Stranded (3 page)

“We’ll leave it on for twenty minutes or so, then we’ll wrap it.” He gazes at me a moment. “Is there someone we need to contact? You know, to let them know you’re okay?”

Is he trying to trick me? “I thought you said there’s no cell service.” 

“There’s not. But if we need to call someone, I’ll figure out a way to do it.”

Then a new thought comes to mind. Is he asking so he’ll know that he can off me and no one will miss me? I decide to play it safe. “Yeah,” I lie. “My boyfriend’s expecting me to get to his place in a couple of days.” My reason for giving this answer is twofold. One, if he thinks someone is expecting me, he’ll be less likely to kill me. Two, I figure the two day timeframe will buy me enough time to get out of there before he feels obligated to get a phone number and call my fictitious boyfriend.

I think I see a look of disappointment flash across his face, but it’s gone so fast I could be mistaken. Or maybe I
did
see disappointment, which means my lie has put him off his plan to kill me and add me to his list of victims. Bad for him. Good for me.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

I haven’t eaten in hours and I'm famished. “A little.”

“Would you like me to fix you something to eat?”

I half-grin. “It’s the least you can do after nearly running me over.”

A look of irritation fills his eyes, but he covers it with a laugh. “It’s your own fault for standing in the middle of the road.”

“Yeah, yeah. Blame the victim.”

He frowns as he leaves the room.

Chapter Five

A few minutes later he’s back carrying a plate with a sandwich. He holds it out to me. “I hope you like tuna fish.”

That is about my least favorite canned food, but I'm so hungry I'm willing to eat nearly anything. I take it from his outstretched hand. “Thanks.” After a few bites I notice that Drake isn’t eating anything. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He shows off his gorgeous smile. “I ate earlier.”

“Oh, so you’re just going to watch me eat?” I take another bite and wonder what kind of fetish that means he has. I’m not surprised of course. All serial killers have some sort of fetish. Then it occurs to me that maybe he’s poisoned the tuna fish and I consider making myself throw it up, but hunger gets the better of me and I keep eating.

His smile grows. “Yep.” Then he sits on the floor with his back to the fire, facing me.

Five minutes later the power goes out. Some natural light still comes in from outside, but with the grey cloud cover, not much gets through. And the only sound—besides me chewing—is the crackling of the fire.

“So much for using the furnace,” he mutters.

“My clothes,” I say.

He chuckles. “Yep. The dryer stopped too.”

“Great.”

He stands. “You can wear one of my t-shirts, if you’d like.”

Since all that covers my bra and panties is the blanket, I think a layer of t-shirt would be welcome. “Yeah. Thanks.”

A moment later he is back, wearing a grey hoodie, and with a red t-shirt in his hand. He hands the t-shirt to me, and after I take it from him, I stare at him.

“Would you mind turning around at least?” I say, feeling exasperated. If he wants a free show, he isn’t going to get it from me.

“Oh, sorry.” He turns his back on me.

I remove the blanket from my shoulders, and pull his t-shirt over my head, but with my foot propped up, I’m not able to get it under my hips. It is at that moment that I realize I need to pee. I pull the blanket up to my waist. “Where’s your bathroom?” 

“Can I turn around now?”

I hide my smile. “Yes.” 

He turns and faces me, then points to a hallway off of the living room. “It’s down there.”

After setting the ice pack on the couch, I lift my foot from the stack of pillows and gently set it on the floor, careful not to jar it, then, with the blanket still covering my lap, I sit on the edge of the couch.

“Are you sure you should walk on that?” he asks.

 I'm not sure of anything, except that I need to pee. Bad. “Uh . . . I don’t know.”

“I can help you.” He smiles, deepening his dimple. “If you want.”

I'm not in the habit of bringing strange men with me into the bathroom, and prefer to go on my own. “I think I can do it.” But I'm not sure if that is strictly true. Putting all my weight on my good foot, I push myself to a standing position. The blanket slides from my lap, and when I feel a cool breeze, I know my underwear is exposed. In my haste to yank the t-shirt down to cover them, I lose my balance.

Drake dashes to my side and grabs me by the arm, keeping me from toppling over.

“Thanks,” I say as my face heats with embarrassment. But at least I’ve managed to pull the t-shirt down as far as it will go—which is a few inches below my behind. I try to pretend I'm just wearing a mini-dress. Never mind that I practically swim in the thing—at least it covers my unmentionables—barely. As long as I don’t have to bend over, I’ll be golden.

“Why don’t you let me help you?”

“I can manage.” That is doubtful, but I’ve had enough of playing Miss Helpless. I'm an independent woman, damn it, and I will get to the bathroom by myself, even if I have to crawl—although that would screw up the avoidance of bending over.

He steps back with his hands in the air. “If you say so.”

Giving him a sideways glance—and confirming that he is smirking—I scowl, then take a tentative step away from the couch. When I put the slightest bit of pressure on my bad ankle, pain jolts through me, but I'm determined to show this obnoxious, but insanely hot man, that I don’t need his help. The last thing I want is to have a man help me. Not after the way they’ve screwed me over in the past.

Hobbling forward, I make slow but steady progress toward the hall he pointed to. I just hope I won’t pee myself before I make it to the toilet.

“Are you doing okay?” he calls after me.

“I’m fine,” I yell back, but that is so far from the truth. Any throbbing that’s diminished due to the ibuprofen has come roaring back, but I can see the bathroom, and I know I can make it.

Thirty seconds later I'm there. Fortunately the window lets in enough light for me to see what I'm doing, and after taking care of business, I balance on my good foot and wash my hands, then stare at my reflection in the mirror. I'm a mess. My hair, tangled. My eye make-up, smeared. My face, pale. Yuck. I frown at myself, then decide to do what I can to fix it. 

First, I splash water on my face, but the water is icy cold and I gasp as it touches my skin. I grab the towel hanging next to the sink and pat my face dry, then after hanging it back up, I open the medicine cabinet to see if there is anything in there I can use to fix my face and/or hair.

Nope. Just an unopened bar of soap. But then I think
What the hell?
After splashing more water on my face, I open the soap and wet the bar, then rub it between my hands, creating a nice sudsy handful of soap. I squeeze my eyes closed, then massage the suds into my face, taking special care to rub it under my eyes where my mascara has smeared. Then I rinse off my hands and my face.

After drying my face, I take a look in the mirror and I’m pleased to see that the smudged mascara has vanished. And as a bonus, the cold water has brought some color back to my face. Hopeful my luck will hold out, I open the cabinet doors under the sink to see what I can find.

“Are you okay in there?” Drake says through the door, then knocks for good measure.

His voice startles me and I feel like he’s caught me doing something wrong. Well, technically I probably shouldn’t be snooping through his medicine cabinet and vanity, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” His voice sounds uncertain, but I hear him walking away.

I bend over—I feel safe doing that where he can’t see—and take a look in the under-the-sink cabinet. Spare toilet paper—good to know—cleaning supplies, and a trash can, but nothing else. I straighten and mutter, “I guess I’m done in here.”

Forcing myself to ignore the insistent throbbing of my ankle, I open the door and work my way back toward the living room, but as I reach the end of the hallway, a sharp bolt of pain zooms up my leg and I fall to the wood floor, landing on my behind.

Chapter Six

Drake races to my side. “Are you okay?”

Mortified, I feel tears of humiliation pushing into my eyes. “I’m really not . . . helpless.” My voice hitches on the last word, which seems to negate my statement.

He laughs, which infuriates me. 

“I don’t like you,” I say, sounding like a petulant four-year-old. But his laugh confirms all my beliefs about men—they only want one thing, and as soon as they get it, they move on when something better comes along. They don’t care about me at all.

He just laughs a little harder. “I’m sorry, Ashley.”

Despite my irritation toward him, my name in his mouth gets my attention. I like the way it sounds, even though he is laughing at me. “What’s so funny, anyway?”

“This whole thing.” He gestures to the general space we occupy. “You standing in the middle of the road during a blizzard, me finding you in the snowbank, and to top it all off, you wearing my t-shirt, which is about twenty sizes too big.”

I don’t see what’s so funny about all of that, but I use the moment to take a deep breath and collect my emotions.

“Can you walk?”

I glare at him. “Obviously not.”

He stares back, like my glare doesn’t intimidate him at all. Then he smiles confidently and his voice drops an octave. “May I carry you? Or are you going to crawl?”

That confidence puts me over the edge—like I’m going to swoon at his feet just because he’s breathing. That, plus his laughter. “I’ll crawl, thanks.” The look of surprise on his face boosts my spirits. My answer is clearly unexpected. Good.

Any pretense of being nice vanishes from his face. “Fine.”

First he tries to run me over, then he laughs at me, and now he’s mad at me. Typical.

I want to begin crawling—I'm cold and want to get back under my blanket—but he hasn’t moved, and I'm not about to have him watch my progress from behind. “Go ahead,” I say, motioning for him to go in the living room.

He stares at me impassively. “Ladies first. I insist.”

I stare back, but he is good at staring contests, and I look away first. A shiver races through me, and I begin to feel more desperate to wrap that blanket around my shoulders and bare legs.
Fine. If he wants to look at my ass while I crawl, then . . . fine.
 

Trying to keep my backside lowered so his view will be hindered—which is pretty much impossible—I get up on my hands and knees and awkwardly began crawling forward. 

After about five seconds Drake storms past me and into the living room. “You are one stubborn woman,” he mutters.

I ignore him, but find it much easier to crawl when I'm not worrying about a peeping tom having a prime view of my ass—but at least I'm wearing my lacy black panties. It doesn’t take long for me to reach the couch, and I use my good foot to propel myself onto the couch. I wrap the blanket around myself as I curl up in my corner, and after a moment shivers course through me as my body starts to rid itself of the chill.

“Why don’t you come sit in front of the fire?” Drake asks, patting the area rug next to him. “It feels really nice.”

“I’m fine over here, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Then he turns around and faces the fire, ignoring me.

Glancing toward the window, I notice it’s getting dark outside, which means the temperature will soon drop. The thought makes me aware that the blanket isn’t really doing enough to warm me, and I look at the crackling fire with longing.

After staring at the flames for several minutes, my cold body wins out over my pride, and with the blanket still around me, I move off of the couch and onto the floor. Drake turns and looks at me as a small smile lifts the corners of his mouth, then scoots over to make room for me. 

I ignore him as I move to the spot he’s vacated, then hold my hands out to the fire. “Ahh,” I moan without thinking. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Glancing at him, I give him a tiny smile. “Yes.”

“You know,” he says, giving me a stern look. “You should be a little nicer to me.” He pauses. “I could have driven right on past you, and by now you’d be frozen on the side of the road.”

True as that is, I'm not about to let him win this little battle of wills. I know I'm at his mercy, and somehow that makes me resist his help all the more. Not to mention that I don’t want to appear vulnerable—that would just invite him to take advantage of me, and that is something I want to avoid at all costs. “Well, you shouldn’t laugh at a girl who’s fallen.” I stare at the fire. “You’re not very nice, are you?”

He smiles smugly. “Why don’t we find out? I mean, I could always put you outside and let you fend for yourself. Then I guess you’d have your answer.”

Turning to look at him, I glare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His eyebrows rise. “Don’t tempt me, little lady.”

I look him up and down. “No one’s that mean.” I pause. “Even you.”

“You’ve known me, what? Less than two hours? What makes you think you know me?”

Oh crap. Serial killer.
I decide to take a different approach. “Someone who would pick up a stranger and bring her to his house wouldn’t turn around and put her out in freezing weather.” I smile, but it’s forced. “That wouldn’t make sense.”

“Who said everything has to make sense?” Then a gleam comes into his eyes and he stands, towering over me.

Chapter Seven

Razor-edged alarm grips me.
He’s going to do it. Holy shit.
He bends towards me and I grab the edge of the area rug, trying to anchor myself to the floor, but he lifts me effortlessly and the rug is ripped from my hands. The blanket comes off of my shoulders and falls to the floor. The sleeves of his hoodie are soft against my thighs, and the heat of his chest radiates right through my t-shirt. Since at any moment I will be out in the snow, I try to absorb as much of his body heat as possible. “Please don’t do this,” I whimper, all pretense of pride gone.