Meet Me In The Dark: (A Dark Suspense) (28 page)

I touch the bruise and wince. But the hatred I feel for Garrett each time he made one of these appear doesn’t manifest for Case like it should.

I should hate him. But I don’t.

I should want to plot revenge. But I don’t.

And it’s not some sick Stockholm syndrome thing, either. I tried to love Garrett. I tried out that Stockholm shit on him. Thought it might make it easier if the man who was beating me was sexy and liked to fuck me.

But it never worked with Garrett. So I think I’m immune to Stockholm syndrome.

Besides, I have loved Case for years in my head. Long before this. He was my savior. So fuck it. I’m allowed to love him now too. He has no idea what’s happening. He’s just doing his best to figure it out. And if I wanted to make him stop hurting me, I could just tell him.

But I’m not some magnanimous do-gooder. Like it or not, I’m just as ruthless as him. And I want what I want.

I want him to like me. I want him to say,
I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I fucked up
. I want him to want me the way I want him. I want him to love me. I want to be loved so badly.

I flick the light out and see a large bedroom through a pair of open double doors. I step forward into the room. I know he’s gone. And I’ll hear the snow machine if he comes back.

Oh, God. What if he doesn’t come back? What if I go downstairs and there’s a pile of clothes and a note telling me to get lost? He’s moved on and so should I?

Instead of dwelling on that, I start looking around the room. He’s got a connecting bathroom in here. All his shaving stuff is out on the counter. A cup to hold soap. I pick up the cup and smell it—sandalwood. And a nice brush to lather up his face. I swipe my fingers along the soft bristles and picture what it would be like to watch him do that.

Nope. No Stockholm syndrome for me.

I flip the lights off and go back to the bedroom, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. There are nightstands on either side made out of a highly polished wood that is so dark it almost looks black. His house is not decorated like you might expect a huge luxury log cabin to be. Most of the elements are contemporary and new.

I open the drawer in the nightstand and find guns.

Of course you do, Syd. He’s an assassin.
I pick each one up and handle it, checking the weight, the chambers—they are all loaded—and then put them back and close the drawer.

I never want to use a gun again. Ever.

The second nightstand on the other side of the bed has a closed black case and a first aid kit with a selection of drugs. None of them are the cocktail he’s giving me, because they are all antibiotics, heart-rate things, antagonists, and epinephrine. A crash kit. To save a life.

Nice to know the man whom I am lusting over, not for Stockholm-related reasons, is prepared to save me from too much anesthetic, should I ever require it.

I pick up the black case, spy a lock, and therefore expect it to be locked when I trigger the mechanism.

But it isn’t. He must not get many visitors up here.

That makes me let out an involuntary cackle. I think I might be losing my mind for real. Like, irretrievably for real.

The two guns inside are… magnificent. Black matte FN Five-SeveNs with custom grips and an aftermarket laser. There’s writing on the grips, so I pick one up and turn it sideways to read it.

The only gun you’ll ever need. Happy birthday, Merc. ~ XXOO
- Smurf

I have no idea who Smurf is, so I just put it back inside the case and look at the three cartridges, which are also lined up, like this was made for a display. They have writing on them too, so I take one out to get a better look.
With love, Sasha
, it says three times over.

I guess she is the Smurf. Figures. That kid has had his heart since the night he left me out at that cabin. It makes me so furious to think that she got a cute nickname and her fairytale ending and I got…

I don’t want to think about what I got. It brings up bad things. Things better left buried.

I put the cartridge back and close the case and then the drawer. I don’t want to shoot Case. So I’m not even remotely interested in nabbing one of his guns.

The sound of a snow machine draws me out of my introspection, and I get up and make my way downstairs so I can meet him at the door.

God, I’m so pathetic.

“Eventually… you have to trust someone.”

– Sydney

I
settle for the couch instead of greeting him at the door so I don’t look like I’ve been waiting for him. Or like I’m happy he came back.

The couch faces the living room window, so I peek over the back of it. He comes through the door, stomping his snow-covered boots on the mat, and then hangs his hat and takes off his gloves.

He sees me just as he unzips his jacket. “You’re awake. I wasn’t sure how long you’d sleep. I didn’t give you much, I swear.” I can see his muscles through his long-sleeved thermal shirt as he hangs up his coat and kicks off his boots. “I had to go out and do some things,” he explains. Like I’m his wife, wanting to know where he’s been.

I do want to know, but not because I think he’s out hooking up with some chick. We are in the middle of nowhere. And Merric Case doesn’t strike me as a guy who fucks around a lot. Either on the side, or otherwise.

He walks into the living room in his socks. There’s sweat on his brow from the warm clothes and the heat of the wood stoves. “I just didn’t know what to do. Sorry.” He looks down as he walks to the kitchen and starts pulling out some food.

I want to say something, anything to break the silence, or change his mood, because he seems worried. And I don’t want that worry to be because of me. I’d like him to save me, yes. But I don’t want him to pity me. I’d rather die.

But I’m not a social girl, having grown up in the wilderness. Cheyenne doesn’t really count as a city, even if I told him it did a few hours ago. It’s a small place filled with small-place people. So I don’t know how to start this. I tuck my feet underneath me and stare at them instead of trying.

“You feel better?” he asks, unwrapping some meat from white butcher paper and throwing it in a pan. “Hungry?” He throws in some potatoes and then drops in baby carrots too. He puts it all into the oven and closes the door. I guess we are having a roast. He opens the fridge back up and pulls out two beers, pops the tops off with a bottle opener, and walks out into the living room.

I take the one he offers me and he plops down on the couch. Close. Very close. Like we’re together and we always have beers on the couch in the evening. Not like he kidnapped me a few weeks ago and washed me down with a fire hose. That should piss me off, because it fucking hurt. But it doesn’t. I’m not mad about any of it and I wonder if there are more drugs in me. Calming drugs. Anti-anxiety drugs. Things to keep me on an even keel.

I hold the beer up and he looks at me. “Should I be drinking this? Will it interact with the drugs?”

He takes a swig of his own bottle, but for a second there, I think I see a wince of shame. “I think you’re OK, Syd. I gave them to you this morning. I think they’re out of your system by now.”

He seems genuine, so no. Drugs are not the reason why I don’t give a shit about all the stuff he did. And since we’re clear that this is not Stockholm shit, I have no other ideas about why this might be.

“You wanna tell me about the rabbit?”

I close my eyes tightly, to keep the images from popping into my head. That noise, though. That scream the rabbit gave when I picked it up. It’s burned into my memory.

Case puts a hand on my leg and gives it a squeeze. “You don’t have to,” he says. “I think I get it.”

I give my head a small shake. “No, I think you have the wrong idea about pretty much everything, Case. Be the rabbit.” I look up and he’s listening, but confused. “Be the rabbit is what I used to tell myself when things got bad. It gave me hope and calmed me down. I was supposed to kill a rabbit that Garrett caught. And I know how to kill a rabbit in a live trap, OK?” I search Case’s eyes. “I know how to do it right. But what Garrett wanted me to do was cruel. So I let it go.”

“It got away?” Case asks hopefully.

One more small shake from me. “No, the dogs got it. They ripped it to pieces.”

Have you ever heard a rabbit scream?

“I have seen many things in the woods. Nature.” I look up at Case. “You know? The rules of nature play out every moment of every day, and we hardly give it a thought. But I lived with that for a very long time.” I look down at my beer and realize I haven’t taken a drink yet, so I raise it to my lips and have a good long gulp. It goes down cool and soothing, so I take another. “Garrett treated the dogs better than me. At least they never got shocked with a collar.”

When I look back up to Case, he’s frowning. “Look,” he says, almost a whisper. “I am sorry I didn’t take you that night—”

“Stop,” I say. “Just don’t, OK? I saved myself, so forget about it. When things got bad, I just imagined I was living a different life. It got me through.” I gaze out the window, into the darkness hiding the beautiful view beyond. “It got me through. I’m still here.”

I can feel him nod, but I don’t see it. Because I can’t look him in the eye.

He guzzles his beer, gets up and walks into the kitchen, and then tosses it into the garbage with a clink that tells me he’s been drinking a lot while I’ve been drugged. The top comes off another and then he walks over to the stairs. “I’m gonna get a shower before dinner. Make yourself at home.”

I watch him walk up the stairs. He climbs slow, and maybe I’m imagining it, but it seems a little bit somber. But beer and bad news will do that to a person. He disappears and a few minutes later I can hear the shower running.

I finish my beer too and grab another from the fridge. It’s a local brewery out of Jackson. I stock it in the bar. God, the bar. What’s even happening to my bar?

And that’s when I spy his cell phone on the counter. I walk over and pick it up, glance up at the stairs to see if he’s watching, and then swipe my finger to see if I can unlock it.

It’s not even locked. I open up the keypad and punch in the number for the bar, but just as I’m about to hit send, I stop. “What the fuck will I tell them?”

I set the phone back down and go back to the couch. It’s not Stockholm. It’s not. I just have no good reason to want to go home. There is nothing good there for me. Nothing. I know this. I love that bar, I really do. I’d give anything to be able to wipe away all the things keeping me from it and go home. Because that place—filled with drunk cowboys, shitty country karaoke, and ninety-nine-cent microbrew nights—was the only place I felt
real
.