The Escape Artist

  The Escape Artist

  Kitty Thomas

  Burlesque Press

  Contents

  Publisher’s Note:

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  The Escape Artist

  Digital Edition

  Copyright 2020 © Kitty Thomas

  All rights reserved.

  Digital Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or shared. If you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Respecting the hard work of this author makes new books possible.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Neither the publisher nor the author endorses any behavior carried out by any character in this work of fiction or any other.

  To Willow W: “Kneel”

  Your move

  1

  Forty-three days. That was the amount of time Claire's captor kept her imprisoned. Three years had passed since her escape, yet every night when she closed her eyes she was back in that dank basement with her tormentor.

  “Not so high and mighty now, are you, Rich Bitch? Living off daddy's money. Where is he? Where is your family? Why aren't they looking for you? Why has no one come for you?”

  She flinched as he gripped her hair and jerked her face close to his.

  He poked a grimy finger against her forehead, pushing her away from him again. “Because nobody wants you. You're just like every other spoiled brat disappointment. No one filed a missing person's report. You didn't even make the news. Poor poor little rich girl. What's it like to know even with all your money, you don't matter any more than me in this world?”

  Claire shook his words out of her head and took a long slow breath. She had to leave the apartment today. There were things she needed, and she had to go out. She almost never went out. What if he found her? What if he took her again? She always wore sunglasses and a hoodie, at least this time of year. And she only went out in the daylight. She was very very careful. Still, no precaution ever felt like enough.

  The tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. He'd planned to kill her that night. She'd seen it in the change of his demeanor. He'd grown bored with her. He was ready for a new toy to torture. He'd fucked her and pimped her out to all his gross friends, and now he needed fresh meat. She could only think the word fucked in her mind. She couldn't let herself think the real word of what he'd done. It would make it real.

  If it was real then her life was over. Things would never be okay again.

  Who was she kidding? She knew it was real. She knew he was out there. And she was still his prisoner even now. He'd probably moved away or was wrapped up in another victim by now because she knew she wasn't the only one. She hadn't been the first, and she knew she wasn't the last.

  Guilt gripped her at the thought of the others he must have hurt by now because she didn't have the courage to go to the police. She didn't trust they could keep her safe. What if he found her before the police could find him? What if the charges didn't stick? If he found her again...

  He was right, no one had missed her. Her parents had been abroad. They barely talked to her anyway. They only saw her on holidays. He'd taken her in July, so when she'd escaped in late August, she'd had months to try to pretend she was okay before Thanksgiving rolled around. And the fact that they had bought it? It was only more evidence of how distant they were from her, how little they truly knew her.

  They'd taken in her still-gaunt form and thought she was on a fucking diet. They'd had the nerve to say: “Claire, darling, have you lost weight? You look fabulous.” Fabulous. Who the fuck went around saying Fabulous? How could she look fabulous when her eyes were dead and hollow? Did they think heroin chic looked healthy?

  She was so fucking alone.

  She'd been alone in that basement, but back then alone had been better than when he was there. Now she was alone in her apartment, afraid to leave most days, afraid to connect with anyone because she couldn't stand to be touched, she couldn't bear for anyone to know, and she couldn't trust ever again. But she'd never felt more alone than she had that first year at Thanksgiving and then Christmas as her family had been oblivious to the changes within her.

  How could they not see she was broken?

  Not only could she not go to the police, she hadn't told her family either. Her father would find the whole thing embarrassing. He'd blame her if she dared to bring the authorities into it, dragging the family name through the mud. And she hadn't realized how shallow her friendships were until she'd tried to spend time with them after everything.

  She was never going to connect with anyone again. But still, every day she got up, washed her face, took a shower, forced food down her throat, and existed. Because she didn't have the courage to end her own suffering.

  Although she hadn't been abducted from her home, her captor had taken the bag she'd carried with her. He had her driver's license. He'd known where she lived and everything about her. As soon as she'd gotten free, she'd found a new apartment and gotten a new driver's license, and she'd gotten the most top-of-the-line security system money could buy. She'd bought a gun and slept with it beside her bed even though she now lived in an impenetrable fortress. She'd paid one of those high-priced image firms to scrub her entire existence off the internet. She'd deleted all her social media accounts.

  And none of it felt like enough.

  Even with a big trust fund and practically unlimited money at her disposal, she lived a half-life because she was too afraid for anything more. She couldn't even bring herself to leave this fucking city. Claire had used her last bit of courage to move to this apartment. In the same city. Like the dumbest little victim in the world. So fucking stupid, why didn't she just go far far away? She should have left the country, gotten as far from him as possible, somewhere he couldn't follow or find her.

  But she knew why.

  There was no running after something like that. An experience like that breaks you beyond the point of feeling safe anywhere. If she fled to another city or another country, what would stop the next monster who found her? There was always another monster. And if she moved that far away she'd be in strange surroundings. She just couldn't. She needed a routine and everything to be familiar. Everything being the same was the last bit of safety she had left.

  She'd long ago given up the dream of finishing her degree and going to work for a museum. It seemed silly now. It wasn't as though she needed the money. It would have been a self-indulgent bored rich girl job. She'd wanted to restore art, but she was the one who needed restoration.

  The only sound in her apartment now was the ticking of a wall clock. Claire stared at the door for a long moment. It was ten a.m. The city was alive. It was public. It was safe. She told herself this every day that she had to go outside. Her little pep talk to keep on living. She was going to crack soon, just fucking break down. Just snap and lose her shit forever. She
fought back the tears and, with a shaking hand, reached out, and opened the door.

  Ari slept in the guest bedroom of his own house. He couldn't be in his room right now, not with his pet gone. He couldn't look at the place she'd slept without disgust. And maybe a bit of sadness. Holly had decided this was fun and all but she'd gotten a modeling contract in Paris, and of course she was going. So C-ya. Basically.

  She'd been a brat, anyway. Ari hated brat subs. It wasn't that he had no sense of humor, he just hated women who topped from the bottom. How hard was it to find a girl who could be truly obedient? The phone rang, disrupting his brooding. The name Kane lit up on his cell.

  Kane wasn't his real name. Ari actually didn't know which of his friend's many names was his real name, but Kane was the first name Ari had known at the sex club where they'd first met and shared a girl. They'd grown close over the years to the point that Ari knew more about the guarded, secretive man than probably anyone else.

  “What?” Ari answered on the fourth ring, not bothering with politeness.

  “Are you still in bed?” Kane asked, sounding disapproving. “It's almost ten a.m. for fuck's sake.”

  “What are you, my mother now?”

  “It's been two weeks since she left. You don't need her. She was a brat, anyway.”

  Ari chuckled at Kane's echo of his own thoughts. If there was one thing the two men had in common, it was a disdain for brats. And yet, he'd still let Holly in—into his bed and into his heart. He hadn't been satisfied by the arrangement so he wasn't sure why he was so unhappy now that it was over. It had been familiar—comforting at the same time it was disappointing.

  “I could send Saskia over. She'd be happy to please you. Take the edge off? My slut is your slut,” Kane said.

  It had started as a joke that first night. Kane had been playing with some girl at the club. He had her all tied up spread-eagled to a St. Andrew's Cross, and that girl was the most interesting thing going on that night. Ari had been bored and asked if he could join in.

  Kane's response? My slut is your slut. It had become the foundational statement binding their friendship together.

  Ari sighed. “Thanks, but I'm not in the mood. I don't want to take my shit out on her.”

  He could practically hear Kane nod over the phone. There was a long pause.

  “You know I have connections. I could get you someone who isn't a brat and would never defy you.”

  “We've talked about this. You know that's not my style.”

  Kane sighed. “If you change your mind, let me know. And don't hide away too long, we miss you at the club.”

  “Yeah,” was all Ari said before the call disconnected.

  He sighed and got out of bed. The guest room was a sleek minimalist design where the most overpowering color was only light gray. He stared out the window at the vast stretch of property that rolled out from his house like a giant green wave. Trees dotted the far end near the security wall. Usually he liked the wide open space, but today it felt lonely.

  He shook that maudlin thought from his mind and went to the kitchen to brew a pot of strong coffee. Kane was right. He had to move past this shit. Ari stared out the window of the quiet room, only a ticking wall clock breaking the stillness. It was so quiet without her.

  Inside the stillness, in between the ticks of the clock, Kane's offer hung on the air. It was such a tempting offer. He wished like hell he was the ruthless kind of man who could take it without a trace of guilt or remorse.

  Kane knew a guy named Lindsay who was part owner in what was tactfully referred to as the Pleasure House. The women went there willingly. They all had very deeply hardwired submissive needs. But it wasn't a game. They didn't have a safeword. Once they signed on, there was no out. It was like some kind of kinky mafia.

  They were trained and sold to the highest bidder. The buyers had to pass a long string of tests and background checks. It might not be as bad as just kidnapping some random woman off the street, but it was still illegal as hell. There was no out for the buyers either. You didn't risk the house. Ever. Any buyer who risked the house by talking or letting a girl go so she was free to talk, made it onto the house enforcer's hit list.

  Ari knew Kane wasn't supposed to even be talking to him about it. As far as Ari knew, he hadn't been approved for that kind of security clearance.

  As much as the fantasy of truly owning someone appealed, he wasn't the type of man who could irrevocably slam the door shut on a woman's possibility of freedom, all to fulfill some kinky wet dream—even if she thought she was willing. If she later became unwilling, he wouldn't be able to let her go. And that thought bothered him more than all the time he'd wasted with a disobedient brat.

  Ari drank down a cup of coffee, showered, and dressed to go into the city. He needed to get out of the house.

  Claire had successfully made it through her list of errands but it had taken longer than she'd anticipated. All she could think about was getting back to the safety of her apartment. That thick reinforced door. All her security. The gun hidden beneath her bed. Then she would finally be able to breathe freely again.

  But god, she was hungry. She'd been out for hours, and the last thing she wanted was the same boring food that she always made at her apartment. She needed something... different. Just this once.

  It was daylight, she told herself again. The city was bustling. She pressed a hand against her sunglasses as if to prove to herself they were still there acting as a buffer between her and the world. The hood of her hoodie was still up. She probably looked like a terrorist and more conspicuous than she would like. She might blend in better if she dressed like everyone else around her.

  He probably wouldn't even remember what she looked like after all this time. And why would he even care? The police hadn't come. He'd probably forgotten her. Moved on. He probably wasn't even still living near here. Wouldn't he have run away to avoid getting caught?

  It's daylight. You can go buy a sandwich. Across the street from where she now stood was a new little bistro with an outside area she'd been dying to eat at. Was this her life now? So small and enclosed that she couldn't go buy a fucking sandwich? When was the last time she'd sat and eaten a meal prepared by someone else like a normal fucking person?

  She took another deep breath and walked swiftly across the street. He wouldn't be there. He wasn't anywhere except in her nightmares. She could go inside and order a sandwich. She would take it and sit outside in the sunshine in the cool breezy day with red and gold leaves falling off the trees. She would breathe in the crisp air and eat calmly and rationally like a sane person.

  A gust of too-cold air conditioning blasted her when she walked in the door. It wasn't hot enough out anymore for that to feel refreshing. Claire scanned her surroundings, knowing she was being irrational. There was no one waiting to jump out at her.

  But then her heart stopped. Sitting at a table in the back corner beside the window, reading a paper... was him. She turned around and ran out of the restaurant. She didn't stop running until she reached her car.

  Claire sat in the driver's side, her keys clutched in her hands, shaking, tears streaming down her face. It was him. She knew it was him. He had that long sun-streaked hair, broad shoulders, that hard warrior look.

  But what she felt, sitting in her car clutching her keys while her knuckles turned white from her death grip, wasn't what she expected. It wasn't the terror she'd expected if she ever saw him again. It was pure, unadulterated rage. The anger bubbled up from somewhere deep and primal inside her, and she felt something snap and twist inside her soul. And suddenly, all she wanted, was revenge.

  2

  It was mid-December and the holiday bustle had reached a fever pitch. Now that all her plans were finalized, it would be so easy to pull this off. Everyone was in that friendly helping holiday mood, swept up in the spirit of the season. And if they weren't swept up, they were too stressed and distracted to care about anything going on around them.

  I
t had been two months since Claire had first seen her captor again, living carefree, eating his fucking sandwich in the new bistro beside the window. Not a care in the world. The next day she'd gone again at the same time not expecting him to be there two days in a row, convincing herself she was just there to get the sandwich she'd missed out on the day before.

  But there he was in the same place as if he hadn't moved an inch from the last time she'd seen him. And again she left before he could glance up to see her.

  Then she went the next day and the next. Always there. Always at that back table, sitting by the window reading a paper and eating a fucking sandwich. Every day that she went and saw him—but he didn't see her—gave her a hard surge of adrenaline as if every day she cheated death by being so near to him. It was addictive.

  Over time, a plan began to take shape. Suddenly Claire didn't have to motivate herself to get out of bed in the morning. She lived now with a single-minded focus: making that son of a bitch pay for breaking her like this. Soon he wouldn't be casually eating that sandwich with the morning paper, he would be her prisoner.

  She spent weeks figuring out how she would capture him, how she would transport him. He was big, even for a man. Tall. Broad. She'd need help—unsuspecting help. She would follow him when the time came. She would risk the night because she could hide in the dark if she knew where he was... if she was the predator instead of the prey. She would drug him. Then she'd get someone to help her move him. “He's my boyfriend. He's drunk. He's on parole and has a curfew. Please, I need help getting him home.” The script already came alive in her mind.