Held & Pushed (2 book bundle) (18 page)

“Maybe he
didn’t want to show his feelings to a stranger.”

“Maybe.
Or maybe
he just doesn’t care about you anymore.”

I shook my
head. “He cares.” I knew he cared. Nothing this asshole could say to me would
change my mind about that.

“I don’t
think so. There was no shrine built to you or anything. Like I said, he didn’t
seem sad to me. I’m sure he’s moved on. It’s been a long time, after all.”

“It’s your
fault that I’m not there with them, like I should be.” I fought to keep my
voice even, but it was a battle I barely won.

“Do you
not want to be here?”

“Of course
I don’t want to be here. I thought I made that perfectly clear from the first
day. If I wanted to be here, I would’ve come over, rang your doorbell and asked
if I could stay. You wouldn’t have had to drag me here with a gun to my ribs.”

He nodded.
He left the room and went to the basement. I didn’t know what he was doing down
there and I didn’t give a damn. I was pissed. He’d crossed a line when he went
to my house.

I closed
my eyes and sniffed the little brown bear with the red bow around its neck,
breathing in the marvelous aroma of baby. My little Mason, with his daddy’s
blue eyes and cheek dimples. I cried silently, wishing more than anything that
I was home with him, bathing him, feeding him, rocking him, and singing to him.
I longed to feel Wade’s arms holding me as I held Mason.

Come hell,
high water, or an angry Ron, I was going to see them again.

Chapter
28

Sometime
later, Ron returned to the kitchen to find me sitting there, staring at the
puzzle book, but not doing the puzzles. My mind was on my son and husband. I held
the bear close to me, clutched tightly against my chest as if I was drowning
and it was a life preserver.

“Are you
glad I brought it here?” Ron asked.

I
shrugged. I didn’t know what he wanted me to say and frankly, I was tired of
always guessing what the right thing to say was. It was mentally exhausting.

“Well,
Nicole,” Ron snapped. “Would you rather I bring Mason here?”

I jerked
my head up and looked at him, my heart racing. As much as I wanted to see,
hear, and hold Mason, the thought of him being trapped here with me was
unbearable. Even the thought of this psycho touching him was enough to make me
furious.

“You leave
my family alone. Don’t you ever go to my house again, and don’t you ever touch
either of them.” I tried to keep my voice even, but it came out higher than I
wanted and frantic sounding.

With more
than an ounce of arrogance, Ron walked over to me and leaned down, hands on his
knees. Eye level with me now and only a couple feet away, he spoke with an
iciness I hadn’t heard before. At least I hadn’t heard him speak to me this
way.

“I don’t
think you’re in any position to be barking out demands to me, Nicole. Now I
enjoy your feisty attitude more than anyone, but you’re walking a fine line now
between an adorable feisty attitude and a nasty insubordinate one. I don’t
think you want to be insubordinate. I think you want to be the cute, feisty
girl I fell in love with and play nice.”

I don’t
know if it was the way he was talking to me as if I were a child or the tone he
used, or maybe it was him saying he was in love with me, but for whatever
reason, before I knew what was happening, I reached out and slapped him with my
left hand. Had my right hand been free, I’d have punched him in the mouth. But
my aim wasn’t as good with my left hand, so all I could do was slap him across
the cheek.

Instantly,
his face turned red. Not from the slap so much as from the anger that exploded
in him. His eyes narrowed and I swear they darkened.

“How dare
you?” he spit at me, his words heavy and menacing.

“How dare
me
?”I asked, finding my voice. “How dare you?”

He stood
and began to pace frantically back and forth across the kitchen.

“I bring
you into my home. I treat you well. I give you everything you want, everything
you need. I make love to you. I spend time with you. And this, this is how you
thank me.
With your infantile behavior and your smart mouth.
You’re ungrateful, Nicole.
Ungrateful!”
He stepped
toward me as he shouted, then stepped away from me and continued to pace.

“I don’t
want to be here,” I yelled at him. My body trembled as I stepped across the
line I knew I was crossing. I was in dangerous territory and for some
reason,
I couldn’t make myself shut up.

He stormed
over to me and quicker than I expected, he backhanded me across the face hard
enough to nearly knock me out of the chair.

“You
bitch,” he screamed.

He quickly
and roughly unlocked the cuff from the table and forced me to stand. He dragged
me down the hallway, squeezing my wrist so hard I couldn’t feel my fingers, and
causing me to drop the teddy bear. I tried to resist. I planted my feet and
tried to pull against him, but we were moving so fast, I barely had time to
plant my feet, much less get good leverage to take a stand.

“Stop,” I
said.

He
responded by yanking on my arm hard enough to cause a considerable amount of
pain. I quickly followed him.

He pulled
me quickly down the hallway and into my bedroom. He shoved me onto the bed and
locked the cuffs around the headboard.

While he
cuffed me and roughly yanked off my jeans and panties, he said through clenched
teeth, “If you want to act like one of those bitches in the basement, I’ll
treat you like one.”

After he’d
nearly ripped my panties off me, he unfastened his pants, took his position,
and went at me fiercely.

With my
eyes closed, I tried to block it all out, tried to pretend I was somewhere
else. If I could separate my mind and body, it wouldn’t be so bad. And for the
most part, I was successful. I imagined I was elsewhere, on the hammock on the
beach, but I was still aware of the pain he was inflicting on me. I was still
aware of the anger inside me from knowing that he’d been in my house and in
contact with my family.

I was also
aware that he was having some trouble. He was yelling and cursing at me. It
seems he was having trouble having an orgasm. Good. I hope he never had one
again.

When his
erection began to fail him, he sat up on his knees and wiped his face roughly
with his hands. His chest heaving with his heavy breaths, he glared at me. His
mean stare was making me feel really uncomfortable. He’d never looked at me
this way before.

He pointed
at me and said, “You. It’s your fault.”

Before I
could ask what he meant by that, he reached down and slapped me across my left cheek.
It was my turn to glare at him.

He slapped
me again, this time a backhand to the right cheek.

“You son
of a bitch,” I shouted. “Stop hitting me.”

“You like
being a basement bitch?”
Another slap.

“Knock it
off, asshole!”

He smiled.
Then, he slapped me again.

My face
was stinging terribly on both sides. I wished my hands were free. If they were,
I’d punch him in the throat.

Then I
realized that although my hands were cuffed, my legs were not. Even as I moved,
I knew I was making a huge, stupid mistake. But I couldn’t stop myself.

As he held
up his hand to slap me again, I brought my legs up, planted my feet on his
chest, and shoved with all my strength, sending him flying off the end of the
bed and to floor, where he landed with a heavy thud.

My heart was
racing. That was so stupid. Now what was I going to do? I couldn’t flee. I
couldn’t fight him back.

He stood,
slowly appearing over the foot of the bed. He wiped his mouth, and I saw blood
on his hand. He must’ve bitten his tongue or his lip. Wow. I sure could make a
bad situation worse.

He looked
at me now with a look that made the previous look seem like a charming grin. In
his eyes, I saw hatred. He no longer found me charming and wonderful and great
company. I was certain that he despised me. Maybe he wouldn’t always, but he
sure did right then.

He smiled
wickedly and climbed back onto the bed.

I learned
a few things that day and in the days that followed. If I fought him, it turned
him on. It drove him harder. Regular sex with me wasn’t enough for him anymore.
He needed the thrill of a fight. He needed to hit me and have me struggle. Just
like the girls in the basement.

This
frightened me. It hadn’t taken him long to grow tired of me sexually. He found
a horrible way to be interested in me again. How long would it take him to bore
of me this way? And worse yet, what would the next step be?

Chapter
29

My next
period brought me some peace. It meant that for a few days, Ron left me alone.
He could rape a woman—alive or dead, he could torture and dismember bodies all
day long, but he couldn’t have sex with a woman while she was menstruating.
Well, even Superman had Kryptonite.

Usually,
when I had my period, he still sat at the table with me and had dinner and
played cards. Everything was the same. But this time was different. After he
made our meals, he set my food on the table in front of me and took his to his
bedroom.

He barely
spoke to me. The conversations were minimal at best. We didn’t play cards or
have drinks.

As much as
I hated to admit it, I was lonely. It wasn’t that I liked him or even liked
having him as company. The problem was that without him to keep me occupied, I
grew sad. I thought of my situation more. That meant I dwelled on Wade and
Mason and what would happen if I didn’t make it back to them. I could’ve easily
fallen deep into a depression, but I fought it. I tried to keep myself thinking
about what Ron was doing in his room. What his book was going to be like.
Different ways I could escape if I could ever get out of the cuffs.

On the
third day of my period, which was definitely the heaviest, I sat at the table,
having just finished my lunch. Ron came in to return his plate and glass, and
to take mine to the sink. While he washed the dishes, he spoke. It was the most
he’d said to me in days.

“I’m going
out for a while. I’ll bring back a pizza if you want.”

I had
noticed his tone was flat and emotionless, but I pretended not to.
“Yeah.
That’ll be fine. How long will you be gone?”

It took
him so long to respond, I was sure he wasn’t going to. Finally, he said, “I
don’t know.”

I wanted
to ask him if he was going back to my house. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to
anger him, especially at this point. I had a terrible feeling that I was only
an inch away from being shackled in the basement. Also, I was afraid he’d say
yes. I couldn’t sit here and wait, knowing he was with my family. It would kill
me.

As it
turns out, it killed me to sit there and wonder if he was at my house just as
much as if I’d known he was.

Ron left
and I sat at the table doing word search puzzles. After completing ten puzzles,
I grew tired of word searches and switched to crosswords. After five of those,
I needed to pee.

Squeezing
my legs together, I continued to sit at the table. I had no other choice. I
tried to do another crossword, but lacked the concentration. All I could think
of was waterfalls, rivers, creeks, and dripping faucets. Damn.

I thumped
the crayon on the table rapidly. Then, in a lame attempt to take my mind off my
urinary needs, I tried to thump out the tune to a song. A drummer, I am not. I
failed miserably, cussed loudly, and put the crayon on the table roughly.

My feet
bounced on their toes, making my legs bob up and down quickly. It helped for a
while, but soon enough, I was thinking again about peeing, and the bouncing
legs only jostled my gorging bladder.

Putting my
left arm on the table, I rested my head on my arm and closed my eyes.
Eventually, the urge to pee subsided. I still had to go, but the feeling let up
a little. Now I could concentrate on my wrist, hanging in the handcuff, barely
touching my right thigh.

I opened
my eyes and looked at the shiny cuff on my wrist. I hated it. Turning my arm
slightly, I looked at the keyhole and wondered what all I could stick in there that
would possibly open the lock. Even if I came up with a long list of items, it
wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t get my hands on any of the things that might unlock
the cuff. The only place I was ever allowed any sort of freedom was the
bathroom. And the only things in there were a toothbrush, a comb, and some
other hygiene items.

Looking at
the hole, I had an idea. If I broke a tooth off the comb in the bathroom, maybe
I could hide it in my pocket and later use it to try to open the cuff. I wasn’t
a criminal. I was a lock-picker or a locksmith. To be honest, I didn’t even
know how the lock on the cuffs worked. But I had to try something. I made a
mental note to try it.