appearing in her left cheek. My stomach flip-flops as I watch
the excitement practically radiate off of her.

I’ve just told her my intentions without
thinking it through, and while I know I need to help this girl, the feeling in
the pit of my stomach tells me I’ve just signed up for war.

***

I leave my father’s house hesitantly. I know
I can’t stay any longer, the whole situation is too fucked up to comprehend and
I need time to think. Time to take it all in and come up with a plan of attack.

The entire drive to Eric’s house I debate
whether or not to call the cops. Part of me thinks, fuck it, call the police
and have my father put away where he belongs. Maybe he can finally get the help
that he needs. Obviously he hasn’t dealt with my mother’s death and it’s been
five years already.

But the reality of the situation is that I
can’t trust anyone in this town. Dad would somehow flip my story on its head
and then I’d end up looking like a complete fool. Or worse.

I pull my rental car up to the curb and
walk the two flights of stairs to Eric’s apartment. He’s my best friend in
Merling. If I’m honest, he’s my only friend here and the one person I can rely
on.

I knock on the door, my bag hanging loosely
over my shoulder, my whole life packed into one single case.

I hear the chains unlatching and then the door
cracks a sliver.

“Cal?” I hear the smile in his voice. He’s
happy to see me.

“How’s it going man?” I clasp his hand and
bring him into a manly embrace.

“Come in.” He steps aside letting me into
his tiny one bedroom apartment.

I look around the space. It’s tidy apart
from a couple of beer bottles scattered across the coffee table.

“Take a seat.” Eric smiles. “Beer?” He
hands me a bottle without waiting for my reply.

“Thanks, man.” I crack it open and take a
long swig. It slides down easily enough.

“When did you get back?” he asks taking a
seat on the sofa opposite me.

“This morning.” I shake my head, trying to
expel some of the grogginess from my thoughts.

He hesitates for a moment. “And Sofia?”

The name sounds foreign to me and I realize
I haven’t thought about her all day. I almost forgot that I left her behind,
because in truth, there’s only one girl on my mind.

“It’s over.” I avert my gaze.
 

I’m not upset. I just don’t want a million
questions thrown at me.

“I’m sorry to hear that man.” I’m surprised
by the sincerity in his voice. Eric never liked Sofia. On one drunken night
he’d referred to her as a bitch and she threw a glass of wine in his face. The
memory brings a smirk to my lips. She was livid, but Eric took it all in his
stride, enjoying the chance to show her up at every opportunity.

“You back for good?” He raises his eyebrows
and I sense a hint of
excitement
in his voice.

I shrug my shoulders.
Am I back here for good?
“Not sure, man. I just had to get out of
Italy.”

“Sofia’s dad after your balls on a stick?”
He lets out a gruff laugh.

“Yeah, something like that.”

He takes a long swig of beer before turning
his attention back to me.

“Where are you staying?”

I lift my eyebrows. “Funny you should ask…”

Leila

It’s six o’clock. I know he’ll be home soon
so I’ve settled back in the basement. Some days he comes straight down to check
on me, other days he’ll eat first and then visit me after dinner. Sometimes he
doesn’t come down at all. Those days are rare, but they’re what I hope for.

Today is Wednesday. He’ll be tired, but
will have more energy than the previous two nights. He’ll probably expect
something from me. Maybe a blow job, perhaps something more. I know his routine
better than he knows himself and most importantly, I know it without him
realizing.

I hear the front door close then latch. I
listen for this sound every day. The sound makes me quiver, even after all
these years. It signifies the end of my solitude and the beginning of the
torment that will follow.

I listen for his footsteps, his rubber
soles hitting hardwood floors. The steps become louder and louder until I hear
the basement doorknob turn.

Today he’s coming straight to see me. I
take in a breath as his heavy footsteps descend the flimsy wooden staircase. He
heads straight toward the bed where I am huddled, the bedside lamp the only
glow in the otherwise dimly lit room.

“Good evening, precious,” he purrs and my
skin instantly crawls from the sound of his voice. He pauses for a moment and
then let’s out an exaggerated sigh. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” His tone
tells me to comply.

I keep my voice even, void of any emotion.
“Hello.”

The bed dips as he takes a seat on the edge
and reaches for my bare foot. He runs his fingers along my skin and I fight
back the urge to kick him in the face.

I used to be ticklish and no one could come
close to touching my feet. It’s amazing how captivity can change things about a
person. It can quash any quirks you used to have and make you feel nothing at
all.

He reaches for my right foot and brings it
to his lap, gently pressing each toe between his thumb and forefinger. I don’t
know if this is supposed to be a turn on, but it’s not. Nothing this man does
ever turns me on.

He looks at my face, a crooked smile
painted across his lips. Usually I keep my face down, avoiding eye contact with
the beast, but today is different. Today I look at him, really taking him in,
in particular the lines of his face. I try to see Callum in his features,
wondering if I recognize any part of him. I don’t see a resemblance and I’m
surprised that I find comfort in that.

I stare at Osborne as he begins to massage
the balls of my feet, repeating the same kneading motion with gentle pressure.
I don’t know why he insists on touching my feet, I hate it and I hate him.

He stops massaging and runs a hand through
his hair. Hair that was once brown, but now the grey is threatening to taking
over. I wonder when I last looked at him. I hadn’t noticed the change in his
hair color until now.

Callum has lovely brown hair, a lighter
shade than mine. It’s longer on top and he arranges it messily on top of his
head. I like that look.

Osborne looks up at me, his eyes wrinkled
at the sides.

“Have you been a good girl today?”

His lips form a subtle smirk. I hardly ever
see him smile. The expression unsettles me.

“Answer me, Emmy,” he commands.

“I…I’m good.” Is all I can
manage.

He runs his fingers along his chin, the
overgrown stubble brushing against his fingertips.

“We have a party on Friday night,” he tells
me.

I squeeze my eyes closed. Another party. I
feel the tears pool in my eyes, but I blink them away.

“Rosa will be here tomorrow to help you get
prepared.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, determined
not to let the tears fall.

“Emmy,” he says. When I don’t look at him,
he says
my name
again. “Emmy.”

I open my eyes hesitantly. “Nod if you
understand me.”

I nod my head once and he smiles, but it
fades instantly.

“Good. Now, why aren’t you dressed for me?”

I waver slightly before opening a gap in my
robe.

He draws in a deep breath in anticipation.
It’s a disgusting sound that
makes me want to gag. The air whistles
between his teeth and then a low groan escapes from the back of his throat.

“There it is,” he says as the robe falls
from my shoulders and onto the comforter.

His eyes assault me, focusing on my
cleavage and then my naked crotch.

I’m wearing my Wednesday outfit, a red
negligee with matching crotchless panties.
He loves this look
,
he tells me every time
. He loves me in red.

“Beautiful,” he slurs the word as his hand
reaches up my leg.

I close my eyes and hold my breath as if
it’s an impulse. His hand trails up to my knee, his fingertips reaching the
inside of my thigh as I mentally prepare myself.
It won’t last forever. It
won’t last forever.
I repeat the mantra in my head. It usually gets me
through nights like these.

Just when his finger reaches the apex of my
thighs, the doorbell sounds. It’s faint but we both hear it, causing Osborne to
snatch his hand away.

My eyes snap open. He’s already standing at
the foot of the bed, looking toward the staircase.

“Not a word,” he warns.

He rushes upstairs and quietly closes the
basement door behind him.

I hear his footsteps hurry toward the entry
foyer as I sneak to the top of the staircase, listening for voices. I jump in
surprise when the doorbell rings again. This isn’t normal. On Wednesday’s we
don’t have visitors.