Delicious - Page 7

And yet…this doesn’t feel like that, either.

I feel my breathing change as more and more of me sluggishly wakes up, and within seconds I can tell without a doubt that this is neither my pillow, nor my bed. It’s too soft. The pillow is too fluffy, instead of crammed down to flatness after years of my face on it and being folded over to double its thickness.

But it takes my senses another few seconds to zero in on the fact that someone is touching my arm. Once I realize that, I fight for consciousness, trying my best to wake up to confront whatever the hell is touching me?—

The fucking chainsaw.

The sound of it fills my ears, along with the man’s screams, while the sight of him being murdered fills my vision, blocking everything else out like I’m sitting too close to a drive-in movie screen. My entire world is encompassed by the sound, though I feel my lips part and a soft, desperate sound meets my ears.

Only belatedly do I realize the sound is from me.

“Shhh, it’s okay.” The hand on my arm disappears, instead coming to cup my face. “You’re all right, Saylor. I’ve got you.”

But the wordsI’ve got youdo the opposite of bringing me any kind of relief. Distantly, I remember the cloth over my mouth and nose that had robbed me of my consciousness in the first place. I dimly wonder if that’s the reason I’m having such a hard time waking up now, and why my mouth feels so dry.

I’ve certainly never had this much trouble waking up before, that I can remember anyway. Another sound, a whimper if I’m being honest, passes from my lips, and the man strokes his thumb over them, one hand going back to the arm he’d been touching before.

“You’re all right,” he croons sweetly, gently. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. It would break my heart to hurt you. I’m sorry I had to knock you out. I’m so sorry, but I meant what I said…” He trails off, lifting my arm. “It’s just that I really don’t want to go to jail.”

Something smooths down my arm, and I wonder why in the world he’s running his hands over the space between my wrist and elbow. Had something happened to me? Had I been hurt? I certainly don’tfeelpain anywhere, but that’s not saying much since this still half feels like the dream I wish it was.

“I’m sorry for this too,” I hear him murmur, a rough edge to his voice. “I know you’re out of it. So this is so…fucked up of me.” He lets out a grating chuckle, and the bed creaks under us. “Fuck,I’m sorry Saylor.” His grip shifts on my arm and suddenly he’s running his thumb along it again.

…I think.

But it doesn’t quite feel like his skin against mine. It’s different, though my brain refuses to put together the pieces. Instead, I work on swimming up toward full consciousness, the rhythmic movement on my arm trying to lull me back down into sleep, if anything.

But thankfully, I win against the drugs and the exhaustion. My eyes finally snap open, showing me a dizzying view of avaulted ceiling and lights that glow dimly orange in the room. I’ve definitely never been here before, and when I take a breath, it smells like someone has just doused a campfire three feet from me.

“What…” The word is out before my eyes connect with the man sitting on the bed beside me, and what he’s doing.

He has to know that I’m watching now—from the way my breath falters in my throat, or my fingers jerk in his grip—hehas to know.But he doesn’t stop the way his tongue laps against my bloody, stained skin that’s still shiny in the light, like the blood isn’t fully dried yet.

His eyes flick up, finding mine, but he still doesn’t stop. He turns my arm toward him more fully, his grip not tight, but secure enough to hold my arm in place, and his wet, warm tongue runs one more line up my arm, chasing the last line of blood up toward my palm.

“It’s my fault,” he tells me in a soft voice when he’s done, finally letting my arm fall gently back to the bed. “I didn’t know he was still leaking in the car. You had blood on you.Haveblood on you.” He frowns, gesturing to my upper body. “I just wanted to clean you up. I didn’t think…” His gaze flicks back down to my arm, before up at my face once more. “How do you feel?”

“Where are we?” I demand, my heart thumping in my chest. I can barely process what he’d been doing. The fact that he’d been lapping blood off my skin like a dog or a?—

I decide quickly not to finish that thought, and snip the end of it away with desperate precision.

“You’re at my house. I brought you back here after you passed out.” He looks away, guilty, like he knows those words aren’t quite true. I hadn’t just spontaneouslypassed out.Not without a lot of help from him.

“Where?” I snap, though my bravado is fueled more from fear than rage. Trembling, I sit up, looking around for my phone and camera. “And where are my things?”

“I’m not going to give you a map of where my house is. We’re still in Ohio,” Jed chuckles softly, his sky-blue eyes never leaving my face. “Your camera is over there. I kept it safe for you and cleaned the lens cap. It should be all right, though I’m no expert. Your phone is charging, but it’s not in here. I’m not telling you where it’s at, Saylor.”

I blink at him, owlishly, and can’t help but think that this murderer is more considerate than any man I’ve ever dated. God, what does that say about me and my life choices?

More importantly, what does that say about the general population of men in the Akron area?

“You kidnapped me.” The words nearly choke me, and they stick in my throat for longer than they should. Only after they’re out, I wish I could take them back. I don’t want to upset him, or hasten the death I’m still sure is coming.

There’s only one reason he’d kidnap me, after all. I’m a liability. A threat. Collateral damage for the chainsaw-wielding maniac.

“Yeah,” he admits, tilting his head to the side and giving me those convincing as hell puppy dog eyes again. “I did. No way around that. But I’m hoping you’ll let me explain why. And what happened. I’m hoping?—”

“Why do all this just to kill me?” I grip the comforter in both hands, balling it up in my fingers. “Don’t…don’tplay with melike I’m some sort of gullible child. I’d rather you just get it over with. Just—” I don’t know what I’m saying. Panic rises in my throat, cutting off my air, and I stare at him desperately, willing all of this to fade into some nightmare brought on by too many horror movies. “I don’t want to do this,” I whisper, the fearsetting into my bones. It makes me anxious. Jumpy. I feel wired, like I have too much energy and Ineed to do something.