Delicious - Page 13

My jacket ends up on the floor, but he reaches into the cabinet under the sink to produce three fluffy towels of varying sizes that end up on the top of the bathroom vanity. “Take a shower. Clean up. I can’t…focuswhen you have blood streaked on your skin.” As if to prove his point, he reaches out to run his fingers up my arm, over my throat, and to a sticky spot on my face from being pressed to his shirt. As I watch, he brings his now-bloody fingers to his mouth, sucking the blood off like it’s chocolate.

There’s no way that tastes good…right?

“I’m going to go make dinner. If you have any allergies, this would be the time to shout them out.” He pivots on one foot, heading for the door and snatching up my jacket and shoes to take with him.

“Can I ask you something?” I whisper, still unable to move from my spot on the closed toilet as steam rapidly fills the bathroom air and obscures the edges of his form like he’s not quite there.

He stops, but doesn’t turn. Still, I take it as a yes and press my luck anyway.

“The blood on you and…and me. Is it human?”

He waits for a long moment until I’m sure he isn’t going to answer. But finally Jed lets out a breath, his shoulders falling, and says simply, and mildly, “Yes,” before walking out and closing the door behind him.

Chapter

Seven

For a moment, I consider not getting in the shower once he’s out the door, my shoes in his hand. Like that’ll stop me from running down the gravel driveway in my socks.

But then his words connect with my brain and I shuck off my bloody clothes with haste. Then spread a towel on the floor a second before I hop into the large, too-fancy shower.

Then again, I think as I pick up a clean wash rag that he’d left in the shower and dump a liberal amount of body wash onto it, everything here is too fancy for a casual forest hunting cabin. It feels like he’s paid someone to make it more than just livable.

It’s…nice. Not huge or anything. One bedroom, two bathrooms, and an open space on the first floor for everything else. But I could see myself living here, if circumstances were different.

In the quiet, semi-dark of the bathroom’s dim lighting and the loudness of the shower, I’m even willing to admit that in another situation—one where Jed isn’t a chainsaw wielding maniac—I’d go out with him if he asked. And either that says something terrible about my taste in men, or…

No, it’s definitely my taste in men.

My legs fold as I sit cross-legged on the floor of the shower, the rag still clenched in my hand as my black hair falls heavily down my back as it’s soaked by the spray. A small part of me is thrilled that this isn’t like my bathtub, where my knees smack against the sides and I have to sit uncomfortably huddled on the floor of the shower when I want to relax under the hot water. I even eye the bench, wondering if it’s comfortable enough to curl up on or if I’d just slip right off.

But even this is too much. I shouldn’t be this comfortable in another person’s shower. Especially a stranger’s.

Especially a murderer’s.

The blood on my skin streaks down in pink lines as I watch, eyes narrowed, unable to not relax as the hot water sings a lullaby to my abused, overworked muscles.

God, I could sit here forever. Or at least until the hot water is gone. I don’t even try to move, except to lean my head into my hands and let myself fall forward just enough so the water cascades down my spine to the floor below me. One day, when I make real money, I want a shower like this.

What if he’s telling the truth?The thought comes a few minutes after I let my mind drift, giving into the siren song of comfort and exhaustion from all the escaping I’d been doing today. Not that it had been a very successful escape, but I refuse to just call itwalkingorskippingdown the gravel road to the river beyond.

I really should’ve picked the other road, though… My teeth bite into my lower lip as I remember the way he’d looked at me. How he’d welcomed me to try it, even though if it were the right way, surely he would be upset and trying to stop me.

In fact…Jed has barely tried to stop me from doing anything, except grabbing the chainsaw, and according to him, that was mostly for my safety, not his. If I can believe that.

But what if he’s telling the truth?The thought nags at me, tugging at my brain insistently. He can’t be. There’s no way he is, considering he kidnapped me and brought me here against my will after drugging me in the swamp. Sure, he could’ve killed me there. Or here. Or literally any time in between. But he hadn’t. And even tonight, when I’d tried multiple times to pick up a chainsaw to run him through—or at least get him to back off so I could run—he’d only brought me inside, told me to shower, and asked if I was allergic to anything so he could make us dinner.

My stomach clenches when I realize I have no idea what I’m going to do if I walk out of this bathroom and find he’s made good on his word. Do I just…eat dinner with him? Let him explain things, like he keeps saying he wants to do?

I doubt he’ll let me stab him with a fork, and I’d really rather not lose fork privileges if future food is involved.

But there’s no way I can trust a murderer. Especially one with a chainsaw and a fetish for licking blood off of my arms.

Well, not just my arms. But that thought brings a few uncomfortable ideas, and it takes me screaming the lyrics of“Sk8er Boy”in my head to chase away the mental pictures that I refuse to entertain for even a microsecond.

A sound makes me open my eyes, but when I look up, I see nothing has changed. I listen, head tilted under the spray, but nothing happens.

Until it comes again. Louder this time, and it occurs to me that Jed is tapping on the door as softly as he can.