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He must be used to sleeping in compromising situations or something, because I felt like I was struggling to keep my eyes closed the entire time. I spent a significant portion of the night in the fetal position, curled up into myself with my arms in my hoodie.
I’m shocked that he trusted me enough to let me sleep. If I were him, I would have forced me to stay awake in order to break down my defenses and extract a confession.
The fact that he didn’t even tie me up or anything speaks volumes about one of two things – either he trusts me enough to let me remain free, or the wilderness around here is dangerous enough on its own to keep me contained.
I hate to consider the latter option, but given how persistent he is about my involvement in the shooting, it’s the only thing that makes sense.
The grey cast of the morning sun streams through the rotting boards of the roof, forcing me to pull myself out of what remains of my sleep. It would be unwise of me to let him wake up first even if it is technically safer right next to him.
I have to admit that sleeping next to someone else, especially someone so much bigger than me, felt incredible. The warmth of his body as he held me close made me feel something I’ve been craving for months.
He didn’t try to touch me at all, which has been giving me conflicting feelings all morning. It would be an abuse of power for him to assume that I’d bend to his will, but I was aching for a hand on my hip or around my waist until I fell asleep.
I thought I felt something moving against me in the middle of the night, and I almost screamed before I realized that it was his dick pressing against his pants. I know he was sleeping and didn’t intend for it to happen, but it startled me to death.
Once I’m certain that he’s still out cold, I evaluate the features and contours of his face when he’s not holding it in an eternal scowl. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, and it makes me wonder why he chooses to be so unpleasant and confrontational in his waking hours.
He moves periodically, but other than the occasional twitch or heavy breath, he’s out like a light.
I study the few details of his clothes that the faint light will allow me to see. Given my time in prep school and now in an elite college, I’ve gotten used to the look of expensive designer brand clothing. It’s a habit I thought I’d never absorb from my friends, but I’ve learned how to detect when someone’s clothes are genuine or fake.
Whatever this man is wearing isn’t something that he purchased off the rack. It was tailor-made for him, potentially designed for him. The inventory he’s hiding here must be turning one hell of a profit, because even the wealthiest, most ostentatious students at my school wear clothes from brands that have a storefront.
This is something else. Maybe it’s foreign?
Just as I’m studying the pattern woven into the fabric, I see a spider begin to crawl up his neck. It continues to crawl over his sharp jawline and along his cheek before becoming tangled in his hair.
If I were him, I’d want someone to tell me that there was a spider crawling on my face. If I were trying to get him to trust me, Iwouldtell him.
But I still haven’t made up my mind.
By the time he wakes up, it’ll be too late for me to choose a different course of action. Either I decide to comply with his neurotic demands until my name is cleared, or I choose to be brave and run for the hills.
What if he was exaggerating about the dangers of the forest just to keep me frozen with fear? It would be an easy way to keep a hostage close by, but I could still take this as an opportunity to hide until someone sends out a search party.
Ifsomeone sends out a search party.
That’s something else I’ve had to consider as I deliberate my next move.
Who would bother to look for me?
Angelique, Tiffany, and Eric certainly don’t give a shit. I’m sure that their forced, two-faced hospitality is a southern thing, but I doubt it extends to people who actually need the help or compassion. It’s just a way to get someone to let their guard down in order to find information to torment them with.
How long would I be waiting in the woods if I were expecting someone to come looking for me? If nobody actually notices that I’m gone, it could be weeks unless I’m able to find my way back to town. Would my professors even notice that I was missing?
The weight of my decision grows heavier as the moments go by.
I stare down at this nameless man, a certified asshole with a proclivity for mocking vulnerable people. Seeing him sneering at me the minute I begin to feel afraid again would be infuriating.
But then again, I picture the life I’d be returning to if I were to run away.
I’d be attending classes with loads of homework and nobody in the world to spend my time with. I’d be resigning myself to Friday nights at trendy bars where the drinks are twenty dollars, and everybody has a thousand-yard stare.
Would that ever be better than choosing to ride this out?
I glance back down at him before a new thought floats through my head.
What would my mom do if I were found dead in the woods?
