“Yeah, fine.”
“I brought you something in case you’re hungry. You like chocolate, right?”
It’s then that I realize he’s carrying a milkshake—not one from McDonald’s but one he probably made in his own kitchen, with a red-and-white-striped straw poking out from the whipped cream. My stomach, ignorant of the danger we’re in, grumbles. He smiles and offers me the plastic cup.
No thanks, motherfucker.
I slip the crooked nail through my fingers, like a bitch walking aloneat night with a set of keys, and charge him.Go for the throat, I remind myself, focusing on a patch of skin there.Go for the throat. But my limbs are still heavy from whatever he used to drug me, and when I try to thrust the sharp end at him, he’s able to easily counter, hooking his elbow around me and crushing me to his chest.
“Bold move,” he says, his breath humid against my neck. “I can respect that.”
I jab my elbow into his stomach. He lets out a guttural “oomph” but maintains his grip. I struggle as hard as I can—trying to wrench my limbs free so I can gore that nail into his thigh, his ribs, anywhere I can reach, but it’s no use. He’s too strong for me to fight against. Eventually, there’s no more gas in the tank, and I sag, exhausted, in his arms.
He lowers me to the floor, but not before gently prying the crooked nail out of my fist. He twirls it between his fingers, examining its blunted tip, then clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if to say,well, that’s the end of that, and tucks it into his pocket.
Then he offers me the milkshake again.
He didn’t even spill it.
That’s how much I suck at escaping.
“There’s nothing in it,” he reassures me, “if that’s what you’re worried about.” I have no reason to believe him, but then my stomach grumbles again. This isn’t the first time I’ve been alone with a dangerous man. I need to remember all the tools that’ve kept me alive until now: remain aware of my surroundings, watch for any sudden changes in his mood, and, most importantly, keep my strength up. I have to be ready to escape as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Snatching the cup away from him, I take a sip, then swallow, waiting for a suspicious aftertaste.
He sits down opposite me, cross-legged, on the floor and steeples his fingers against his mouth. He’s smiling, satisfied, and that’s when I realize the cup’s shaking in my hands. The whipped cream piled on top slides over the rim and settles, sticky, between my fingers.
He likes this.
My fear.
My dad gets the same look whenever he knows he has me backed into a corner. I force myself to go still—not because it’s the smart thing to do, but because I hitchhiked all this way so I wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. Knowing this man is lapping up my terror like a hungry mutt just makes me more determined not to give it to him.
“Is it good?” he asks, nodding toward the milkshake.
“Yeah, sure.”
He surveys the shack, frowning as if he’s seeing it for the first time. “Are you warm enough out here? Do you need any blankets? I insulated the walls, but that might not be enough.”
What the fuck is he talking about? Blankets? “How long are you planning to keep me here?”
“I don’t know. For a few days at least, so if there’s anything that’ll make you more comfortable, you only need to ask.”
A few days until what? Until he lets me go or decides that would be too much of a risk? I’m suddenly consumed with a desperate need for him to skip past this bullshit and hurt me. Break my fingers, my wrist, my face, whatever—it doesn’t matter, because that I would understand. That would be familiar, and the familiar is comforting, even when it’s abhorrent. If he does it now, then it’ll be over with—that first time, at least—and I’ll know what to expect from him.
“Anything that’ll make it more comfortable,” I repeat. “I don’t know. How about a bed? How about a television? How about a fucking swimming pool?” I slam the cup down, and milkshake splatters onto the floor. We stare at each other, listen to the short, quick bursts of my breath. Have I gone too far? I start readying myself to run—but to where? There’s nowhere left to go.
Suddenly, he laughs.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says. “No screaming, no sobbing, no begging.”
No, no screaming, no sobbing, no begging, because none of that will do any good. How often have I tried that with my dad, each time praying it’d be the abracadabra alakazam that would restore him to the man he used to be? Who taught his little girl how to swing her plastic yellow softball bat, hefting her onto his shoulders whenever she smacked the ball over the chain-link fence? The porch lamp, surrounded by the papery pulse of moths, transformed into the Hadlock Field floodlights, and the crowd went wild.
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised by this man. Even psychopaths can remember, from time to time, to be decent.
I look him straight in the eyes. “It takes a lot to scare me.”
“Dying doesn’t scare you?”
He’s a grown man, at least twice my size, but at that moment, he seems like a little kid. Someone who doesn’t understand how the world works, who still thinks in the simplest terms.
