Savor the Danger
Page 64
He swallowed back a groan and waited.
“I might not have a lot to compare with, but I’m sure you do, so you have to know that the sex, at least for me, has been nothing short of amazing.”
A fair start. “You can thank me later—when you’re better rested.” With Alani, he wanted to be more than amazing.
Now, tomorrow…and for the foreseeable future, he wanted to be the only one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MARC TOBIN GOT ONE EYE OPEN. The other eye…he didn’t know. He hurt so bad, in places he’d never thought of, muscles he’d never used. He tasted old blood in his mouth, smelled new blood on his clothes.
Pinpricks of pain ran up and down his arms. They’d been tied behind him for what felt like days, but he really had no concept of the time that had passed. All he knew with certainty was that he had to get away, or they’d kill him.
He’d told them all he knew, but it was never enough.
Jesus, when it came down to it, he didn’t know Alani all that well, and he barely knew Jackson at all.
His tormentors didn’t buy it—or else they didn’t care.
He wanted his old life back, the security of money, social connections, the power of prestige and respect from peers. He thought of the fists that had hit him. Black leather gloves. Cruel eyes staring through a mask. Guttural questions and more questions, coming rapidfire whether he had answers or not.
He’d dated Alani on a casual basis. He’d met Jackson twice, not counting that last time when the shots were fired, when he’d thought to escape, when someone had clubbed him in the back of the head and later awakened him with a punch to the gut.
It hurt to breathe, but he had to. If he ever wanted to get away, this might be his only chance.
Once, when they’d opened the door to his small cell, he’d seen trees. Sky. Outdoors.
He wasn’t in a room in a bigger building, but rather a small, isolated structure. Maybe a shed. Or a garage of sorts.
No windows, but filtered sunlight crept in around a crack between the wall and floor, beneath the old door and in a vent in the ceiling.
He couldn’t lock his broken jaw, but he did his utmost to stifle grunts of misery as he struggled to pull his arms free. Blood and sweat wet the binding around his wrists, now loosened from his involuntary jerking of pain during the last “questioning.”
For now, the room was empty. Dark. Smelling of his fear and pain.
Agony ripped through him, but he pulled at his right hand, leaning forward, praying he didn’t do more damage to his abused body—and finally his hand came free.
It so surprised Marc that he slumped forward for a second, panting, fighting the blackness that closed in around him, before he finally realized what had happened.
He studied his hand. Blood covered his skin, looking obscene in and around his swollen fingers. He was certain a few were broken, given they were black, blue, oddly bent.
His stomach recoiled. Puking would only hurt more, and it’d definitely slow him down, so he swallowed convulsively until the nausea abated.
He was a strong man, capable of fighting for what he wanted, insisting when necessary. He’d faced off with more than one confrontation, dealt with more than one conflict. He was fit, athletic, more physical than most.
But he’d never been through anything like this. Not even close.
Given the abuse he’d suffered, it took him long, agonizing minutes to free his other hand and his feet. When he stood, his right knee wanted to give out. But by God, he’d crawl if he had to. Using the chair, he steadied himself.
He was leaving here. Now.
Praying he would find the door unlocked, he hobbled over to it, turned the doorknob—and inhaled in relief as it slid open.
He peeked outside, but he saw no one standing guard. A drizzling, miserable summer rain soaked everything in sight, leaving the muddy ground sodden, the sky dark gray. Off in the distance, through sparse woods, sat an old stone building. It looked dilapidated and abandoned.
But then he heard…sounds. Awful sounds. Moans, cries.
Begging.
Oh, God. Frantic for escape, he looked around, but everywhere he saw woods and more woods. He didn’t know which way to go, so he started walking away from that stone house, from the shed that had imprisoned him. Praying more, he put as much distance between him and the suffering as he could.
As he made his way along, he remembered their exchanges. Early on he’d tried to bargain with them, but they cared nothing about his financial offers. When he’d threatened legal repercussions, they’d laughed. Stop fighting it. There’s nothing you can do. Nowhere you can go. No one to help you. Even if you made it away from here and got to the police, they’d never find us.
But we’d find you. Never doubt it.
And he didn’t. Oh, he’d go to the police. Eventually. But God willing, if he made it out of the woods alive, he’d find a hospital first, and then he’d call the only person he could think of who might actually be able to keep him safe.
He’d call that crazy f**ker Jackson.
IT RAINED FOR THREE DAYS.
All his plans to take Alani out on the lake, to skinny-dip with her, to explore his property together, were pushed aside…for endless sex.
As per his plan, he’d taken advantage of the close confines.
Just that morning he’d awakened to thunderstorms that shook his house. It made him horny. But then, as irregular as it seemed, a stiff breeze could make him urgent with lust when he had Alani within reach.
As crackling lightning split the dark sky, he’d kissed Alani awake, then kept on kissing her—everywhere—until she’d cried out in a rush of pleasure.
“I might not have a lot to compare with, but I’m sure you do, so you have to know that the sex, at least for me, has been nothing short of amazing.”
A fair start. “You can thank me later—when you’re better rested.” With Alani, he wanted to be more than amazing.
Now, tomorrow…and for the foreseeable future, he wanted to be the only one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MARC TOBIN GOT ONE EYE OPEN. The other eye…he didn’t know. He hurt so bad, in places he’d never thought of, muscles he’d never used. He tasted old blood in his mouth, smelled new blood on his clothes.
Pinpricks of pain ran up and down his arms. They’d been tied behind him for what felt like days, but he really had no concept of the time that had passed. All he knew with certainty was that he had to get away, or they’d kill him.
He’d told them all he knew, but it was never enough.
Jesus, when it came down to it, he didn’t know Alani all that well, and he barely knew Jackson at all.
His tormentors didn’t buy it—or else they didn’t care.
He wanted his old life back, the security of money, social connections, the power of prestige and respect from peers. He thought of the fists that had hit him. Black leather gloves. Cruel eyes staring through a mask. Guttural questions and more questions, coming rapidfire whether he had answers or not.
He’d dated Alani on a casual basis. He’d met Jackson twice, not counting that last time when the shots were fired, when he’d thought to escape, when someone had clubbed him in the back of the head and later awakened him with a punch to the gut.
It hurt to breathe, but he had to. If he ever wanted to get away, this might be his only chance.
Once, when they’d opened the door to his small cell, he’d seen trees. Sky. Outdoors.
He wasn’t in a room in a bigger building, but rather a small, isolated structure. Maybe a shed. Or a garage of sorts.
No windows, but filtered sunlight crept in around a crack between the wall and floor, beneath the old door and in a vent in the ceiling.
He couldn’t lock his broken jaw, but he did his utmost to stifle grunts of misery as he struggled to pull his arms free. Blood and sweat wet the binding around his wrists, now loosened from his involuntary jerking of pain during the last “questioning.”
For now, the room was empty. Dark. Smelling of his fear and pain.
Agony ripped through him, but he pulled at his right hand, leaning forward, praying he didn’t do more damage to his abused body—and finally his hand came free.
It so surprised Marc that he slumped forward for a second, panting, fighting the blackness that closed in around him, before he finally realized what had happened.
He studied his hand. Blood covered his skin, looking obscene in and around his swollen fingers. He was certain a few were broken, given they were black, blue, oddly bent.
His stomach recoiled. Puking would only hurt more, and it’d definitely slow him down, so he swallowed convulsively until the nausea abated.
He was a strong man, capable of fighting for what he wanted, insisting when necessary. He’d faced off with more than one confrontation, dealt with more than one conflict. He was fit, athletic, more physical than most.
But he’d never been through anything like this. Not even close.
Given the abuse he’d suffered, it took him long, agonizing minutes to free his other hand and his feet. When he stood, his right knee wanted to give out. But by God, he’d crawl if he had to. Using the chair, he steadied himself.
He was leaving here. Now.
Praying he would find the door unlocked, he hobbled over to it, turned the doorknob—and inhaled in relief as it slid open.
He peeked outside, but he saw no one standing guard. A drizzling, miserable summer rain soaked everything in sight, leaving the muddy ground sodden, the sky dark gray. Off in the distance, through sparse woods, sat an old stone building. It looked dilapidated and abandoned.
But then he heard…sounds. Awful sounds. Moans, cries.
Begging.
Oh, God. Frantic for escape, he looked around, but everywhere he saw woods and more woods. He didn’t know which way to go, so he started walking away from that stone house, from the shed that had imprisoned him. Praying more, he put as much distance between him and the suffering as he could.
As he made his way along, he remembered their exchanges. Early on he’d tried to bargain with them, but they cared nothing about his financial offers. When he’d threatened legal repercussions, they’d laughed. Stop fighting it. There’s nothing you can do. Nowhere you can go. No one to help you. Even if you made it away from here and got to the police, they’d never find us.
But we’d find you. Never doubt it.
And he didn’t. Oh, he’d go to the police. Eventually. But God willing, if he made it out of the woods alive, he’d find a hospital first, and then he’d call the only person he could think of who might actually be able to keep him safe.
He’d call that crazy f**ker Jackson.
IT RAINED FOR THREE DAYS.
All his plans to take Alani out on the lake, to skinny-dip with her, to explore his property together, were pushed aside…for endless sex.
As per his plan, he’d taken advantage of the close confines.
Just that morning he’d awakened to thunderstorms that shook his house. It made him horny. But then, as irregular as it seemed, a stiff breeze could make him urgent with lust when he had Alani within reach.
As crackling lightning split the dark sky, he’d kissed Alani awake, then kept on kissing her—everywhere—until she’d cried out in a rush of pleasure.
