I’ve always been apretty easygoing guy. It’s one of my better qualities. Okay, maybe my only good quality. But it makes me likable. Makes me adaptable to wildly unfortunate situations.
Like being kidnapped.
By a man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and my self-esteem at the same time…
So when I realized at some point in the past couple weeks—somewhere between sandwiches and awkward silences and learning the tiniest crumbs of information that he gives me—that I’m getting attached to my captor, I mostly just…rolled with it.
Stockholm syndrome? Probably.
Trauma response? Definitely.
Embarrassing? Oh, absolutely.
But I’ve had worse coping mechanisms. I once emotionally bonded with a broken espresso machine at work for three weeks before it was finally replaced. At least Reese occasionally talks back.
It’s been twenty-five days since he took me.
Twenty-five days.
It’s a number I try not to think about too much because when you’re counting the days, you count everything else. The meals. The conversations. The moments you forget you’re trapped and the ones when it hits you so hard it feels like your lungs collapse.
I’ve had plenty of both.
Reese has brought pizza down four times now, like some kind of emotionally stunted delivery service. Half pepperoni, half Hawaiian. Every time. He still looks personally offended when I eat my slices.
But at least it’s a break from sandwiches.
He’s also started letting me shower twice a week instead of the once we started with, probably because I stopped teasing him and trying to tempt him while I’m naked. He still stands guard, but he doesn’t react. Either he’s still holding onto that stoic, unaffected mask he does with everything else, or…
He really is straight.
Color me disappointed.
And perpetually sexually frustrated.
I jerked off one day when I was alone in my room, maybehopinghe was watching. But the next time he let me out, there was no sign he had seen anything.
When I’m in the shower, I may never see his eyes wander, but I swear I canfeelthem when I turn my back.
Or maybe that’s just my desperation showing.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile, letting the hot water beat down on my shoulders, loosening muscles that have been tight for weeks. Steam fills the shower and fogs the glass, turning everything on the other side into soft shapes and shadows. Like Reese.
Tilting my head back, I let the water run over my face. For a few seconds, I pretend this is just a bad vacation, that when Iopen my eyes, I’ll be in some overpriced hotel with terrible art and a minibar I can’t afford.
Instead, I open them and see Reese’s silhouette through the glass. He stands there like always. Guarding, watching. Arms crossed, jaw tight.
God, he’s consistent.
“You know,” I say, loud enough to carry over the water, “most kidnappers don’t provide this level of hygiene provision. Yelp would love you.”
No answer.
“Five stars. Would be abducted again.”
Silence.
I turn slightly, rinsing soap from my shoulders, but my attention is locked on him through the blur of steam and glass. He’s been…different lately. More restless. Distracted. Like something is chewing on the inside of his brain.
