Lost (Captive Heart #1) (5 page)

A
gainst my better judgment and
all the sanity in the world, I’ve always had a sweet spot for Tucker Lynch.

I’ve been in love with him since I was six years old. I’ve let him hold me, use me, build me up and then break me so badly my heart has never properly recovered.

That’s why I don’t sneak out of cabin three in the middle of the night and try to steal the keys to the car. That’s why I’m staying with someone who, in all cases, is my captor. It’s why I’m not running through the woods,
Blair Witch
style, in search of rescue or a telephone.

I’d cooked us lunch, a five-star meal of refried beans and mac-n-cheese. I’d never been so homesick for camp in my life. Tucker kept it down for a whole ten minutes before lurching it all back up in the massive mess hall sink. Then I’d staggered with him draped over my shoulders back to cabin four where I laid him down, his shivering, lanky form looking so frail even in the tiny bunk.

I made my way back to another cabin; into the bunk I’d slept in all those summers ago. He could have taken us anywhere else. Was I a fool to believe he’d thought of this place for the same reason I still dreamt about it sometimes? Because of that first kiss we shared under the obstacle course.

My heart thumps in my chest as everything below my waist tingles. It figures that Tucker can be practically a drug-addled corpse and still turn me on.

I was a fool. He probably doesn’t even remember that kiss. The way he held my face and neck the whole time. The way I felt like he was stealing the breath right out of my lungs. Like he was branding his name into my lips and my heart.

He probably didn’t remember it because he barely even remembered it three days later. We went home, back to Conestoga, and started high school a week later. And he didn’t speak one word to me until almost two years later.

I turned over, the pain in my chest calling for a shift in position. It was crazy how even a decade and so many other experiences later, Tucker Lynch still had the ability to make it feel like my heart was being ripped in half. I remember lying in bed for months, crying into my pillow. Because I had believed that kiss would change something.

It was one of the first times I learned that Tucker Lynch was no good for me. That he could break my heart like a cheap plastic toy and keep walking without a backward glance.

“OOOWW!” A guttural moan slices through the silent night air. At first I think maybe it’s an animal; being this deep in the Pocono Mountains, there is bound to be some wildlife scampering around the empty campgrounds. But then the noise comes again, and I realize it’s too close.

Tucker.

I’m a glutton for punishment as I spring up out of bed and make my way to cabin four, because Christ, how did the situation turn on its head? How did I become the victim taking care of my captor? Figures Tucker would have Stockholm Syndrome down to a science. He always did get everything he wanted.

I run the short distance between the cabins, the late September night air chilly on my skin. Besides the T-shirt and sweatpants I found in the back room of the mess hall, I also found a slew of old sneakers, a raincoat, several sweatshirts and other clothing. All of it in varying sizes, all of it not quite fitting me. But, it was better than running around in a skirt and heels for the foreseeable future.

Because as much as I wanted to be rescued, to go back to my life … I also didn’t. It had been almost two days since Tucker had stolen me from my ordinary, everyday … and I hadn’t missed it once.

Did I want to be in the middle of this cold, desolate camp?

Not really.

Did I still hate Tucker Lynch and everything he represented about my past?

Absolutely.

But did being on the run kind of excite me? Take me away from the bland, normal life I’d been stuck in?

Yes.

And maybe you’d call that foolish and stupid, but like I said … I was a fool when it came to Tucker.

When I push the door open, the first thing I see is Tucker, curled into a ball on the hard ground. And he’s openly weeping.

“Tucker … jeez, what is it?” He’s scaring me.

“Everything hurts. And I’m so cold.” He’s scratching at himself, and when I flick on the lights I can see he’s ripped at the skin on his arms so violently that three or more gashes are bleeding.

“Stop! Stop!” Running to him, I pull at his arms long enough to make him stop mauling at his flesh.

The bad thing about hiding out in a deserted camp on the brink of winter? There are no blankets. Kids bring their sleeping bags to camp. The Marsh’s never had to supply bedding.

I dart through the cabin, hoping beyond hope that maybe someone left something behind. But no luck.

When I come back to Tucker, who is cringing and crying on the floor, I know I have to do something.

“Tuck, I am going to be right back. Okay? Right back. Please try to hang on.”

I don’t bother waiting for him to answer. My heart is in my throat as I spring from one cabin to the next, trying to find anything that could pass as a blanket. Nothing in cabin three or two, but I do find two thin blankets, more like sheets but they’ll do, in cabin one. I also find an old ratty sleeping bag over in cabin eight and haul that with me too.

Tucker is still writhing in pain when I get back to the cabin, and I quickly pull two mattresses off the bottom bunks he’s laying between. I spread them out in the open front hallway, if you can even call it that, of the structure and throw one of the thin blankets on top.

“Tuck … can you move over here?” I try to approach him gently, laying my hand on his shoulder.

“Fuck!” He flinches away from my hand like I’ve burned him.

“Sorry! Can you crawl over there?” I point to my makeshift bed.

He lurches his body forward, doing what looks like a sort of army crawl. He looks handicapped, uncoordinated and just … sick.

An image of a nineteen-year-old Tucker on my TV screen flashes through my brain. The way his big, muscular body would fly across the University of Connecticut football field. How he would look graceful but dynamic as he leapt into the air to retrieve the ball. I’d watched every one of his college games on TV … well, until …

Tucker slams his body down with another cry of agony, and I snap out of memory lane. I throw the other thin blanket on top of him and then the sleeping bag follows. He’s a big, shivering pile of blankets in the middle of the dingy cabin.

“How is that?” I kneel next to him, trying to get him to look me in the eye.

“I’m cold. But on fire.” Tucker reaches for my hand. “Please …”

I don’t know what more he wants me to do. I have no idea how long it will take him to detox, but I pray to God that it’s swift.

The only other option is to stay with him, to lie under those ratty blankets and give him my body heat.

I falter. Laying this close to him, even with the state he’s in, is bound to lead nowhere good for me.

Tucker gives another twitch and makes that dying animal sound again.

There isn’t a choice. He’s in pain, and for some reason I have a conscience. So here we go.

I slip under and pull him as close as I can to my body. He crosses his arms over his chest and tucks his head, curling himself into the nook between my chin and chest. I wrap my short legs in his long ones, willing the warmth from my skin to seep into his.

Tucker shakes and weeps uncontrollably until the first lights of the sun stream into the cabin. And then finally,
finally
, he drifts off. I watch him, at peace at last, until I can’t hold my eyes open anymore and give myself over to blissful sleep.

T
here is only ever
one thing I wish for on my birthday.

For Tucker Lynch to like me back.

Another year, another party with just me, my parents and my Nana. No one from school came, not even the two girls from my English class that I casually mentioned it to.

I didn’t expect them to come. It’s not going to be a long party anyway. A short dinner and a cake after, of which I’m only allowed to have a half-slice (mother’s orders), and then off to dance lessons.

“Do you need to go get your leotard on?”

I haven’t even made it to the frosting yet and already my mother is hassling me. Happy sixteenth birthday, Charlotte.

“Does she really need to go today, Rachel?” Wow. Dad standing up for me. That was a rare occurrence.

“John, will you just be quiet! You don’t parent her any other time, so why would you speak up now? I do everything, remember?”

Jeez, now I realize why he didn’t speak up more. I wouldn’t want to poke the fire-breathing dragon either. Not that it mattered. She yelled at me whether I poked her or not.

“It’s fine, Dad, I’ll go. It was nice to see you, Nana.” I kissed my grandmother’s cheek before heading upstairs.

I kind of wanted to go to ballet tonight. Bleeding feet were better than sitting in your room, depressed and listening to Boyz II Men on an endless loop.

As soon as I pushed open the door, the endless stacks of college brochures spilled off my desk. Sighing, I bent to pick them up.

What high school sophomore had over fifty college pamphlets that she was forced to study? Oh, right. Me. When your mother was insane and incessant, you pretty much followed her letter of the law.

And even when she wasn’t, I put so much pressure on myself out of fear of her disappointment that I thought my back would surely break one of these days.

“Are you almost ready?” Mom pushed my half-closed door open.

“Just changing now.”

She enters my room, causing my stomach to cramp. “Why didn’t anyone come tonight, Charlotte?”

I pin it on myself. “I just didn’t want to make a big deal of it is all.”

She surveys me, trying to get inside of my brain. I’ve built up defenses against her though. I know how to play the open book while keeping everything close to the vest. I’ve trained my entire life for her inquisitions.

“I thought Tucker might come?”

Do you know what’s worse than having the boy you secretly love use you and then ignore you? Hearing from your mother how great she thinks he is. And how you should really try to “get back together” with him.

In a moment of weakness, I’d told her about the kiss at camp. She’s been holding it over me for almost two years, trying to convince me to basically slut myself out to get my clutches into the most popular guy in school. As if he didn’t cut my heart in half with a rusty blade.

Real healthy, right? Encouraging your daughter to change everything about herself for a boy.

No wonder I’m so messed up.

“I’ll be down in a few minutes, Mom. Just have to change.”

Thankfully, she gets the hint and leaves. I only take one minute to let a few of the unshed tears out I’ve been holding all day.

Because for some stupid, little girl, fantasy reason … I thought Tucker might come too. That today would be the day he discovered his feelings for me and came rushing to tell me.

Happy birthday to me.

T
here is
this sensation that overwhelms your body when you wake up next to someone.

Obviously the greatness of that sensation varies depending on your relationship with the person. But even if it’s just a one night stand, a messy fuck and a morning after, there are still those couple of seconds when you come back to reality and out of the land of dreams. Unadulterated bliss simply at the comfort of touching another human being. For those couple of seconds there is no loneliness in the entire world, there is serenity and peace, the kind that can only come when you’re not quite sleeping but not quite awake.

That is why, when I wake tangled up in Charlotte, that I think I must still be dreaming. The smell of her hair, the softness of her skin, the way her lips move marginally when she lets out a deep breath … this must be the things of my fantasy. Because surely she can’t be here.

It’s why I move my head, my whole body aching in the process, to plant a soft kiss on her forehead.

“Don’t hurt me!”

Faster than the speed of light, she jumps up, hands at the ready like she’s going to go a couple rounds in the ring.

“Jesus, Char, calm the fuck down!” I’m shocked to find it wasn’t a dream, but also a little embarrassed. It’s weird, and the creepiness that I’m kissing the woman I’ve kidnapped isn’t lost on me.

She lets her guard down, her breaths coming out in labored puffs. We stare at each other in awkward silence for a few moments.

“How do you feel?” She’s now avoiding my eye contact.

I push up from the stingy mattresses on the floor, wondering how the hell we both got down here.

“I’m feeling a lot better actually,” I twist my neck, rotate my shoulders and stretch my body. “Still achy, but better. Uh … thanks, for uh … seeing that I didn’t die.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to go make something to eat.” She doesn’t ask if I want to come, just stands in the doorway to the cabin.

“I’m going to stay here. I couldn’t eat anything if I tried.”

Char doesn’t stay to talk more, just leaves.

What do we do now? I haven’t thought about how much trouble I’m in or who might be looking for us up until now. Detoxing has been at the forefront of my brain, body and just about everything else.

But what the fuck am I going to do? Even if I give Char the keys and tell her to go, I’m still on the run for kidnapping and robbery. If I did let her leave, she’d surely bring the police or whoever else back here to get me.

I can’t go to jail. I’ll die before I do. I might have turned into a street-wise drug addict, but it doesn’t mean I want to fuck with the type of people who go to prison.

They have no idea where we are. No one could have looked at those tapes before we made it here. They wouldn’t have even been looking yet. I destroyed her phone, we didn’t use any credit cards or stop anywhere. Camp Marsh is closed up for the winter, no one will be back here for at least six months. That is enough time to formulate a plan.

* * *

I
don’t see
Char for the rest of the day. I don’t seek her out and she doesn’t come to me. By the time I make my way to the mess hall to try and choke down some crackers, there is no sign of her.

I manage to eat a whole piece of bread and gulp down some water, and thank God my stomach doesn’t reject them. My body still aches and my stomach feels like I’m on a Tilt-a-Whirl even when I lay down, but I feel better than I’ve felt in years.

Nothing is dulled, I can actually see and feel the things around me without a hazy curtain floating in front of it all. And while that might lead to more hurt and pain, it also leads to more joy and opportunity. I’ve been using drugs for more than three years, and in all that time I’ve never really
felt
anything.

Not that I’m not still craving. Fuck, if you put even a speck of heroin in front of me right now I would latch onto it like someone about to fall off a cliff. You can’t go three years shooting up and two days sober and just be cured. But I don’t really have a choice right now. My drugs are gone. I’m stuck here. I’ll have to deal with it.

It’s pitch black by the time I get back to my cabin, the cold air seeping in through the tiny cracks in the wood. It was only going to get colder out here in the mountains.

I wonder if Charlotte has a blanket?

I glance to the mattresses on the ground, ones I assume she put there last night. And the pile of flimsy blankets and an old sleeping bag. She probably left them all here for me, while she sleeps with nothing.

Grabbing the heaviest of the three, the sleeping bag, I heft it under my arm and walk to her cabin.

“Char?” I knock once before letting myself in. “Oh shit … sorry.”

Charlotte’s naked back is to me, the only thing on her slim figure is the baggy sweatpants she’s been wearing since she found them. Her hair is wet and hanging down her back in a thick, straight mass. I trace the lines of her sides down to her waist and can’t seem to tear my eyes away.

“Oh my God, Tucker, what are you doing?!”

I turn around fast, preserving whatever decency still exists in this situation. “Sorry, I was bringing you the sleeping bag. I thought you might be cold.”

“Oh.” I think I hear a touching note in her voice. “Well … thanks.”

“Yep.” I drop the sleeping bag next to the door and go to leave. Except her voice stops me.

“What is the plan here, Tucker?”

Jeez, she always could read my mind. “I can’t let you leave, Charlotte.”

Her words are quiet. “I know.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, but I can’t let you leave.”

When I turn back around she’s put her shirt on, to my cock’s disappointment. She only nods.

I’m not sure what else to say to her.

“Tucker … the drugs …”

I sigh, because I know she’s trying to ask me the same question she asked last night. “What about them, Char?”

She sees the opening I’ve given her and takes it. “How long have you been using?”

“Three or so years.”

Her expression changes into one of shock. “Ever since …”

“Yes. Since the injury.”

“And is it because of the pain? Because of your knee?”

She’s referring to my left knee. The one I shattered and tore and broke. The one that was beyond repair, murdering my dreams. “At first. But not now. Not anymore.”

“Then why keep doing them?”

I’d asked myself that question so many times that the answer was so simple now.

“Because I have nothing else left.”