Chapter Three - Secrets

Once my feet crossed the threshold, elation spread through me. As I sprinted down the dark hallway, I could hear my captor in close pursuit. My toes dug into the soft carpet, trying to gain traction as I whipped around a corner through a doorway. I found myself in a living room. Just as I spotted the front door, the air left my lungs. I hit the floor hard. "Get off me!" I screamed. Large bay windows beside the door let light stream in. I was so close. I threw my elbow back, hoping to catch him off guard and injure him.

"Stop it," he growled in my ear.

"Help!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. Maybe he was lying about us being in a secluded place. Maybe someone would hear me. As I threw my elbow back again, he caught it, pinning my arm behind my back. "Ow! Get off," I shouted.

"I don't want to hurt you, but you need to understand that I will always catch you. I could have let you try to get out," he said, his lips brushing against my ear. I grunted, turning my head to try to escape the intimate touch. The hand that had been pinning my left shoulder down wound its way into my hair. He yanked, forcing me to turn my head back to its original position. "You can't escape." As he shifted, I could feel his erection brush against my ass. I stiffened. "I built this place for you. I didn't want to lock you in a windowless room or keep you restrained. I wanted you to be able to move around the house freely. This is your home too now." There was something in his voice that I couldn't identify.

"A large cage is still a cage," I grunted, failing once again to escape his grasp. My scalp stung as I tried to pull away, but he refused to release the hair wound around his fist.

"Jamie Byrd, I promise you that one day, I'll open that cage door and you won't fly away from me." He said it so quietly, I almost didn't hear him. A few seconds later, he released me. I scrambled away, glancing at the door before looking back at him. He sat, reclining back on his elbows in front of me, relaxed. I slowly rose to my feet, my eyes not leaving him. Still, he didn't move.

I made a run for the door, my heart soaring as the door knob twisted. However, when I tried to pull the door open, my spirit sank into the deepest recesses of my soul. I yanked and pushed and finally resorted to trying to beat down the door with my bare fists before crumpling to the floor in a heap, sobbing. "I tried to tell you," he said gently, concern lacing his voice as he leaned forward. I knew I was beginning to hyperventilate, but couldn't gain control of my breathing. I clawed at my chest as black teased the edges of my vision. Fingertips brushed against my back. I flinched, pulling into a tighter ball. I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was going to pass out. "Jamie?" he said, sounding worried.

Through the panic, I tried to remember one of my coping mechanisms, but I hadn't had a panic attack in years. I counted down from one hundred as I tried to focus on my breathing. When I was finally able to calm enough to search my memories, I remembered the five count method. Five things you can see. Four you can touch. Three you can hear. Two you can smell. One you can taste.

As I went through the process, I could feel my heart slowing down and my breath coming more easily. My hands shook, but I had managed to pull out of my panic attack. I pressed my forehead against my knees, focusing on continuing to breathe normally and to try to forget the man that was sitting two feet away from me. The occasional glance told me that he sat, cross legged while studying me carefully. "I'm sorry," I said compulsively.

His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "For what?"

"I -" I started before realizing what I was doing. Why the hell was I apologizing to him? "I don't usually do that in front of people."

"It's my fault," he said. "There was a better way to handle that situation than the way I did." My apologetic compulsive nature almost pushed me to tell him that I would have had a panic attack at some point anyway, but I bit my tongue.

"I'm tired," I whispered instead. And I was. My limbs felt heavy and my movements sluggish. "And hungry."

He nodded, standing up. "I made some soup before I came to you. It's probably cold now, but we can heat it back up." He held a hand out to me to help me up. My heart clenched at the thought of touching him voluntarily, but I took it anyway. His hands were large and rough, dwarfing mine in comparison. Once I was on my feet, I immediately pulled my hand away. He begrudgingly released it.

"Yeah. That's fine," I said, my stomach gurgling at the thought of food.

As he led me to the kitchen, he talked about all the 'safety precautions' he took with the house. The knives were locked up. All the doors leading outside required both a key and access code. The windows were all made with thick plexiglass, and anything I could have used to harm myself had been removed or locked up. I tried not to let it break my spirit.

He leaned back against the counter as the white bowl went round and round in the microwave. "What do you think?" he asked.

"What?" I asked, pulled out of my thoughts.

"I said once you've been here a bit longer and we've developed some trust, I can give you more freedom and won't have to be so strict with the rules. But, for right now, it's necessary." The microwave beeped, the little window going dark. He pulled the bowl out and stirred it with a spoon before handing it to me.

"Oh. Okay," I mumbled. I looked around the room, spotting a small table with two chairs next to a window. I sat down with my bowl, looking down into the chicken noodle soup. My mom used to make chicken noodle soup whenever I was feeling down or sick. My heart panged.

A few moments later, my captor sat across from me. Gathering my courage, I looked up at him. He was looking out the window. "It's beautiful here," he said, not looking at me. I took the chance to really look at him. His skin was lightly tanned. His jaw line was sharp and peppered with dark stubble. His lips curved into a slight smile, showing off a dimple on one side. His dark brown, almost black hair had just enough length to curl at the ends and complimented his pale blue eyes. This was a man. Nothing like the college sophomores and juniors I was accustomed to being around. It was then that I realized that he had turned and locked his gaze on me. How long had I been looking at him?

I dropped my eyes to the bowl of soup in front of me. I could feel my cheeks heating. "Don't be embarrassed," he said. "It's okay." My face got hotter. I peeked up at him. He had the biggest smile plastered on his face. "You're beautiful when you blush."

Feeling awkward and flustered, I started scooping lukewarm soup into my mouth. It was hard to swallow. "What's your name?" I asked between bites, keeping my eyes on my bowl.

"Alex," he said. It was such a normal name. "What's the face for?" he asked. I realized that my confused thoughts had spilled over into my facial expressions.

I paused before setting down my spoon. I fidgeted with my hands on my lap. "I just don't get it," I said, looking up at him. "Why are you doing this? This whole situation doesn't make any sense to me."

"What about it doesn't make sense?" he asked, taking a bite of soup.

"You," I said, waving my hand at him. "You seem rational and irrational at the same time. You've obviously put a lot of thought into this and yet you don't seem to care about the consequences of what your doing. What are you? A psychopath?" Or was it sociopath? I couldn't remember which of them didn't have emotions.

"No," he said, frowning. "Quite the opposite actually." I stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

"And…?" I prodded.

"Do you want to discuss this now or tomorrow? Because if I start to tell you, I need to explain everything," he said seriously.

After some careful thought, I answered. "Will you stop and give me time to process if I ask you to?"

"Yes, but only if you promise not leave the table."

"No promises, but I'll do my best," I countered.

"Okay," he said, letting out a deep breath. It was a moment before he continued. "I used to see you in passing a lot. I don't really know when I first started paying attention to you. Your family shopped at the same grocery store as I did and the Starbucks you go to all the time is right near my house. I saw you a few times at the library too. Of course, I thought you were beautiful, but a bit too young for me. I started picking up little pieces of information about you on accident. I'd overhear a conversation while standing behind you in line while getting coffee. Sometimes you'd tag along with your mom to the store and talk. I didn't really know that much about you before it all started."

I was a bit surprised. It sounded… normal. Like a familiar stranger. One you recognize and see often, but don't know anything about.

"I guess you could say all of this started because of your story," he said cautiously. A blush started creeping up my neck again. So he did know about the story. It had been my biggest fear aside from being slowly tortured and then murdered. How could I convince him to let me go if he knew my secret?

"You know that's just a story, right? I didn't want any of this to happen," I said in the calmest voice I could muster up.

"You and I know both know that's not completely true," he said. When I didn't answer, he continued. "I didn't know about your story until a little over two years ago. You were at the Starbucks before I got there. You were so focused on your screen that it made me curious. Your face is so expressive, at first, I thought you might even be watching porn. But your fingers were flying across the keyboard too quickly for that. I got my coffee and sat next to you to try to take a peek, but you were immediately on guard. I finally gave up after a while and decided to leave." I played with my spoon as he spoke, trying to absorb the information without thinking about it too much. "You must have been waiting for me to leave, because you got up to go to the restroom right after I left the building. You left your laptop open, so as I passed the window behind it, I stopped to look. I saw the website and the name of your story, 'Darkest Fantasy'."

"Okay," I said quietly, gesturing for him to continue as I stared at the pattern of the tablecloth.

"So I read your story," he said.

"So what? You thought because I wrote some random story about a kidnap romance that you needed to go from zero to psycho in two seconds and stalk me?" I snapped.

"No," he said. "I didn't start watching you until a few months later." I stayed silent. "I read everything you had written that night. I was up till almost three in the morning."

"I'm sorry I impacted your sleep. How rude of me," I muttered. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the grin that formed on his face at my words.

"I didn't mind," he teased. "I had never been into this sort of thing before. The thought had never crossed my mind until I read your story."

"This isn't my fault," I said. My chest ached. This was my fault. Why did I post that damn story for the whole world to find? I had even thought of this exact scenario! Of someone finding the story and taking it a little too seriously. Did that stop me? No. I liked the ego boost I got from my fans. Stupid.

"No. It's not your fault that this happened. You made it abundantly clear at every opportunity presented that you wouldn't want this to happen in real life. It's obvious that 'Darkest Fantasy' wasn't an invitation," he said.

"Then why the hell are you doing this to me?" I couldn't figure this man out. How was he so rational and irrational at the same time?

"Because I think you were more scared than honest when you presented that disclaimer. I think you do want it, but your terrified of the aftermath. What family and friends would think. Or that it wouldn't play out like your fantasy," he said.

"No," I argued. "I didn't want this to happen. This type of situation is only something a person thinks about. No one wants it to actually happen."

"I think you're being more scared than honest again," he said.

"No. You're crazy if you think I actually want this!" I said, exasperation clear in my voice.

"Well, there may be some truth to that," he said. "Sometimes I wonder if I've lost my mind. Somehow, when it comes to you, rational thoughts go right out the window."

"Listen," I said, setting my spoon down. After a brief hesitation, I placed my hand on top of his. "It's not too late to let me go. I swear on my life that I won't tell anyone. I don't want to have to explain to anyone how this happened. You haven't hurt me or raped me or anything. Let me go and I promise I won't tell anyone."

"I believe you," he said, turning his hand over to briefly squeeze mine. "I think if I were to let you go this very moment, you would keep it a secret."

"So you'll let me go?" I asked, surprise choking me.

"No. I didn't say that," he said. I tried to pull my hand back, but he kept a firm grip on it, refusing to let go. "Let me make this very clear, Jamie. I didn't plan for this to be a one night or week long thing. I play for keeps. Now that I have you, I don't plan on ever letting you go."

His words hit me like a tidal wave. "You're just saying that," I whispered, my voice shaking. "You're trying to reenact my story to scare me. You don't mean that." My hand was still in his unyielding grip. He stroked a thumb over the blue veins of my inner wrist. The skin was sensitive beneath the rough pad of his finger.

"I mean every word, Jamie," he said gently. "I'm not so bad, once you get to know me. I want you to be happy here." His gaze burned into mine.

"I'm not hungry anymore," I said coldly. I broke our eye contact, looking down at my still half-full bowl of soup. "I've lost my appetite and would like to go back to my cell please."

He sighed, finally releasing my wrist. I stood and, when Alex did not protest, turned towards the room I had awaken in. As I passed the door next to the bay window, my heart sank in my chest. I had to find a way out of here. Alex obviously could not be talked into releasing me.