Darkest Before Dawn (5 page)

I
pace across the room
. I’ve been pacing for hours—I think, in the silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

I have no idea how long I’ve been in here. It feels like an eternity, but with no windows and little sleep, I have no way to tell. The pipe running across the ceiling keeps leaking water. The constant
drip, drip, drip
is driving me mad. I’m weak and disoriented. My body is exhausted.

I halt in my pacing. “Stop!” I shout, staring at the pipe above my head. “Just fucking stop it!” And now I resume walking circles around this fucking room.

I clear my throat to make noise, then stop walking momentarily to scratch my head. I scratch through my filthy, matted hair until it hurts, then I scratch my arms and legs. I itch everywhere. I’ve not had a bath since I’ve been here and I’m still wearing the same clothes—covered in Bronson’s dried blood. I pace a little while longer, and suddenly, I start to cry. Those cries turn into sobs and then, just like someone’s flipped a switch, anger takes over. I yell. I shout. I curse at the bastards holding me here until my throat burns and my voice goes hoarse. And then, well, then I just fall to the floor and sit in the silence, wondering if there actually is a world outside of this room anymore.

Even as exhausted as I am, my body is in a constant state of fight or flight.

I still have no idea what they want with me, but the fact that they’ve done nothing yet terrifies me. Every time Earl comes into this room, he says the exact same thing to me: “You try to leave, you try to do anything to get outta here, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill yer family. I’ll rape your mother before I kill her.” After that, Earl will walk to the corner of the room, lean against the wall and just stare at me. And it’s the way he looks at me that gets to me. His eyes are completely cold and void of emotion, but when he looks at me, the way his eyes drag over my body while he adjusts his dick—there’s this sick gleam in his eyes. I know what he wants to do, and I know he’ll do it. I just don’t know when. Out of all the things that can be done to you, I
know
that rape is the worst.

And you want to know why? Because you can overcome pain. Wounds of the flesh heal—but that sullied feeling that taints you once you’ve been used by a filthy man…that never washes off. When an act meant to express love and connection has been turned into one of hate and power and control—that changes you in ways not easily forgotten. Abuse cracks the mirror of self-perception, causing flaws in the way you view yourself and the way you accept how others view you. That sense of worthlessness, I can’t take it again. I cannot.

I’ve tried to think about what I could offer these bastards to let me go, but the thing that sucks the most is that I’m too educated about the criminal lifestyle because I’ve grown up in it. And the one thing I have learned, the one thing I am more certain of than death, is that until these men get what they want, I won’t get out of here. And even then—the chances are slim. They’ve never attempted to disguise themselves, which means they don’t think I’ll ever be a witness. Dead girls aren’t witnesses.

Clink
. The subtle sound of that lock slides out of place, and I know the possibility of death is a very real thing. When the rusted hinges creak, my heart rate goes into overdrive.

I keep my gaze focused on my hands, waiting on Earl to drop a few bottles of water on the bed and walk to the side of the room to stare at me before he leaves.
Please let him leave…

“Have you had a bath?” The deep, southern drawl drags my eyes away from my lap.

Max is standing in front of me, his stare locked on my face. Days of nothing but solitude and Earl have me nearly gasping at Max’s presence. His features are so much softer than Earl’s. And the only thought circling my head right now is that I want to touch him. I want to feel some form of human contact even though I realize how ridiculous it sounds to want to touch someone who is keeping you hostage.

Max steps closer, until he’s so close I can feel the heat from his body on my skin, and then he squats, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks up at me. His cologne smells so good. So clean. So familiar. I close my eyes and drag that scent deep into my lungs, pretending I’m not really here.

“Ava.” I open my eyes. “Would you like a bath?”

I nod, and he stands, holding his hand out to me. I take it. His palm is smooth, so soft and warm. So
human
. That simple touch nearly breaks me. Tears build in my eyes. My vision blurs. My throat tightens.
What is wrong with me?

“Now”—he tugs for me to face him—“you gotta promise me you won’t try to get away?”

I nod.

“Because if you do that,” he says. “I’ll have to hurt you. And I don’t
want
to hurt you, okay?” Another nod. “I’m gonna tie your arms up, not that I don’t trust you, understand, but I know the temptation once you see anything outside of this room may get the better of you.” I nod again because that’s all I can seem to do. Max reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cord. “Cross your hands in front of you.” I do as told, and he goes to work, binding my wrists. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?” he asks, looking up from his bowed head.

Jesus, his eyes…

“No,” I whisper.

“All right then.” Taking me by my bound wrists, he leads me out through the doorway.

Through the basement we go, up the wooden steps, and into the kitchen. The late afternoon sun trickles in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the grimy linoleum floor. I glance around, looking for Earl or Bubba, but no one’s here.

“They’re gone,” Max says, like he knows what I’m thinking. The thought forces chill bumps over my skin.

There’s a door. It’s bolted. A window. A knife block on the counter
… I take in every detail I can, attempting to make a blueprint of this place in the event I ever get a chance to run for it. Max’s grip on my arm tightens—again like he’s in my head.

The walls are stained, dust and trash litter each room we walk into. As he leads me through this disgusting house, my heart slams against my ribs because I have no idea what is actually about to happen to me. All I can hear are my labored breaths and Max’s work boots crossing the worn wooden floor of the foyer.

He guides me to the bottom of a stairwell elegantly twisting up the two-story foyer. “Watch your step, dear,” he says.

I keep my eyes trained on the steps, on the cream carpet in desperate need of a cleaning. Once at the top, Max turns me to the right and leads me into a large, outdated bathroom. There’s an old pedestal sink beneath a gold plated mirror. The wallpaper is cream with roses encaged by brown fleur-de-lis, and it’s peeling at the seams. Against the far wall is a claw-foot tub with a large, gray crack running the length of the edge.

Max locks the door with a key, twisting the metal knob to make sure it’s secure. His eyes lock with mine as he shoves the key deep inside his jean pocket, silently telling me to not even think about it. He nods toward the tub. “Go run the water.” And then he releases his hold on me.

I slowly walk toward the tub, my pulse hammering violently in my temples with each step. I swallow. The rope, although tied loosely around my wrists, digs into my injured skin when I twist the ornately engraved golden handles to the tub. There’s a loud knocking noise as water rushes through the pipes, and when it comes pouring out, it’s tinged with rust and smells awful.

“Just let it go for a minute. Pipes are old.”

The water runs clear after a minute or so. Once the dirty water drains out, I plug the tub and stand up, but don’t turn around. “Are you going to stay in here?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Turning, I glare at him. Part of me wants to cuss him out, but the stronger part of me knows better. My jaw tightens and I turn around to undress. I attempt to unfasten my jeans, but am only able to get them unbuttoned due to my bound wrists. Max walks up behind me, takes me by the shoulders, and spins me around. I don’t want to look at his face, so I focus on what’s right in front of me—his stubble-covered throat.

“I’m gonna undress you.” I watch his throat move as he swallows. “Not because I want to, understand?” he says quietly. “But because I can’t untie you.” He reaches to the bottom of my filthy shirt. My eyes drift up to his face. He is beautiful, not like any man you would normally see walking down the street. His face—that would stop any woman dead in her tracks. And how ironic is that? He is the perfect predator. Magnetic. A man like this will lure you in, and before you even realize it, he’ll have devoured you.

A grimace forms over his face as he stares at my bound hands. “Shirt’s bloody anyways.” With a quick flip of his wrists, the thin material shreds and drops to the floor. Next, he tugs the zipper to my jeans down. He bends as he works my pants over my hips, and as messed up as it sounds, there is something so gentle in the way he’s undressing me.

In this situation, he could rip my clothes off of my body, grab me—he could do
anything
he wants to, because I am helpless,
but
his eyes are on the floor right now. And for the first time in my life, I actually feel like a man respects me. A man who is bad. A man who is keeping me against my will respects me enough to not look at my naked body. And then that ugly, twisted piece of me tells me it’s because I’m not good enough. Why would he want to look at me? And then—I want him to. I
want
him to be disrespectful, and I hate myself for it.

I step out of one leg, then the next. Those dark eyes of his glance up at me before he stands, and this time, I hold his stare. His fingers brush over my shoulder, around to my back, and then he unhooks my bra, pulls it away from my skin, and lets it fall to the floor. Part of me wants to cover myself up, but that other part of me wants to make him look. My bare chest rises in deep swells, my nipples nearly brushing against his shirt, but his eyes remain glued to mine. “I’m not gonna look,” he says barely above a breath.

“What if I want you to?” I ask, and shame washes over me.

Ignoring my comment, his warm hands reach my hips, taking both sides of my panties and dragging them down my legs. With his eyes still on my face, he takes a step back, and I quickly climb into the tub. The water’s scalding, but I don’t care. I sink beneath the surface and close my eyes. I hear the clomp of his boots over the floor, and I open my eyes just in time to see him holding out a washcloth and a bar of soap.

“Thank you,” I whisper, embarrassed that all I want is to have him look at me.

A small smile graces his face before he turns his back to me. I shouldn’t be attracted to him, but I am. All I want at this moment is for him to acknowledge me, for him to look at me like he wants me. Nothing about this is right.

There’s a pop and a creak. I look up and the window is cracked. Max turns to the side as he places a cigarette to his lips and lights it. His profile is so rugged yet refined. The late evening sun casts a slight glow behind his silhouette making him appear almost holy, but the moment he blows the thick smoke through the opened window all I can think is how much he resembles the devil. And I am coming to realize most things about this man are an oxymoron. Gentle yet savage, respectful but abhorrent—God and devil.

The longer I watch him smoke that cigarette, the harder my heart pounds. I am losing my mind. I will die in this place, either mentally or physically—possibly both. I don’t want either of those things to happen.

He takes another slow drag then rubs his hand over the back of his neck and groans, I can almost watch the tension build in his muscles. Then a single thought comes to mind.
Escape.
How hard would it be to get out of this tub and get that key from him? But then what? I’m soaking wet. I’d slip before getting to the door, drop the key. Then he’d be angry…

I force my attention away from him and wash myself as best I can. Max stays right there, his back to me, his gaze aimed out of the window, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

I sit in the tub until the water turns cold, and he has not yet once turned around. I stare at his broad back, my emotions swinging from anger to gratefulness and everywhere in between. “Can I have a towel, please?” I ask.

“You want your back washed?” he says.

“No.”

“Why?” He exhales, his shoulders falling. “You’re filthy.” He tosses the cigarette out of the window and pushes away from the wall, but keeps his palms flat against the window frame. He taps his fingers over the wood as he drops his chin to his chest. The fact that he hasn’t turned around yet makes me uneasy for some reason. “Just lean over your knees,” he says. “I won’t see anything.”

“I don’t care if you do,” I whisper.

He turns around and I’m still sitting up, fully exposed. He wets his lips with his tongue, then swallows, his eyes boring into mine. My heart pounds in my chest as I wait for his gaze to drift down my body, as I wait for that validation I so desperately and shamefully want, but his eyes never falter, and seconds later, his shadow falls over the tub.

I watch the water ripple, distorting his reflection as he takes the washcloth from the edge of the tub, dips it beneath the water, and wrings it out over my back. Closing my eyes, I lean over my knees and lay my cheek against my arm. And this, even though it shouldn’t be, is intimate. This act in and of itself throws my mind into a jumbled mess. One of his large hands rests on my shoulder, the other washes over me in gentle movements. He sweeps my hair to the side of my neck to wash over my shoulders, and he’s gotten so close to me now, each time he exhales, the warmth of his breath sends tingles down my spine. And for a moment—a fleeting moment—the tension wound up in my muscles relaxes.

“That should feel much better,” he says, rinsing over my back.

When I look up, he’s standing next to the tub, holding out a towel. I step out of the bath and he wraps the thick towel around me. “I’ll get you some clothes when I go into town…”

He grabs my wrists and takes me to the door, digging the key from his pocket. I stare at him so confused and distraught. “Why?” I ask as we walk out into the hallway. That is all I want to know. Just a why. Why I’m here, why he cares…something.