“Why? You’re so badass that you can’t be beaten, is that it?”
“I was sent to clean his discovery and all evidence. Once I saw who it was and how he died… It was a message.”
“What did the cranial hole tell you?” I wanted to roll my eyes, my sarcasm leaking out a little more than I intended.
But Six became more distant as he stared out the slit in the curtains. “Time’s up.”
My brow scrunched up. “Like your time is up? You’re the next one to end up on a slab? How do you know?”
He didn’t answer. Apparently, I’d hit the too-much-information level.
From his tone, I did decipher one thing—I might not be the only one in the room waiting on a bullet to the brain.
Stats:
10 – days held captive by a killer
9 – days in shithole motel
7 – times I pissed my captor off
5 – times a gun was pointed at me
12 – times his cock was in me in some way
7 – number of orgasms (fucker stopped 5 others)
2 – escape attempts (discontinued after day 3)
11 – times his hands were around my neck (4 orgasms obtained, seemed I liked a little breath play)
19 – number of times I ate fast food. Always good, but I was ready to be done with it for a while.
24 – visible weapons of assortment
1 – pair of clean underwear left
428 – times I was pissed at myself for being physically attracted to the psycho
“Here,” Six said as he walked through the door, following another of his disappearances, and threw an envelope at me.
For the past eight days he’d left for hours each day. Usually he came back with food of some sort. I had no idea where he went or what he did, but I’d fallen victim to the strange routine.
The morning began with him already awake and doing whatever it was that he did on his computer. Breakfast was a granola bar and a bottle of water, and then he was out. Which left me alone and bored. I usually took an awkward shower and tried to keep my mind occupied—a hard thing to do by day five.
That was the day he came back with three books. I didn’t give a shit what they were. It was stimulation.
Conversation was stilted, his refusal to answer questions or engage was infuriating. Sarcasm was at a high, continuing to get me into trouble.
The one thing that made me feel alive, that I craved, was sex. It broke down barriers, quelled tension, and provided a release we both needed.
It changed our dynamic. His frightening demeanor morphed from terrifying to menacing. I knew the underlying deadly killer, but the atmosphere had relaxed.
Each day was a stepping stone to the normalcy that led to him taking me with him. Even the news had stopped blasting my photo everywhere. In fact, we’d barely seen anything on the explosion in days.
There was a huge difference for that day—we were leaving. Finally vacating the dump that had been an odd home.
I didn’t bother to ask what it was in the package and went right to opening it, sliding my finger under the edge. There was a strange trust I’d developed for my killer. Probably because I knew when he killed me, it was going to be a bullet and nothing else.
My brow scrunched as the items tumbled out: driver’s license, passport, various credit and shopper’s cards, and a small wad of cash. The picture on the license and the passport were the ones he’d taken earlier that morning. He dyed both of our hair blond a few days before, changing our appearance yet again, but for the photo, he had me put in brown contacts.
Even more off than the picture was the name attached to the strange woman.
“Lacey?”
“Your new name.”
My brow scrunched. “Why Lacey?”
He took out a wallet and began changing out similar documents. “It’s like a mondegreen or homophone of Paisley.”
“A what?” I swore he was making words up. Were they even English?
“When I say Paisley, what stands out most?”
I thought about the way he said my name and the last sound, the last syllable, stood out. “E.”
“And Lacey?”
“E again.”
He began stuffing things into a bag. “I’ll get a realistic response out of you with a name that has that same strong E sound.”
I nodded, finally understanding. It happened all the time, hearing the end of a word and thinking someone was calling my name. “Are you going to be Simon again?”
“Sean.” He held out his passport, and I blinked.
“Wait, Collins?” I looked back to my own new form of identification. “Why do we have the same last name?”
“Because you’re my wife.”
“What?” My eyes widened as I stared up at him. Married?
He held up a marriage license: Lacey Anne Moran and Sean Thomas Collins.
“It should be easy, especially physically. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve had sex,” he said with a smirk.
I shook my head. “No you haven’t.”
His lip twitched. “No. I haven’t.”
“So, what now?” My first venture out in almost two weeks.
“Now, we go shopping. You need to look like we’re going on vacation.”