Love You Always (9 page)

Unfortunately, my experience with Keith has made me wonder if all men are that way. Would it be the same for Marcus? Would sex be the most important aspect for him to love a woman, and what if we don’t
fit
?

A horrendous accident caused Marcus’ physical scars—my relationship with Keith caused me emotional ones. My scars hold me back from letting myself be totally vulnerable again. It’s why I backed off when Marcus and I were kissing in the lake.

Like physical scars, I don’t believe we can get rid of them completely. But I believe with time, and healing, the wounds hurt less and less and eventually they become part of our past that— although they stay with us so we never forget—we just don’t focus on them anymore.

I’m not quite there yet on the
‘not focusing on my scars anymore’
part, but maybe when I’ve found a new love who completes me, who
fits
me, it’ll happen then. We’ll see.

“Did you see Sondra again?” I ask.

“A couple of more times. But then one day, before our vacation ended, she was gone. She left without even telling me.”

“Oh my gosh, you must’ve been heartbroken,” I sympathize.

“Yes, I was.”

I don’t know what to say at this point. We’re both silent. Once again, he turns to look out onto the lake. I do the same.

“Shall we have our lunch?” he asks.

I nod my head.

He opens the basket and takes out the sandwiches that Angela and I had prepared.

After we finish, he pulls out the baggy of tarts. Angela must’ve slipped them in, because I know I didn’t pack them.

“Now, wasn’t it two of these for a kiss?” he asks as he holds up the baggy and grins mischievously at me.

“I’m upping the price,” I retort.

“Oh?” He has a look of surprise on his face. “And just how many of these do I have to eat?”

“How many of them are there?”

He counts them.

“Six,” he says.

“Well then, it’ll cost you seven.” I’m laughing inside, because I know I’ve one-upped him. I grin at him smugly.

But instead of my anticipation of watching his facial expression turn to disappointment, he grins fiendishly at me. What’s he up to?

He reaches into the basket and holds up a second baggy. What the . . . ? There are more tarts!

“Looks like Angela couldn’t fit them all in one bag, so she used two.” Now he’s the one who looks smug.

Argh.
I can’t believe it!

But I think fast and snatch the baggy with the additional tarts away from him.

“This is mine.” I hold it tightly to my chest. “That’s yours.” I point to what he holds in his hand.

He makes a sad face that makes me want to laugh because it’s so cute, and he looks adorable with his exaggerated frown.

But then, as fast as he frowned, his face changes once more, and now he’s grinning again. This makes me nervous because it means he’s going to one-up me.

“Let’s wrestle for it,” he says.

Ack!
What have I gotten myself into?!

~* Marcus *~

Laura’s eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them.

“I’m kidding.” I tell her, and she lets out a sigh of relief. “Besides, I have a good feeling I may lose.”

“Damn straight,” she replies, and I again belt out a laugh.

Man, I can’t get enough of this woman.

* * *

“We’re back,” I yell out when we enter the foyer.

I take the basket to the kitchen, as Laura heads upstairs to get cleaned up.

The house seems unusually quiet. Angela must be upstairs. She normally comes to greet me straight away when she hears me call out, but maybe she’s in the bathroom or taking a nap.

I head upstairs to my bedroom to take a shower. As I pass by Angela’s room, her door is wide open. Normally, if she’s napping, she keeps her door closed.

“Angela, you in here?” I call out to her as I step into her room.

No answer.

The bathroom door is open too, so she’s not in there. I wonder where she’s at. Maybe she fell asleep on the living room sofa and didn’t hear us when we came in.

I go to my room and take my shower.

* * *

When I come back downstairs, I check the living room. Nope, Sis is not on the sofa. Maybe she got up while I was in the shower.

“Have you seen Angela?” Laura asks as she finds me in the living room.

“No. I’ve been looking for her myself. She’s gotta be here somewhere, she wouldn’t have gone outside.”

We walk to the kitchen together, but she’s not there either.

“Angela!” I call out, loud enough that if she’s in the house, she should hear me—but still no response.

We scour the upstairs and downstairs once more, but Angela’s nowhere to be found.

At this point, I’m frantic with worry. I look for signs of a break-in, but there’s no forced entry on any of the doors or windows.

Just as I’m about to call the police, my cell phone rings. The caller ID says ‘Angela.’

“Sis, where the hell are you?”

“I want you to listen to me carefully.” The voice is not Angela’s. It’s a male voice, low and gruff. “We have your sister, and for now she’s safe, but if you call the police or Feds, we’ll send her to you piece by piece.”

What the fuck?!

“If you touch her, I’ll come after you fucking bastards with an axe!” My threat comes out of my mouth from sheer instinct and not heroism, because this is way out of my league, and I know it. I’m not stupid as to deny it either.

“Well, tough guy, you do as I say and your sister will be unharmed,” he says.

“What do you want?” I ask, knowing it’ll be a ransom. How much, is the question.

“Five mill.”

“I don’t have that kind of money in cash.”

“If you want your sister alive, you’ll find a way to get it,” he says, his voice unwavering. “I’ll call you back with further instructions tomorrow.”

“Wait. Let me speak to my sister.”

Laura stands in front of me and her eyes stare into mine as she bites her fingernails. From hearing my end of the conversation, she knows exactly what’s going on.

“The bitch was in a panic so we had to knock her out again. What the fuck is wrong with her?”

“You fucking assholes! She’s got agoraphobia,” I yell, letting my anger control me.

“Well, we won’t have to worry about her escaping then, will we?” His laugh is almost evil. “Get the money, or she’s dead.” His voice is deadly serious.

The bastard doesn’t wait for my response; he hangs up.

Fuck!

How did they get her? They must’ve been surveying the house, waiting for Laura and me to leave Angela alone. Since they didn’t break in, she let them in, or at least opened the front door when they buzzed.

My heart hammers in my chest so hard my ears ring. Fear and anger consume me and my mind is in a whirl.

“Oh, Marcus,” Laura says, her voice cracking, and with tears in her eyes.

I stare into those soft blue eyes and a lump sticks in my throat—I’m about ready to shed tears myself, but I hold them back.

“They want five million dollars.” I run my fingers through my hair in frustration. “He said if I call the authorities, he’ll send her to me piece by piece.”

“Oh my God,” Laura says with a look of horror on her face. “What are you going to do?”

I hesitate to answer as my mind races through my options. Yeah, what the fuck am I going to do?

In movies, the main character complies with the kidnappers, ultimately beating the assholes at their own game, rescuing their loved one, and kicking the shit out of the fuckers. But this isn’t a movie—this is happening in real life—and it’s happening to me. I’m the main character, and the fucking kidnappers have my sister. Playing the hero may just get her killed.

Even if I had the money on hand, handing it over to them doesn’t mean they’ll release her, because here’s the part that worries me the most . . . Angela must’ve seen their faces, or at least one of them, because she would’ve looked through the peephole when they rang the doorbell. If they were wearing masks, she wouldn’t have opened the door.

Would the kidnappers let her go if she could identify them? The only answer my reasoning mind gives me is—NO.

I’ve got to save my sis, and I’ve got to do it the right way. I need help with this; otherwise, I’ll never forgive myself for losing my sister too.

“I’m calling the FBI,” I tell Laura.

I see relief on her face. Seems that would’ve been her choice too.

~* Angela *~

What’s happening? Where am I and why am I here? I’m in some kind of shed. The windows are boarded up, and it’s dim except for the slight rays of sunlight peering through the cracks of the peeling painted wood.

I’m sitting on the ground with my hands tied behind my back around a post. I try to wriggle my hands loose, but it’s too tight.

My mind’s a blur and my head throbs. The last thing I remember is hearing the doorbell, looking through the peephole, and seeing a delivery guy at our doorstep. When I opened the door, he looked friendly, he smiled at me, but then his hand grasped my neck, and . . . and . . . I don’t know what happened after that . . . I can’t remember—I must’ve blacked out.

Oh my God, I’ve been kidnapped!

Nausea grabs me in the pit of my stomach, making me gag, and the sharp, sour taste of bile rises to my throat. Pain . . . in my chest . . . and I–I–I can’t catch my breath.

I know this feeling, I know it all too well, even if I haven’t had one for a while—I’m having a panic attack.

Oh God.

I start to tremble and I’m getting cold sweats, while tears stream down my face. I’m panting hard, and my heart pounds as though I’m going to have a heart attack.

There are sounds outside, men’s voices, talking. I can see through the cracks that they’re right outside the door. As the door opens, I squint as the sunlight hits me, then there’s dimness again, and I watch them walk towards me—there are two of them.

Tears continue to flow from my eyes as my breath comes in pants.

“Plea . . .” I plead, my voice hardly audible as I puff out the incoherent word with my ragged breath, “I–I–I . . .” I try to speak, but my words are unable to leave my lips.

“Shut up!” a harsh voice commands me.

“What’s wrong with her? Why is she breathing like that?” another voice—a younger, gentler one—asks.

As my anxiety mounts, I start to scream like a crazy woman.

“Shut the fuck up, I said!” the older kidnapper’s voice bellows out, and a sharp sting lands across my face.

I lower my head, sobbing, trying hard to catch my breath. I scream again, and this time, his hand is at my throat, choking me, my eyes start to blur, and I–I–I . . .

* * *

I wake up coughing as water splashes my face. I look up and the younger kidnapper, the one with the soft voice, crouches in front of me.

His eyes roam down to gaze at my breasts, where the top buttons on my dress have come loose. I bring my knees up to my chest, to guard myself, but his eyes now move downward to where my panties are exposed. I quickly drop my legs and fold them under me, but my hem bunches up exposing a good portion of my thighs.

He runs his fingers over my thigh, and I cringe, squirming around to make him stop.

“Please don’t,” I plead.

His eyes gaze into mine, and he smiles at me charmingly. If he wasn’t a kidnapper, I’d say he was handsome, but because of who he is, he repulses me.

He sits down comfortably, crossing his legs in front of him. He picks up a piece of bread off a tray of food he brought in, tears off a piece, and says, “Here, you need to eat.”

He pushes it to my lips but I lock them tight and don’t let him in. I jerk my head as he continues to try to push it into my mouth.

“I don’t want any,” I say in defiance when I manage to make him stop.

“You’re going to eat, or maybe you want me to do other things to you instead.”

I look into his eyes. Is he serious?

He pushes the bread to my lips again, and as I stare into his eyes, fearful of his threat, I reluctantly open my mouth.

“That’s a good girl. You do as we say and you’ll live to see your brother again.”

Tears again flood my eyes and roll down my cheeks. He spoons soup into my mouth, and gives me water to drink.

When he’s done feeding me, he says, “Wasn’t that good? Aren’t you glad you ate something?”

I don’t answer and instead lower my eyes so I don’t have to look at him. But he puts his hand under my chin to force my gaze upwards.

“I want you to look at me when I talk to you,” he tells me.

I do as he says, but my eyes look at him sadly.

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he says as he touches my hair.

I pull away from his touch.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I tell him abruptly.

He looks at me for a moment, then stands up and disappears behind me. I feel my bindings loosen, and I rub my wrists as soon as he sets them free.

“C’mon, let’s go.” He grabs my hand and pulls me towards the door.

Once we get there, my free hand grabs onto the doorframe and I hesitate to go any further. He stops at my resistance. That panicky feeling is coming over me again. I’ve already had a panic attack earlier for just being in this strange environment; I’m going to freak out again if I have to go outside.

“What the fuck’s wrong?” he asks, looking annoyed.

“I–I–I can’t go out there.” My panic starts to take hold and I’m trembling. My heart races and heat inflames my face and neck.

“I’m going to be sick,” I tell him and I drop to the ground, gasping for breath, as nausea once again brings that awful taste to my mouth.

“What the fuck?” I hear him say as he stares down at me, while I’m grasping onto the doorframe for dear life.

My breaths are coming fast and hard, I feel dizzy, and I can barely understand what he’s saying to me. He crouches down and scoops me up in his arms. My arms instinctively cling to his neck and I bury my face, shutting my eyes out to the surroundings, while he carries me.

The next thing I know, we’re inside a cabin.

“What the fuck’s going on?” the other kidnapper who slapped me earlier asks.

“She needs to go to the john.”