Page 17 of His Hostage

“The way your eyes dart tells me you don’t want me to press, so I won’t talk about it any further,” he says. “It’s not like I really wanted to know anyway.”

It’s hard to know how to talk about these things. He’s a stranger, and I haven’t had many people I can confide in.

“So, what do you do?” he finally asks me.

“What do I do?” I say the words to myself and think about the question a little harder than I should.

Finally, I feel myself shrink, as if my body wants to contort into itself. “I don’t do anything, I guess. I thought I’d figure that whole thing out when I got here.”

He smiles. “Well, you’ll figure it out. The desert has a way of opening people up to their true destiny and passions,” he says, confidently. “Until then, you might as well live it up.”

“I might as well relax,” I say, checking my watch.

“Come on. Live a little. You just got out of a bad relationship,” he says, handing me an unlit cigarette.

“Who said it was bad?” I take his cigarette, despite what my brain is screaming at me: No! No! No!

I disobey, feeling myself give in to old habits. I start to get dragged into what I always get dragged into.

“A divorce. Must have been bad. I bet it ate away at you too,” he says, hitting the nail right on its head. “I’m not being mean. I’m just saying, you have to live it up. You owe it to yourself to a party.”

“Maybe,” I say.

He doesn’t get any pleasure out of hearing me say no so many times. He’s persistent. I’ll give him that. Still, it’s not like me to “live it up.” I’ve never been that type of lady.

He relaxes. “Caroline, you could have died this morning, but you didn’t. It’s a sign. Life wants you to fuck it hard, deep, and without any protection. Got it?”

He yanks me up into his arms. I can barely keep hold of my coffee. “We’re going somewhere, whether you like it or not,” he says, carrying me.

“Stop. You’re going to drop me,” I yell, but I’m laughing at the same time.

I suddenly feel a lot lighter, despite all of the crap going on in my life right now. Is this how the devil tempts the innocent? Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not exactly innocent.

“We’re going to the Silent Barn,” he says.

“What on earth is the Silent Barn?” I ask him.

“It’s a place where dreams come true,” he says. “Where your wildest desires become reality.”

“Seriously?” I ask him. He finally sets me down and laughs with me.

“No, it’s a shitty dive bar,” he admits. “But I have to go there anyway to get some stuff. You want to join me, or are you going to head back to your place to stare at more desert landscape or whatever it is you east-coast elites do on your off time.”

“Fine,” I say. “I guess I should explore this town a little, huh?”

“It’s only worth it if you’re with me. I’m starting to get the hang of this place. Soon enough, I’ll make it my bitch,” he says.

We walk a few blocks and take a right at a desolate intersection. At the end of a long strip is a small dive bar without a sign.

“Voila,” he says.

When we get to the entrance, he kicks open the door.

The barroom is empty. Inside, there’s maybe four or five people drinking at the bar. They’re all big and burly, and not exactly in the best shape. They’re sporting long beards, and have similar patches to the ones I saw in the picture at Rowan’s house.

Insignias.

At this point, I have to wonder. Is he in a motorcycle gang? I mean, it seems pretty obvious, but one can never tell. Maybe he’s just one of those guys that takes his bike out on the weekend.

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