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I don’t know if he works, but I assume he must do something. Every day after breakfast, I hear the truck outside leave for an hour or two before it comes back. He talks on the phone at night, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. It’s always at the same time, though, and I’m curious about who it could be.
On the weekends, he’s absent for long stretches, and I’m not sure where he goes. Apart from trying to break through the door when he’s gone, I haven’t made any other valiant escape efforts since the night I stabbed him with the fork.
I’m alone here all the time, and I don’t know how long this will go on. Playing the arcade games feels strange, and I don’t know how to operate the screen on the wall, so I spend most of my time sitting here staring at nothing. And now I understand why they say isolation can drive prisoners insane.
Kodiak has made it abundantly clear he’s never going to believe I’m not the woman he knew, so I’ve stopped trying to convince him. But I’m afraid of what will happen to my mind if I don’t.
When I hear him preparing my breakfast this morning, a flutter of nervous energy erupts in my belly. I get this feeling every time I see him, and at first, I thought it was happening because I was anxious about the unknown. But now I find myself wondering if I’m actually anxious to see another human, even if he is my captor. It’s scary how fast I’ve adapted to my circumstances. I went from having to work all day to earn enough to eat to having three solid meals hand-delivered. Instead of sleeping on a cold, concrete slab, I’m sleeping on a couch. I have a shower, clothes, and all my basic needs met. And if I’m being honest, I’m worried that maybe I’m getting a little too used to it.
But despite all the creature comforts, it doesn’t cure my aching void of loneliness. I don’t know what’s going on with Eden, and when I’ve tried asking about her, Kodiak just tells me she’s fine. I haven’t seen Birdie since she brought me clothes, either. The only person I have to talk to is him, and he isn’t saying much.
When the door swings open and the familiar sound of his boots echo across the floor, I steel myself and stare up at him from the couch. He barely glances at me as he hands me a plate of waffles, and I’ve come to realize he’s intentionally avoiding my gaze. But the question is why?
“Anything to say to me today?” he asks gruffly.
I know he’s asking for the truth, but I don’t want him to go when I give him the same answer. Not yet. And I don’t want to dig too deep into the why of that craving.
“Is Eden still at the clubhouse?” I ask.
“Yes,” he grunts.
“Can I see her?”
“No.”
“Is she safe?”
“Yes.”
He moves to leave, and my chest feels hollow. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself.
“You look familiar.”
He freezes, and when he turns to face me again, his voice is brittle. “What?”
“Your face,” I blurt. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, but you look like someone famous. Like I’ve seen you before in a movie or something, but I can’t place it.”
“Do you think it’s wise to fuck with me?” He stalks toward me, and my breath gets caught in my lungs when he grabs me by the face and forces me to look into his turbulent eyes.
“I’m not.” I blink rapidly. “I swear it.”
Something about his anger tugs at my emotions, and it doesn’t make sense for me to feel this way. But I do. I don’t like seeing anyone upset, but this situation is worse because he thinks I’m the one who made him like this. In his mind, I’m to blame for the powder keg of resentment that’s ready to blow every time he even looks at my face. And regardless of our weird dynamic, it hurts to know that someone could hate me that much. It’s not a good feeling, and it’s starting to wear on me.
A tremor moves through me, and his grip on me softens, if only a little. I can see his struggle reflected back at me. He doesn’t want to be so cold, but he can’t let go of this hostility. When his eyes roam over my face, my lips part and I draw in a breath, unintentionally inhaling him. He smells like mint, leather, and something I can’t quite place that feels oddly comforting.
One of us moves, and like a magnet, the other follows. I’m not sure who starts it. I only know that one second, he’s looking at me like he doesn’t know what to do with me, and the next, our lips are crashing into each other with a hunger that feels a thousand years old. Lightning shoots through my veins, and I lean into him with a trust that isn’t natural for me. I don’t know this man, so why does it feel like I want this so much?
