Lost (Captive Heart #1) (3 page)

I
don’t figure
out where I’m taking us until about an hour into the drive.

My fight or flight instinct had me jumping on 222 North straight out of the jump. It was the quickest way out of Lancaster, and the closest to our location.

After an hour of recklessly switching lanes and flipping a coin about whether to get off at the next exit, I figure out the perfect hiding spot. A place no one will be this time of year. The summer crowd has already gone, and I know for a fact that the owners pack up and leave after the first week of September.

“Where are you taking us, Tuck?”

It’s like the damn woman can still read my mind. Char’s voice sounds resigned, the fight in her is waning. That’s good, at least for me. I’m not sure how long we’ll have to stay gone, how long I will have to keep her. My eyes drift toward her. They’ve been doing that ever since she shrugged out of her blazer due to the stifling heat of the car. I won’t let her open a window—she could scream—and I won’t turn on the air conditioning. I once heard a tank of gas will go further if you keep it off. She’s wearing this white little lacy tank top that highlights the curve of her tits.

Damn did she grow up nice.

And damn does my dick notice.

It’s noticed ever since I shot up, which got my body running on all systems again. If I wasn’t grappling with the thought that I just kidnapped Charlotte Morsey, and if I didn’t think she’d rip my nuts off, I might pull over and try to seduce her.

And there was the fact that something far more appealing was seducing
me
. The piece I bought with the stolen bank money was practically singing to me from the middle console of her Camry, lilting me to it with a Siren song.

But I can’t. Not until I get us to our destination and Char is securely locked or tied up somewhere. Fuck, I don’t have rope. Or tape. Or anything. I’m the worst kidnapper ever. I blame the drugs.

I laugh at my thoughts and Char backs into the door, the expression on her face portraying how crazy I must look.

“We’re going back, Char.”

We pass an exit sign for Bethlehem and I know we’re almost there. It’s then that she makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a snort.

“Camp Marsh? That’s your brilliant plan?”

I haven’t really upheld my robber persona throughout the drive, opting for drugged hilarity and insane mumbling. She’s forgotten to be scared.

I pull the gun out from where it rests between my thighs and aim it at her head as I swing the car towards the exit for Mt. Pocono. “What was that, Charlotte?”

She inhales, holding the breath in her lungs as I press the cold metal to her temple.

“That’s what I thought. Shut the fuck up!”

I drop the gun back down, where it presses up against my dick through my jeans. The heroin adds to my anger, making the blood whoosh in my ears and my heart pump so fast that I half-expect the organ to burst from my chest and land on the dashboard.

We drive in silence for a while, and before I know it I’m pulling onto a path. Unmarked, the winding drive down to Camp Marsh is completely unrecognizable to someone passing by on the steep mountain roads. No one will have any idea we’re down there, staying in one of the cabins completely surrounded by the forest.

“You’ve become him.” Char stares out her window watching the leaves shed their green and turn to orange.

“What’s that?”

“Your father. You’ve become him. You’re a monster.”

Her words slice my heart clear through. It’s the worst insult anyone could sling at me.

“Yeah well … you seem to have turned into the same uptight bitch your mom always was. So I guess we’re both fucked up.”

The hurt that crosses her face almost has me pulling the words back. I bring the car to a stop and put it in park. We’re in the middle of the grounds, parked on the quad that houses the cafeteria, games building and a small amphitheater. Against my better judgment, I unlock the doors. Where could she go? I’ll catch her, and out here, no one is going to hear her scream.

But I underestimate the damn woman. Quicker than I can move, she’s yanking open the center console, grabbing my brown paper bag of heroin and needles, and sprinting towards the lake at the bottom of it all.

“FUCK!” I realize what she is going to do when she’s already about ten feet from the car.

I stumble out, my legs numb from the long drive, and try to race after her. Except I’m in no shape to do so anymore. I’m winded after the first twenty steps, wheezing and sputtering as my legs carry me down the small hill towards the banks of Lake Marsh.

Char is already near the water’s edge, her arm rearing back in the motion I’d once taught her to throw in. I’m nowhere near her when she whips it forward, the my drugs, my sweet relief, spiraling out over the lake’s surface before it goes under with a small splashing noise.

“You fucking cunt!” I rage at her, pushing her face forward into the sand as I run into the water, the lake’s icy fingers grasping my clothes and skin. I dive under, the murky black water giving me no clarity as to where my drugs have sunken. They’re probably fucking ruined by now, but I search for at least twenty more minutes. Surfacing and resurfacing only to plunge back into the cold depths, the water turning cold at the end of September.

I finally make it back to the shore and she’s just sitting there, tears falling fat and uninhibited down her face. There is sand in her hair, on her clothes, and blood is coming from a scrape in her knee.

“You’re such a stupid bitch, you know that!” I can’t help getting in her face.

“I’m not going to watch you kill yourself.”

“You’re so naïve. You always have been! Get up.”

She shakes her head, her chestnut hair catching the rays of light from the setting sun.

“I said get up.”

Char stays planted, the water and sand on her shirt making the white silky material all but see-through.

“Fine.” I grunt, bending down and heaving her body over my shoulder. I may have been winded before, but losing my drugs has filled my veins with rage and adrenaline, making her already tiny body feel like no weight at all.

“PUT ME DOWN!” She shrieks, and I know she thinks I’m going to drown her or something. Good. Fear is good.

Instead, I stalk away from the water, her screams muffled as her face smacks against my wet clothing.

My legs propel me to the nearest cabin marked with the number four above the door. The cabin I’d stayed in the summer Char had asked me to kiss her behind the obstacle course.

Swinging open the door, which gives a loud groan, I march in with Char still screaming over my shoulder. Her rounded ass rests right next my chin, the urge to take a bite out of it killing me. I lift her body again, not so gently throwing her into one of the bottom bunks. Her slim frame hits the wall, the wood bedpost and everything else on the way down.

My voice is deadly when I issue my command. “Stay in here. Keep quiet. If you try to run, I’ll be sitting right outside with that loaded gun. I should kill you right now …”

Her sharp intake of breath gives me the satisfaction I need.

“But I won’t. You’re alive for the time being.”

I don’t bother saying anything else. I’ve driven the point home. Instead I leave her in the musty, woodsy smelling cabin that brings back way too many memories.

Its only when I sit down on the front porch of the old shack, gun in hand and at the ready, that I hear the muffled sobs echoing from inside the dark structure.

M
y body must have been preserving
itself and my strength, because I don’t wake until what I assume is well after noon the next day.

As I lift my body from the bunk, everything groans, including me. The adrenaline and fear coursing through my system yesterday must have masked the pain of my injuries, because I am sure feeling them now. My elbow, knees, head and tailbone sing with torment from where Tucker had thrown and pushed me. Large bruises are forming on the tops of both of my arms where he grabbed me to throw me over his shoulder on the banks of the lake.

I don’t know why I threw his drugs. Well, I do know why. I didn’t want to see him in that state; I didn’t want to be stuck with someone who was altering their normal sanity, etc. I just don’t know what compelled me to take such drastic actions.

Camp Marsh. Looking around cabin four brings back such vivid memories that I have to press my fingers to the sides of my temples. We’d come here every single summer since we were ten-years-old, stopping around the time when high school starts and teenagers are too cool to go to sleep away camp.

This had been a boys cabin; one Tucker had stayed in a couple of summers. It had always been loud and rowdy within these four walls whenever I’d passed by on the walking path. Now it was eerily silent. As it was on the rest of the grounds.

Mr. and Mrs. Marsh must have just closed down for the winter months. That’s why Tucker chose to bring us here. It would be desolate for at least five to six months. Not another soul in site.

Five to six months. He couldn’t actually keep me here that long. Could he?

Listening for any sounds or noises, I stand, the laminate floor cold and hard beneath my bare feet. I creep to the front door, the mesh screen giving me the ability to see out.

I don’t see Tucker anywhere, not even when I twist my head as far as it will go to either side to see if I can glimpse him in my periphery. Cautiously, and with as little noise as I can possibly make with this ages-old door, I step out onto the front porch.

It’s a beautiful day, the sun already high in the sky, confirming my guess that I’ve slept well past noon. I guess that’s what happens when a grown woman sobs herself to sleep. The sockets of my eyes are sore and feel empty. Dry.

The other cabins dot the grounds, everything set up in a semi-circle with the big quad in the middle of it all. The grass is still green and slopes down the hill to meet Lake Marsh at the bottom of it all. It’s not the biggest lake in the Pocono Mountain range, but for a summer camp, it’s pretty big. I remember paddling boats out over its surface, the large mountains rising up behind it.

To the left of cabin four is the mess hall, and to the right of that stands the game center and then the recreation building. The canteen, or snack hut, is across the quad, directly opposite from the porch I now stand on. And behind all of these buildings stand more cabins, the places that house over two hundred campers each summer.

I know that somewhere in the woods, along the walking trails, that there is still a barn for the horses, an archery range, and even an obstacles course. I’d loved my summers here. It was the one place I could go to escape my mother. For one week, I was free to be whoever I wanted.

A gurgling noise draws my attention to a bench down the hill, closer to the water. I can make out a body, the black clothing and shaggy hair reminding me that although I’ve missed this place, I was brought here against my will. Tucker.

He hasn’t noticed me standing here, not yet. My brain starts working through plans.

I could run. But I have no other shoes besides my heels, and I wouldn’t get very far in these woods. The Marsh’s own more than seventy acres. There isn’t another property in site.

I could go to the car … but chances are he has the keys. And he would just shoot through the windows if I locked myself in there.

Do I really think he’d hurt me?

I didn’t. At first. But then he’d put the gun against my temple, shoved me down in the sand, and practically thrown me against the cabin wall.

And I’d realized I didn’t know him. Not anymore. I had no idea what he was capable of.

While I’m standing here, thinking about an escape plan, I notice that Tucker is shaking.

No … not shaking. More like convulsing.

I don’t think before my bare feet are running through the blades of grass; moisture and untouched dew coating my feet and ankles. I reach him within seconds, rounding the bench and almost lose the contents of my stomach when I see the sight before me.

Tucker is slouched over, foam and what looks like vomit coating his mouth, chin and sweatshirt. He’s convulsing, like one of the stroke victims I’ve watched on my favorite medical drama. Only this time it’s real. And scary as hell.

His face is an unnatural shade of blue, his eyes focusing in and out with each pulse of his body.

“Tucker! Oh my God … what … what did you do?”

The thought passes through my brain that I should search him, grab the keys and make a run for it. I could get out of here. He’d do it to me in a heartbeat.

But … I just can’t. Somewhere, deep down in my heart, I’m still holding out hope for the Tucker I’d once loved.

“You … fucking … happened …”

Oh thank God. At least I know he is still breathing if he can manage to form words.

I panic, not knowing what to do. I drag him off the bench, heaving and huffing until I can get him on the ground. Even in the emaciated state his body is in, Tucker is still a big man. He’s tall, a good foot above my five-four frame, and I can still feel the muscles in his arms and abs as I wrestle him to the ground.

I turn him on his side, another thing I’ve learned from my favorite medical drama, but God knows if it actually works. I have no idea what to do.

“You … threw … away … my … drugs.” Tucker’s voice comes out muffled and slurred.

A light bulb clicks on in my brain and I finally get it. He’s going through withdrawal. When I threw those drugs in the lake, I also signed his death wish. Because now he can’t get high. I’ve made him go cold turkey. And I have no idea what those symptoms entail. I have no idea how to care for someone going through this.

Why am I thinking about caring for my kidnapper?

Because before he was your kidnapper, he was the boy you loved,
a little voice says in my head.

Tucker makes a wailing, grunting noise full of agony. He sounds like a dying animal, one that normally would be put out of its misery. But I have nothing. I don’t have medicine, I don’t have experience. I don’t even have food or water.

“Shhh … it’s going to be okay.”

I take his head in my lap where we’ve sunk to the ground, pushing the mess of curls off of his slick, sweaty forehead. I should get him inside, into the dark and out of the windy, sun-soaked quad. But it would be no use; I can’t move him and he can’t walk.

So instead I sit on the ground with Tucker Lynch’s head in my lap, holding his body as violent tremors course through him for what seems like hours.

And while I should run, flee and get as far away from him as I can, I can’t help but think over and over and over again; what the hell happened to the boy I once loved?”