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“Take a look at my mail,” I continue. At least he’s talking to me. That’s something. “I have some mail on my kitchen counter. Go see for yourself who it’s addressed to.”
“I already told you, IDs can be faked. Therefore, you can have mail delivered to any name.”
I groan in frustration, tipping my head back. I wrack my brain for something,anything,to get this man to listen to reason. Then it hits me. “If you let me charge my phone, I have time-stamped photos of me in Colorado right up until I moved here last week.”
“You think I’m stupid enough to give you your phone?” he asks incredulously.
“I don’t know!” I nearly shout. “I’m doing all the work over here, telling you about myself. You haven’t offered any information on yourself, so I can’t be blamed for drawing my own conclusions.”
I’m stunned when Locke barks out a laugh. It’s rough and unpracticed, and he covers it up with a cough almost immediately. I hear it all the same. It gives me hope. Hope that I’ll escape, not hope that we’ll...what? Get together? What the hell am I thinking? That’s not the goal here. Freedom is my goal. Yes. Let’s focus on that.
“I’m not stupid,” he finally answers. Silence stretches between us for long moments, then Locke speaks again, though I hardly hear him this time. “I don’t talk much in general. It’s not just you.”
My heart squeezes up tight in my chest almost painfully. I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised at his words, but before I get a chance to figure it out, Locke stands up and moves toward me. He takes his switchblade out of his pocket and flips it open.
I was terrified the first time he came at me with that knife until I understood he was only using it to cut the zip ties off, just like he's doing now. As soon as my wrists are free, I begin massaging the lines on my sore wrists.
“It hurts?” Locke asks, his eyes flicking down to my wrists before meeting my gaze. Once again, I’m not sure why he cares. Come to think of it, he’s never been physically abusive. Not since he tied me up. He threatened to use the syringe but he never did. Things suck, but they could be so much worse, I guess.
Wait.Am I really trying to make excuses for this guy? He’s trying to kidnap me. He’s holding me hostage.
“Keyera?” Oh God, that voice coupled with the way my name fell from his lips has my lust roaring to life.
“Hmm?” I manage to mumble as I scoot to the edge of the bed. Locke never put zip ties back on my ankles after the first time he cut them off. I think he felt guilty for the cut on my ankle, though that makes no sense.
“Your wrists. They hurt?”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out his end game. I can see the struggle in his eyes, the stormy gray bleeding into a dark blue ring around his irises. God, the man is sexier than he has any right to be, but more than that, he’s complicated. Maybe he’s having second thoughts about taking me back to whoever the fuck Mario is. I can’t think about the alternative.
“I’m fine,” I finally answer. “I’ll clean up in the bathroom. Maybe take a shower?” I ask hopefully.
Those eyes flash with something, nearly going black for a second. They are back to normal before I can even blink, making me doubt I saw anything in the first place. Instead of answering, Locke grunts and nods his head once. I suppose that fits. He did tell me he doesn’t talk much. And hey, I got a little piece of personal information about him. I wonder what it would take to get more pieces of his story.
Not that I care. I can’t care about him. He’s my kidnapper, for goodness sake!
I keep telling myself that as I head to the bathroom and strip down, stepping into the warm water. I don’t want to press my luck, so I hurry my way through my shower routine and dry off.
I notice a pair of thick flannel pajama pants and the old T-shirt that I bought from the clearance bin at the community college bookstore folded up on the sink counter. Locke must have put them there without me even noticing. I guess he has to be pretty stealthy in his line of work. The shirt is at least three sizes too big. I certainly have cuter pajamas than these. I wonder what made him pick them? I don’t dwell on that for too long before getting dressed, however.My stomach rumbles as I brush my teeth, reminding me that all I’ve had to eat today was some granola bars, crackers, and bananas. I know I have more in the kitchen than that, since I had just gone grocery shopping yesterday morning. My guess is that Locke isn’t much of a cook. Or maybe he’s trying to keep me weak and underfed so that I can’t fight back or try to escape.
I finish up and open the door. Of course, Locke is standing in the hallway, arms crossed as he stares at me. His jaw is clenched and his nostrils flare, though I don’t think he’s angry. He couldn’t possibly find me...attractive. Right? Especially in this outfit. The clothes swallow me as I shuffle past him. Locke grabs my elbow, leading me into the bedroom and over to the bed.
His touch is almost gentle, tender, and I wonder if all of the time I spent trying to convince him that I’m not who he wants finally got through to him.
I crawl onto the bed, needing some distance from him so that I can clear my head. Locke pulls out the zip ties and stares down at them for a minute. It looks like he’s debating something in his head.
My eyes cut over to the door and I wonder if I could make a run for it. I have a feeling he would catch me, but maybe I could scream for help and someone would come to check it out.
I glance back at him just as he looks up from the zip ties.
“Give me your hand,” he orders and I hold my right hand out to him tentatively.
He holds my much smaller hand in his, turning it over as he examines my wrist. His other hand reaches out, his fingers tracing the red line around my wrist. I hold my breath at the unexpected sensations taking over my body. Liquid heat pools in my lower belly, threatening to leak out of me. How embarrassing!
Locke makes some growly sound in the back of his throat, then takes a zip tie out of his pocket and secures my wrist to the headboard. It’s not as tight this time, though there’s still no chance of escape. I expect him to do my other arm or my feet again, but he doesn’t. He takes a seat in the chair by the bed and gets settled for the night.
“Just one hand?” I question, wondering if this is some kind of trick, or if maybe I’m starting to get to him.
“Yeah. Don’t make me regret it,” he grumbles as he shifts in the chair.
