The Escape Artist, Page 2

  She needed to get the right drugs. How? Where? From whom? She needed to find the right location. It had to be far from her apartment. But she'd need a space where she could stay until she was finished. It would be foolish to go back and forth from her apartment to the location she kept him at. Too many ways she could get caught.

  She needed to set it up right, cover her tracks and identity. But she had the resources to make this happen, if she could only be smart enough to pull it off. This motherfucker would regret the day he took her.

  Ari woke, groggy and disoriented, lying on a hard surface wearing only his jeans and boots. No shirt. What the fuck? He felt weak and so thirsty. He tried to remember where he'd been, what he'd been doing. Fragments of his most recent stretch of consciousness started to reform into a memory.

  He'd been at a bar drowning his sorrows over Holly. The brat. The one he didn't want. She'd been gone almost three months, and he'd thought he was over her, but the loneliness still cut into him in the weaker moments.

  He'd been so close to telling Kane to do it... get him into this Pleasure House inner circle, let him buy someone who couldn't leave. But he hadn't done it. It wasn't in him no matter how simple it seemed or how much he wanted it. Instead he'd ended up drunk off his ass in a downtown bar drowning in his own pathetic self-pity.

  He hadn't gotten that drunk. But he had been drunk enough that someone could have put something in his drink.

  Fuck.

  He shook off the grogginess and took in the cell he was in. That was the only word for it. A cell. Four concrete walls, a concrete floor, ceiling material unclear. Heavy chains were bolted into the wall behind him and on the floor next to him. There was a big round black thing in the center of the ceiling. Maybe a camera, but it looked more like a speaker. No, he thought, spotting something round, black, and shiny angled down on him from one corner. There was the camera. And then a second camera to cover any blind spots from the first.

  There was a toilet and a drain in the corner under one of the cameras. The ceiling was high, so high that his six-foot-five frame couldn't reach it even if he were to stand on the toilet. Whoever had installed those cameras had used a high ladder to get up there.

  There was a single steel door but no doorknob on his side. There was a thumbprint keypad though and a big slot in the wall, presumably to slip food through. A steel table was bolted into the floor just underneath the slot. Holy fuck, who had him? Who exactly had he pissed off? Clearly someone with some money.

  Ari banged on the door and shouted. “Hey, you cowardly motherfucker, I will fucking kill you when I get out of here!”

  There was a crackling sound from the speaker above his head.

  The voice that spoke, was unexpected. Soft, alluring, female, and sexy as hell.

  The voice spoke calmly. “I'm not a motherfucker. I'm the mother that gets fucked. And you are going to wish you hadn't fucked me by the time we're finished here.”

  He stared in confusion at the camera. Some woman at a kink club hadn't liked something he'd done? He hadn't exactly been himself lately, so it was possible. Or someone didn't like that he hadn't called her back? This was a level of crazy he hadn't been prepared to deal with tonight.

  Though it wasn't his first encounter with an unstable woman. He looked down at the long knife scar slashed diagonally across his chest, a harsh reminder of a foolish mistake. It was the one and only time he'd ignored a safeword. He'd been a regular boy scout since then—even with his less than sparkling personality of recent months.

  “Who's helping you?” Ari asked the camera.

  The crackle again. “No one is helping me. This is between me. And you.”

  He laughed at that. “Sure, sweetheart. Nobody helped you capture me. You did it all by yourself. Go girl power. What are you, a buck twenty dripping wet?” He hadn't seen her, but that voice... it seemed impossible to him that that intoxicating voice could belong to someone who wasn't just as alluring in person.

  “A couple of dumbasses helped me get you near the door, and I took it from there using my own creative methods. That's all you need to know.”

  “So what did I do? Did I break your heart, cupcake? This psycho-routine is not a good look.”

  “You KNOW what you did!” she shouted, with so much menace he forgot for a moment he was dealing with someone probably less than half his size. “And now it's time to pay for it.” Her voice went softer, but no less menacing on that last declaration.

  Ari shook his head. “Look, I'm sure this is all some misunderstanding. If you release me now, I'll let it go, okay? I won't hurt you or call the cops.”

  She responded with a dark laugh. “No you won't hurt me or call anyone because you will die in that cell. As soon as I'm done playing with you.”

  For the first time since realizing his captor was a woman, his blood ran cold, and he realized he may actually be in some danger here.

  “Let's go over the rules,” she said. “I will feed you three times a day. One of those meals will be drugged, and you won't know which one. You will eat them all. If you don't eat, you will be punished. When you're sedated, I will chain you up to play with you until I get bored. Then I'll sedate you again before unchaining you. You will be left water and a sponge to bathe. If you get any ideas about breaking apart the toilet to break the cameras, I'll just leave you to starve to death. I'm killing you anyway. Do you understand these rules?”

  “Yes,” he gritted out.

  “Good boy.”

  Minutes of tense silence passed and a tray of food came in through the slot. It was beef stew. The kind that came in a can. He stared at it for a long moment.

  The crackle. “Be a good dog and eat,” she said.

  “Fuck you. I'm not letting you drug me so you can play with me,” Ari said. He didn't want to know what that meant. At the same time, he was wildly curious to know who had him. Maybe if he could see her, he'd remember what this was about. Maybe he could talk her down or convince her to take her meds.

  “If you don't eat like a good puppy, I'll have to punish you,” she replied. “The punishment will stop when you eat.”

  Ari laughed. “And how exactly are you going to punish me when I'm in here and you're out there? Seems I found a loophole in your evil villain plan.”

  In response, death metal started to pound through the speakers at an ear-splitting volume. Ari covered his ears. Fuck, this fucking bitch!

  Fine. He would eat, let her drug him so he could size her up, and figure out how to get out of this shit. It would also be great if she thought she could break him this easily. It would give him an advantage.

  The food was hot and not that bad. He finished it, but now he was even more thirsty than he'd started out from the salty stew.

  “Good boy,” she purred over the speaker.

  Ari didn't remember falling asleep; the drug had worked fast. When he woke, he was shackled to the wall. There was just enough give in the chains for him to stand, but he remained sitting on the ground, facing the one exit. Waiting.

  Soon enough the steel door slid open, and she walked in. Ari's breath hitched in his throat, as an involuntary reaction tightened his pants. She had long, wavy golden blonde hair and the most striking green eyes he'd ever seen. She wasn't wearing any makeup, but the healthy flush of color in her lips and cheeks made it hard to tell at first.

  She was delicate, almost breakable by the look of her. Willowy limbs—like a dancer. And she moved that way, too. She wore jeans and a T-shirt—not one of those scoop-necked tops that let a man have a peek at cleavage. This shirt was modest. She wore no shoes and had a light pink polish on her toes.

  She appeared sweet in a way that was almost painful to look at, and Ari couldn't stop the image of her on her knees from flitting through his mind. The phrase Don't stick your dick in crazy came to him as a sharp warning. But he didn't recognize this girl. Whatever offense she may have taken at something he'd said or done, he didn't remember it.

  Which seemed imposs
ible. Because if there was one thing he would remember, it was this girl.

  She carried in a few plastic bottles of water which she left underneath the metal table beside the food slot. She went out again and came back in with a large bucket of water that she had to drag across the room because it was too heavy for her to carry. Some of the water sloshed over the sides. Then she brought a bar of soap and a sponge that she left with the bucket beside the drain in the corner. Each time she went out, she pressed her thumb to the keypad on the wall. There was no code, only biometrics.

  The last time she entered the cell, she carried only a beer. She took a bottle opener from her pocket, flicked the cap off, and took a long drink. He couldn't decide if she was drinking to taunt him with something he couldn't have but could definitely use right now, or to calm her own nerves for whatever she had planned next.

  She had to know there was no coming back from this. She had to know she was going to prison for a long time.

  She shoved the bottle opener and the cap back into her pocket.

  “The water will be cold by the time you bathe, but if you don't use it, I will punish you,” she said matter-of-factly as if she were speaking to a small child.

  “More death metal?” Ari asked nonchalantly. If he had to hear that music for more than a few minutes at that volume it would be a kind of torture, but he wasn't going to let her know he felt that way.

  “If you don't like the playlist, I can change it. I have an entire two hours of harsh metal gears grinding. I could play that for you at the same volume if you prefer.”

  “Don't put yourself out,” he replied.

  Her eyes narrowed as she took another long drag of the beer. “Do you think this is a fucking game?”

  “No, I think you're ill. I think you need help. Now unchain me, and I will see to it that you get the help you need.”

  She moved swiftly toward him and slapped him hard across the face. Some of the beer escaped the bottle to hit the floor.

  “Don't you dare!” Her expression morphed into something so deadly in that moment it was hard to remember he'd found her cute and disarming only minutes before. “Don't you dare pretend like I'm the crazy one. You psychopathic piece of shit.”

  “I've never seen you before in my life,” Ari said.

  “No! You will NOT get inside my head. You know what you did. You know. You don't get to play the innocent victim. You know why we're here.”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  He jerked back when she bent and ran her fingertips over the scar that slashed across his chest.

  But she ignored his question. Instead she rose back to stand and paced the floor, staring at the scar like it would leap off his skin and attack her.

  “Why me? Why did you take me?” she asked, still pacing. Her voice trembled, and he couldn't tell if it was from fury or fear. Or a deadly cocktail of both.

  When he finally decided what to say, he spoke slowly with a soothing tone. “I don't know what you're talking about. I think you're confused. I didn't take you. You took me. I'm the one in the chains, remember?” He rattled them as if to remind her.

  “I mean BEFORE!” she shrieked. “Three fucking years ago? What you don't remember? How many women did you keep in that basement? How many did you kill? And you can't remember the one who got away? Bullshit!” She spoke so fast he could barely keep up with her words.

  She raised an arm and slammed the beer bottle against the wall, sending beer and glass flying. She advanced on him in a blazing rush, holding the jagged broken bottle under his chin.

  “I could slit your throat right now, so you better fucking start admitting to your crimes. Your amnesia act isn't amusing me.”

  Ari's eyes widened. Things were escalating far too quickly, and he didn't know what to say to keep breathing. Anything could set her off. He sure as shit wasn't going to admit to any crimes he hadn't committed. For all he knew she had recording devices. Such an admission could land him in prison.

  She backed off him and tossed the bottle on the floor. Then she went over to the door and put her thumb to the keypad and calmly walked out as if nothing had happened.

  3

  Claire leaned against the cell door. She couldn't make her hands stop shaking. She'd actually confronted him—actually spoken to him when she had the power. But she didn't feel like she had it. She'd had to fight past every instinct not to run out of the room the second his cold blue eyes had been on her—as if he could somehow attack her in those heavy chains. She'd tested everything. She knew the chains would hold him. Still.

  His act was so convincing. She almost believed him, but it was him. It was definitely him. That scar across his chest. What kind of an idiot did he think she was? She sank into a large leather recliner and closed her eyes, trying not to return to that basement but knowing her mind was already halfway inside the memory.

  He'd been drunk that night. He was going to kill her. Something had set him off and he was tired of her. He was antsy, ready to start the whole cycle again with someone new. Claire wasn't sure how she'd known this, but she'd known.

  Maybe it was the knife. He'd threatened her with the knife before, but the way he'd held it... with such purpose, his grip on it so tight... She knew. She'd spent the last three hours struggling in ropes he hadn't tied quite right. It was just enough so she could struggle and have stupid hope but not enough to get free. She wondered if he'd done it on purpose to play with her, to make her think she had a chance against him. Or to make killing her more interesting.

  Her wrists bled and burned from the struggle against the ropes, but she'd stretched the fibers. She was almost free.

  He paced back and forth in the cell rambling again about the government and the elites. And rich bitches like her who had it too good. Too easy. In his drunken haze he waved the large kitchen knife around erratically.

  Claire continued to fight with the ropes, biting back the pain as they kept cutting into her in her struggle, feeling the blood as it dripped down her hands. Her own warm life flowing down her skin.

  She was nearly free. He laid the knife down on the table beside her and turned his back for just a moment. It was enough for her to slip out of the ropes and grab it. She stood and backed away. She was so hungry and weak. She felt dizzy, but she knew if she gave in to it and fainted, she'd die.

  He turned and advanced on her. She stabbed at him, cutting him multiple times but not able to get a good solid jab. The knife was big enough that as long as she kept wildly swinging it around, he couldn't get too close. She slashed out and felt the knife slice through his chest. She turned and ran.

  He was right behind her. She fell and the knife flew from her hand as he gripped her ankle and pulled her down.

  “NO!” she shrieked, kicking at him, hitting him hard in the face with her foot. He released her and she half-crawled, half-ran up the stairs and out the door into the fresh open air.

  Claire pushed the memories away, gripping the leather arm rests, willing her heartbeat and breathing to calm. That was him. She had him in a cell. That was the guy. He had a scar where she'd cut him. How could he lie to her with such a straight face when they both knew he had that scar and how he'd gotten it?

  Because he's a sociopath, Claire. He isn't like normal people.

  She couldn't let herself forget that—what he was. She couldn't let herself be tricked by the beautiful monster into setting him free and losing her own life. She got up and went to the kitchen, taking another bottle of beer from the fridge. This one she drank all the way down until a light pleasant buzz of calm skated across her skin. She took a long, steadying breath and grabbed the broom and dustbin.

  When she returned to the cell, at least the arrogance had left his face. Maybe he was starting to understand his situation, that the tables had turned and he was now at her mercy. Let him lie about things, as long as she could wipe the smug smile off his face.

  She silently swept up the shards of the beer bottle. The last thing she needed was for hi
m to have a weapon. That had been his mistake with her after all.

  “You can still let me go,” he said. His voice was so gentle and soothing. Calm and reasonable.

  He'd never spoken to her like that in the basement. Of course not, he'd had the power then. He has to placate you now.

  Claire just laughed. “Right. I'm going to let you go so you can hurt me again. Am I supposed to believe you're reformed? After me, you stopped torturing and killing women? You realized the error of your ways?”

  “What's your name?” he asked, changing tactics. “My name...”

  “Shut UP! If you speak your name I'll kill you. I swear to fuck I will. I NEVER want to hear your fucking name. EVER. Don't you try to humanize yourself. You're a fucking monster, and you know it!”

  “I'm sorry,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in surrender.

  No he wasn't, he was placating her.

  “What's your name, then?” he said, trying again.

  “You know my fucking name. You used to hiss it in my ear while you were...” she trailed off, unable to say the words. She turned away from him and took a deep breath, quickly wiping the tears that threatened to spill over. She was not going to cry in front of him anymore. She'd cried all the tears for him she would cry.

  She had the power now. Not him. NOT him. But she was shaking. She could feel the light tremors in her arms. He must be able to see them. He was the one chained up, and he was going to break her again.

  Never.

  “It's okay if you don't have it in you to hurt me. I don't think you're that kind of person,” he said gently.

  “Just shut the fuck up!” she screamed. “I should starve you, just like you starved me for the tiniest act of defiance.” She turned back to finish sweeping the stray shards into the dustpan.