Captive Page 8

  “Vixen will be okay,” Nixon explained, staring down at his untouched glass, deciding it was best to remain clear headed. “I know what I’m doing. I just don’t know who to trust.”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  “Not trying to.”

  “I brought you into this game. I showed you everything. You were just a punk before, remember? A nobody.”

  Nixon smirked at Hobbs. “Fucking hell, I hit a nerve.”

  Hobbs put his glasses back on, glaring at him. “I don’t like feeling on the outs with my best man. I’ve done nothing to you to warrant any mistrust, and I get you’re having a vent, but don’t ever imply I can’t be trusted. You can talk about having no one to turn to, but you can say it by not lumping me with the likes of them?” He pointed in the general direction of the people in the room.

  “You’re being dramatic. I meant it like that, Hobbs. Fucking relax.”

  But Hobbs wasn’t finished. “I’m not just your business partner.”

  Nixon looked at him, amused. “No, you’re not.”

  “Are you tickling my ear?”

  “No.”

  “We are like brothers, are we not?”

  Jesus. “Sure, Hobbs.”

  “Sure or yes?”

  Dear fucking God. “Yeah, Hobbs, we’re like brothers.”

  Hobbs had some serious family issues, man. His shoulders relaxed minimally. “So, what are your plans with the girl then?”

  Nixon let out a sigh. He was so tired. His hand was swollen and hurting, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Vixen held him last night.

  She was so fucking feisty.

  He loved her bickering mouth; he’d fuck it right this second if he could.

  Okay, so he didn’t want her to fear him. Not at all. He loved her little insults. Her cute little defiance excited him. But it was escalating rapidly. She was turning a little more vicious than he thought was healthy for her.

  He could handle her adorable abuse.

  But he was sure she couldn’t.

  “Nixon,” Hobbs pressed, impatiently.

  “I’m building a house,” Nixon responded quickly before he could stop himself. He felt the way Hobbs was staring at him. He didn’t have to turn to see his confusion.

  “A house?” he repeated, like he needed to taste that word.

  “Yeah, a house. A dwelling. A place of residence.”

  “For you?”

  Nixon looked at him this time, raising a brow. “Yeah, I feel like playing house on my own.”

  Hobbs rolled his eyes. “Okay, and does Vixen have a say in this?”

  “She can fill it with her shit, even pick out the colours. I don’t give a fuck.”

  “What’s wrong with the hotel?”

  Nothing was wrong with the hotel per say. In fact, the security here had never let him down. He always knew where Vixen was. Up until the incident last night, he’d never had to worry about her safety.

  The idea with the house had problems. He couldn’t control the ins and outs like he did here, but at the same time, he felt this maddening need to possess Vixen in a different manner. Here, she brushed against too many people. The solitary feeling was never all that present. It never felt personal enough. Even the apartment had that hotel air about it. Everything was clinical and detached. She had no way to express herself.

  And he wanted a place where he could have her touch everywhere. A place he could walk into and see her small touches on all surfaces. A hairbrush on the counter, a painting she’d picked out, even the colour of the fucking carpets.

  He wanted to feel her in the air before he saw her.

  His hunger for her was never satiated. He needed more, and then some more.

  More, more, more.

  His appetite for the girl was gluttonous.

  As the silence stretched, Hobbs grew more unsettled. “Nixon,” he said, concernedly, “first, it was that fucking cabin, and then when that wasn’t good enough, you said the hotel would be better. And now you’re talking about a house. This is escalation behaviour. No, no, actually, this…this is…obsessive.”

  “I don’t have her enough here,” Nixon replied, shrugging like it was no big deal. “The house ensures –”

  “Ensures she’s locked away in an even tinier box,” Hobbs cut in savagely. “This needs to stop. It needs to end. You can’t keep her like she’s a fucking thing anymore.”

  Nixon shook his head. Hobbs didn’t get it. No one got it. They didn’t understand. “She’s not a thing. She’s…everything.”

  Hobbs froze, eyeing Nixon peculiarly. “How do you think this is going to play out? In the long term, do you think she will suddenly wake up and want to stay with you?”

  “She already does.”

  “Nixon, she is miserable.”

  “No, she pretends to be. That’s the game, Hobbs.”

  If Hobbs didn’t stop looking at him like he was crazy, he was going to punch the fucker out. Nixon knew how fucked up it sounded. Yeah, this was like material for the mentally insane, and maybe he was crazy – he could accept being crazy, because then it meant Vixen was crazy too.

  They were the same.

  The complimented each other.

  They belonged together.

  She was the tit to his tat.

  The ying to his yang.

  Oh, fuck, whatever cheesy bullshit it was the regular folk droned about, that was them.

  And she knew it too. On some base level, she needed him. He had become her world, just like he intended. Just like he had hoped.

  “I’m worried for you,” Hobbs admitted anxiously, tapping his fingers along the bar. “I came to terms with how things ended two years ago on that mountain. It was hard to digest then, and it took a long time to believe you weren’t just trigger-happy, that…you had your reasons for wiping them out, but…I’m concerned that if something goes wrong, that if you…lose her in some way someday, you will destroy everything in your path, and on your bloodthirsty quest to make things right, you will rot the last remnants of your soul because, let’s be honest here, you hardly have much of one left.”

  Nixon nodded slowly, understanding why Hobbs would think that way. “I’m not that far gone.”

  “You went through a very violent past, and you lost a lot. I think…she is all you have left, and you’re trying so hard to keep her, but… the harder you try to contain her, the harder she will resist. You’re doing it wrong, Nixon.”

  Nixon nodded again but said nothing this time. He had already had this talk to himself before. He wasn’t totally oblivious of what he was doing, but…he did try to comfort the girl as much as possible. He renovated parts of the hotel just for her. Had put in a library for her to get lost in, had employed a teacher to give her French lessons when she was interested to learn a second language, and he’d even demolished a hotel room on the same level as their apartment and made it into an art studio for her because she loved to paint and craft shit. Last month there’d been a pottery course and she made the silliest looking shit he’d ever seen, but she’d been proud of the ugly looking pots, and they were just collecting dust now in that room.

  See, this was why they needed the house. She could decorate it with that ugly shit.

  She’d already been outspoken about the holidays, too. She loved to decorate, hang lights up. Last year she was adamant about a Christmas tree, and he fetched the fullest one he could get his hands on. The way her face bloomed when he put it together in front of the tall windows was forever seared into his mind, never to be forgotten.

  Vixen and her fucking festive spirit.

  Her smile had left him breathless.

  Having this house was imperative.

  It could be their festive nest of paintings, ugly pottery, French literature and books – she loved her fucking books.

  And, sure, he understood what Hobbs said to a tee. She was contained, but that was the way Nixon liked it. He liked to know where she was, what she was doing, who she was talking to
. He liked to know that she could never be too far from him, that she could never look too far into the horizon, that she could never flee without him knowing about it.

  He was not going to set her loose.

  It was simple as that.

  His phone vibrated just then with a text message. He glanced briefly at the line on the screen from Dr Sullivan.

  Appointment finished. I tried opening up to her like you asked me to, but she didn’t seem happy about the things I said. I’ll be back in a couple months. The seaplane has been delayed, so I’ll be hanging around for a bit in case you need me.

  He slipped the phone into his pocket and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Hobbs asked.

  Glancing briefly at his bruised palm, Nixon said, “I was in the middle of gutting one of my guards. You still the queasy type, Hobbs?”

  Hobbs’ gaze flickered to his hand and he stiffened. He didn’t respond, not that Nixon waited for one.

  He returned to one of the backrooms, to the horrified Tyrone who stood waiting in front of the bound guard that had let the bum through.

  “Still hasn’t said anything?” Nixon asked him, kicking the door shut behind him.

  Tyrone shook his head slowly. “He doesn’t know who paid him off, Nixon. It was done in the dark. He doesn’t know a thing.”

  Nixon saw the pitiful look Tyrone shot the bloodied man as he sat helpless and afraid. Nixon shook his head. “Don’t look at him like that, Ty. He doesn’t deserve your pity. He let the man walk in with a gun. He knew what he was doing. He put us all at risk for a small bit of cash and then he took off running. Caught him hiding in a ferry.”

  “I know that,” Tyrone whispered, still appearing disturbed. “I just don’t know how you do it.”

  Did what? Hurt people?

  Nixon scoffed. He wanted to tell Tyrone hurting people was the easy part. It was the feeling after it was said and done that Nixon couldn’t hack.

  The…dirtiness of it all.

  He felt like his skin was flaying along with the man he was cutting with the blade of his knife. It left him burning, itching, trembling everywhere.

  He preferred easier kills.

  Ones he could forget about.

  “Well, don’t you worry,” Nixon murmured, rolling his sleeves up. “If you close your eyes tight enough, you can forget monsters like me exist. Seeing is believing, Ty, so get the fuck out before I finish him off.”

  Tyrone didn’t flinch. He left the room, casting his pitiful eyes at Nixon this time.

  Right before he left, he said, “Try to keep the darkness out, Nixon. We don’t need more bloodshed.”

  Bloodshed like the mountain?

  Bloodshed like the One Percent ravaging one another in the wake of what he and that crew was responsible for?

  Bloodshed was all Nixon knew.

  16.

  .

  Vixen…

  I forgot hair appointments also included hair removal. My pussy was waxed, my brows were touched up, my moustache and sideburns were gone.

  I was such a hairy alpaca.

  But it felt good. I’d never have tried these services had I never been kidnapped. There was a silver lining to this fucked up mess, I guess.

  While Alessa, the hair specialist, had trimmed my hair in that usual awkward silence (she never spoke to me, I was bad juju), I’d stewed over what the doctor had said.

  There’d been another girl before me.

  With health problems, sure, but she was no longer a captive. Nixon either let her go or she was dead in a ditch somewhere and…Well, Nixon didn’t strike me as the kind of guy that killed what he fucked. He’d never laid a finger on me. I just…couldn’t believe he had it in him to murder me so far into our fucked-up relationship. If the same M.O. existed before me, I had to assume the girl was let go.

  This was purely wishful thinking. I was aware I could be totally wrong. Maybe the girl flung herself out of the window and Nixon knew better with me to have the windows upgraded.

  After I changed into the pretty pink dress Nixon had laid out for me before he’d left, I walked to the floor to ceiling windows and stared out. It was mid-afternoon now. I’d decided to stay in the apartment because I couldn’t trust myself not to lose my shit at him.

  It was becoming a bad habit – no, he was the bad habit. My meltdowns were escalating. I was thoroughly reaching the limit of what I could endure. I wasn’t just rattling the cage I was in. I was fucking shit up, and I couldn’t seem to stop once I’d let go.

  At some point, Nixon would need to realize he couldn’t keep this up. I couldn’t be locked up forever. There had to be an end to this.

  I stared out at the endless ocean abyss. If it meant swimming to freedom, I’d do it. I just needed to leave the hotel undetected.

  And if the opportunity presented itself, would I? If it meant I might get caught and locked up in this room for a month straight, would I still try?

  In that moment, I didn’t know. I feared isolation. I couldn’t go back there again.

  And for some sick Stockholm Syndrome reason, I couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on Nixon’s face if I tried and failed.

  I didn’t even know how I could handle it myself.

  The phone rang. When I answered, Jenny from the front desk happily chirped, “Good afternoon! Friendly reminder, Nixon’s reserved a table for two at five o’clock in the restaurant on the ground level –”

  “I’m aware of its location,” I interrupted dryly. “I go there like five times a week, Jenny.”

  She paused, and then resumed in her chirpy voice. “Wonderful! If you need direction or assistance, let us know and we will do all we can in our power to make sure your stay with us at Hotel Browning is comfortable and worry free –”

  I hung up the phone.

  Christ, they were getting faker by the day. I didn’t know why she was being extra fucking weird all of a sudden. Maybe she was going for Employee of the Month.

  I grabbed my clutch for show. There was nothing in it. I didn’t have a wallet, didn’t have fucking ID, nothing. But it was pink and sparkly, and it matched the dress so…

  I left the apartment and trudged to the elevator. Apathy choked me the entire way.

  I was just a fucking number.

  At least numero deux.

  So stupid.

  I entered the elevator and avoided staring at myself in the elevator mirrors. I didn’t need to see the fake princess staring back at me.

  The elevator made a stop two floors down and an old man walked in, smiling brightly at me. “Oh, my luck!” he exclaimed, staring at my tits before finding my eyes. “Good afternoon, darling.”

  Oh boy. I smiled weakly. “Afternoon.”

  We went down a few more floors. I could feel the man’s eyes checking me out in the mirror. He was smiling in a creepy way.

  “Are you part of the basement scenery?” he asked in a hushed tone, like I was special to be privy to such secret information.

  “Yeah,” I told him. “I am.”

  His face glowed. “Would I be able to find you?”

  “Mhm.” I nodded with a cool smile. “You’ll find me in Nixon’s lap.”

  His face instantly dropped.

  With a toothy smile, I added, “He kidnapped me two years ago. I’ve been locked in this hotel ever since. If you ever want to let the authorities know, I’d deeply appreciate it.”

  He quickly reached over to the panel and furiously pressed a button. His face was ten shades redder than it was seconds ago. The elevator stopped and the doors opened. I watched him hurry out on the random level like he was running for his life.

  Yeah, this was the reaction I anticipated. Nothing ever changed. Nobody fucked with Nixon.

  Oh, the power of fear.

  I let out a short laugh. Because it was better than crying.

  The doors started to close when a hand shot out, stopping them. My laugh died straightaway as the doors re-opened and my gaze connected to Flynn.
He looked just as surprised to see me as I did, but he stepped in without skipping a beat.

  “Vixen,” he greeted, that voice rich in charm.

  My knees wobbled. What the fuck?

  “Flynn,” I returned pleasantly.

  The doors closed and this time I was staring at the mirrors like no one’s business. He was staring back too, a soft smile on his lips. I looked up at the camera in the top corner, wondering just how crisp the picture was. Would whoever was watching me notice how flushed my cheeks were getting?

  Would they report it to Nixon?

  Yeah, Sir, our infrared detected strong levels of heat. Her cheeks were apple red. Our analysts determine she was crushing hard.

  Fuuuck my life.

  “You look beautiful,” Flynn said softly.

  When I looked back at him, his eyes were on my face, an appreciative expression adorned his.

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling cordially. “You look…the same.”

  Clearly, he possessed very little in his closet. His clothes were the exact same as yesterday. I wrinkled my nose, wondering if his hygiene left much to be desired. From this close, he smelled good, and his clothes weren’t wrinkled from overuse.

  Chuckling, he uttered, “I have a few of the same pair of clothes. I don’t like shopping.”

  “I never did, either.”

  Cue silence.

  I removed an imaginary piece of fluff on my shoulder, that cordial smile wobbling in its falsehood. Meanwhile, he continued looking like an Adonis, unperturbed by the awkward silence.

  Why was the elevator still going? How long did it take to get to the ground level? This was unnatural.

  “How’ve you been?” he then asked, breaking the silence as he turned his body to me.

  I found myself turning too, until we were face to face. He was tall as Nixon, but God, that was where the similarities ended. Nixon was hard and sexy, and Flynn was soft and beautiful.

  I swallowed when I detected the concern in his voice. “I’m okay, Flynn. I want to thank you for saving me.”

  “I had to,” Flynn responded urgently. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you, Vixen. I’m just glad I noticed the man when I did…”

  “You did amazing.”