Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (32 page)

A demented look glazed Tank’s face. Ripping Marshall’s T-shirt off her chest, “Fucking boy scout,” he snarled, disgustedly tossing the shirt on the floor. “Now, I’m gonna
really
give you fuckin’ pain,” he promised, shooting a vindictive eye at Jewels.

Despite her never-give-up combat mindset, lack of oxygen and zapped muscle strength forced her surrender.

Crawling on top of her, again Tank straddled her hips between his knees. “Maybe I should gouge out your eyes, like you tried to do to me,” he threatened.

Wide-eyed, Jewels vigorously wagged her head back and forth, begging him not to hurt her, but, of course, her pleas were unintelligible ... not that it would have mattered even if he could have understood her.

Lowering the pliers toward her left breast, “Maybe I’ll twist off your nipples first, then—”

“Don’t think so,” Marshall snarled, delivering a double-fisted rabbit punch to the base of Tank’s skull, instantly dropping him to the floor like a boulder over a cliff. “Illegal in boxing, but fair play with you,” he said, regarding the wicked blow.

Still a bit unstable, he stepped over the fallen Tank and scooped up his T-shirt Tank had discarded onto the floor. “I promise, I’ll take care of him this time for good,” he said, once again covering Jewels’ exposed breasts.

Rolling Tank over on his stomach with his foot, he cuffed his hands behind him and dragged him out the door by his feet. Scrambling back to Jewels’ side, he knelt next to the bed. “First things first,” he said, smiling reassuringly as he unbuckled the belt gag, removing it.

Spitting out the bloody handkerchief, she sighed with relief, “Thank you, Marshall. Thank you so much.”

Picking up the corner of the shirt covering her breasts, he gently dabbed the bloody saliva from her cheeks and around her mouth.

Jewels smiled gratefully. Her heart soared. Marshall Watters was her hero. Her savior.

Quickly slicing through the rope binding her left hand, he smiled, “Sorry, I wasn’t quite on my game the first time Tank knocked me out.”

“You did seem a little woozy.”

“Second time’s the charm,” he said, liberating her right hand.

Holding Marshall’s black shirt over her bare breasts, she sat up, eyeing her hero as he freed her right foot. Unable to help herself, she ogled his naked upper body. Lean and muscular chest. Broad V-shaped back. Ripped abs. Small, firm waist. Ballooning biceps. Chiseled triceps....

“Jewels, I’m—”

“What?” she said, blinking rapidly and swallowing hard. Realizing she just got busted, her face heated up. How embarrassing, he had caught her leering at him!

Grinning, he continued, “I’m going to have to leave for a while to take care of Tank,” he said, cutting through the last rope binding her to the bed.

“Leave? Now?” A mixture of fear and disappointment swept her face.

“You’ll be fine.
Trust me
, Jewels,” he said reassuringly, rising to his feet. Padding to the prison cell door, he paused, turned back to face her. “Don’t worry. I
will
be back,” he said, thrusting his arms in front of his body to flex his chest and arms in the classic bodybuilder
most muscular pose
and winking at her, before closing and locking the door behind him.

Blowing air through pursed lips, “Oh boy,” she whispered with a silly giggle, letting her body fall backward onto the bed. Bunching up Marshall’s shirt, she covered her face with it and inhaled deeply, relishing his scent that acted like an aphrodisiac, spontaneously moistening her panties.

RECOVERED FROM MARSHALL’S
muscle show which had nearly given her an instant orgasm, she slid out of the bra Tank mutilated, slipped Marshall’s shirt over her head and jogged to the sink, gulping water from cupped hands.

The cool refreshment snaked its way down to her stomach, soothing her parched innards. “Ick,” she said, clucking her tongue to the roof of her mouth and distorting her face at the taste of blood while fighting the compulsion to throw up. “A toothbrush and toothpaste is what I really need,” she mumbled ruefully, mentally noting such items were taken for granted
on the outside
, while those seemingly basic necessities were deemed prison luxuries requiring approval and supervision by powers that be. In the absence of rudimentary oral hygiene products, she opted to gargle a few times to quell the urge to vomit.

After quenching her thirst and gargling one last time, she splashed cool water on her face. Immediately, she gasped in pain. The water burned her cheeks like cayenne pepper on a sensitive tongue. Up to this point she had purposely avoided looking in the reflecting square. However, the pain on her cheeks drew an imagined vision of the likely appearance of her face as a result of Tank’s slaps. Maybe swollen. Probably black and blue. Likely a battered mess. Swallowing hard, fearing the reflection that might stare back at her, she stood in front of the shiny metal square, pinching her eyes shut, building the nerve to assess the damage. Sucking in a deep breath for courage, she exhaled forcefully, finally opening her eyes.

Gasping at the sight, she gently touched her cheeks with the tips of her fingers. The image staring back at her was not at all the one she had expected. To the contrary. Her face wasn’t bruised. How was it possible? A second time? No marks. No cuts. Lips weren’t even swollen. Closing her eyes in gratitude, she silently thanked God for her good fortune and Marshall Watters for coming to her rescue when he did.

With her thirst and curiosity satisfied, she traipsed back to the bed, sat on the edge, and picked at the knots on the pieces of rope still attached at her wrists and ankles. As she worked on loosening the gnarl, her mind wondered about Tank. Just thinking about his demented plan of revenge set off an involuntary shock through her spine, jolting her entire body. Instantly, she shifted her thoughts to a more pleasing vision: studly Marshall Watters, whom she owed a lot, perhaps even her life.

Tank’s rape attempt must have been one of those
really important
times he spoke of ... one of those times when he
could
be trusted; one of those times when she could
like
him ... a lot.

Taking a break from picking the knots for a moment, she scooted her body to lean against the stone wall and closed her eyes, allowing her mind to wander. Mere thoughts of Marshall Watters circulated those clichéd
warm fuzzies
inside, unleashing her sensual goddess within that purred like a house cat and roared like a tiger. Her nipples constricted. Femininity moistened. Erotic tingles electrified her body.

Stockholm Syndrome
suddenly lit up across her mind like flashing red lights warning of an oncoming locomotive. “Oh my gawd,” Jewels blurted out, eyes wide as guilt and shame demolished her lustfulness. Crossing her arms over her chest as if in embarrassment, she wondered aloud, “Could I be falling into the psychological trap of bonding with one of my captors?”

About six months ago she had researched a story involving three women held hostage in a bank during a botched robbery. After an intense police standoff lasting about six hours, one of the three women ended up siding with the robber and actually tried to help him elude law enforcement. Unaware of the potential danger, the poor woman had succumb to the phenomenon where kidnap and hostage victims acquire an emotional attachment to their captor ... and it happened to that woman in less than six hours. “That’s not going to be me,” Jewels declared, thrusting her fists into the mattress at her sides and sitting up tall.

Recalling certain conditions, about four of them, had to be present for a victim to become susceptible to Stockholm Syndrome, she had to know whether or not she was a viable candidate.

Scanning her memory, “Kidnapper must have his victim in some sort of life-threatening situation.” Rolling her eyes and shrugging, “Well, gee, that’s a no-brainer. Have that one for sure,” she said, raising her index finger to signify one.

“Victim must not be able to escape; life depends on captor,” she recited. Surveying the dreary jail cell, she raised a second finger. “Not that I haven’t tried to escape, or that I won’t continue to try to escape, but as it stands right now, that’s definitely my situation. Two for two so far.

“Captor shows kindness as well as violence, increasing victim’s sense of being totally dependent on captor.” Jewels thought of Marshall Watters. He had shown his willingness to manhandle her, hold her down, strap her down, gag her. Yet, he had also shown kindness and goodness, like when he let her shower and brought her fresh clothing and, of course, when he rescued her from Tank. Then there was his promise to help her when the situation was
really important
. Shaking her head, she sighed. “That, too.” Finger number three went up.

“Victim focuses on survival, clings to captor because he has complete power over her. When the captor doesn’t use his power, victim feels grateful, hence captor becomes a good guy in the victim’s mind.” Hanging her head, she bobbled it up and down slowly as finger number four rose. “More than once I considered Marshall Watters my hero,” she admitted with a hint of disappointment. That cinched it. She
was
a prime candidate for Stockholm Syndrome.

Pondering her situation, Jewels reasoned the first step to combating a potential problem was knowing you have one, or in this case, recognizing you may be
susceptible
to it. Now she knew. Now she could guard against it.

“Never forget Marshall Watters is one of
them
. One of the bad guys,” she whispered, vowing not to allow herself to become another victim helplessly caught in the psychological trap of capture-bonding ... no matter how good looking, charming, and sexy he appeared.

Resuming her knot picking, she loosened the final loop on the last piece of rope; the one around her left wrist. Her watch appeared from under the unraveled coils: 8:58. “Less than one short hour ago I was at Tank’s mercy,” she said, her tone remote, the stark horror of how close she had come to gruesome torture and perhaps, even death, just now sinking in.

Instantly her mind leaped to Marshall. His heroics were not a mishmash of innuendo and wishful thinking. What he did was indisputable: Tank’s revenge was thwarted
only
because Marshall Watters had come to her aid. “Psychobabble,” Jewels muttered. “Maybe this so-called psychological phenomenon of trauma-bonding, is really a bunch of hooey,” she said, shaking off the Stockholm Syndrome possibility.

Gently massaging her throbbing wrists and ankles, she noticed her skin was turning colors, a telltale sign of the furious, yet pointless, battle she had waged against Tank’s ropes. Jewels envisioned the matching deep purple bracelets around her wrists and ankles destined to brand her for the next week or longer.

Curling her lips in disgust, she tried to imagine how in the world she was going to cover those ugly marks; how many new long sleeved blouses she’d have to buy; and how many, if any, of her current collection of dress boots would match the new blouses.

Her mind detoured to
the household c
hores needing to be done and business requiring follow-up at the office ... as soon as she returned home later that day.

Knowing there was a fine line between positive thinking and denial, Jewels realized worrying about such trivialities meant she was teetering on the brink of denial. Certainly she didn’t want to surrender to the notion she would not be rescued before the Commander came to take her away and do the good-Lord-only-knows-what with her. Yet, she knew if she succumbed to doom, the fire inside giving her the courage to press forward, to foster hope, to fight for freedom, would be lost.

The jingling of keys outside her door snuffed her mental analysis. Was Tank coming back to finish the job? Terror strangled her mind and body. Tucking her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her shins and held her breath, unable to keep her lips from trembling.

The door swung open.

“Marshall!” Jewels squealed bouncing off the bed and running to him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she shamelessly squashed her free-flowing breasts against his hard chest and hugged him intensely. “Thank you for saving me,” she whispered, suppressing the impulse to nibble his earlobe and swallow up his waist between her legs.

Chuckling, “Hey, I told you I’d come back,” he said, gently patting her shoulder blades reassuringly for a few moments before peeling her hands from around his neck and gazing into her eyes. “Jewels, we have to talk. This is important.”

Wiping her hands on her pants to dry the nervous sweat from her palms, she looked up at him, her face painted with concern.

“It’s Tank. He’s going on trial and Cooman wants you there.”

“A trial? Now?”

“Yes. Right now, so you better slip on your boots ... and I brought you another bra,” he said, handing it to her and turning his back to give her privacy.

Preoccupied with the news of a trial, she wasn’t the least astonished at having received a bra to replace the one Tank destroyed, though she did notice Marshall was wearing another black T-shirt. Damn! She wouldn’t mind if he never wore a T-shirt again in her presence.

Quickly slipping into the bra, she crawled back into Marshall’s extra large T-shirt and wiggled her bare feet into the combat boots purposely missing laces. Tapping Marshall on the shoulder, she announced, “I’m ready.”