Page 27 of CurVy 13

Locking us inside together.

CHAPTER 11

VALLIE

I’m so disgusted by what I heard today at the trial, that I rush straight to the shower. So horrified I let my feigned compliance slip in front of Donnie, I wash myself and focus on settling my trembling muscles and frantic pulse.

Do better.

Be smarter.

Stockholm syndrome: positive feelings for captors and sympathy for their beliefs. And, finally, negative feelings towards police and external figures.

I understand the assignment.

There is a camera on my bookcase, an old Polaroid. I need to get a picture of Tyler—of his face—while Donnie isn’t here. Just in case I forget. I imagine a line-up, and all of a sudden, the faces blur, and… I’ve got to keep my cool.

I leave the shower, pull another dress on, and go to the kitchen, where Tyler’s presence is potent.

And watchful.

I could get a knife, but what the hell would I do with it? And the grandmother who they have captive, what of her safety? I can’t risk people dying. Compliance and waiting seem to be the right course.

Besides, Donnie always has a knife in his boot, so what does Tyler have? He’s strong. Physically sleek, muscles unhidden even beneath his shirt.

Inhaling, I try to self-soothe. Listen to my pulse—I’m alive and resilient. Then it hits me how quiet the taps were… are. I turn the sink faucet on and stare into the stainless-steel trough, overcome by the silence.

He fixed the fucking tap.

I clear my throat—clear my thoughts. “Donnie fixed it?”

“He’s good with a lot of stuff. Like I said, he takes care of us. Dex is always in and out of prison. I’m always in and out of…” he trails off. Coming up behind me, he stops close, his nose sliding into my hair. “Am I different today?”

He is.

“What are the meds for?”

“My talent,” he whispers darkly, gripping my hips and spinning me to face him.

I meet his blue gaze, stunned by the heated intensity whirling within their depths.

He says, “I read one of your books while Don fixed your pipes. What do those words do for you?”

“They're not just words.” I stare across the open-plan space, my gaze landing on my bookcase, lit-up with fairy lights, a wistful guiding light to fantastical loves and wild encounters. “They are about people who drop everything for each other,” I muse almost to myself. “Who decide to act insane instead of appropriate.” The words drag my gaze back to his gorgeous face, struck by the irony once again. “Who risk it all for her, whoever she is, and they don't conform or behave, and don't wait for love, they go and get it.”

“So, they are like me?” He grins. “In the real world, girls don't always like that. I know I come on pretty strong, but I just decided one day that I wouldn’t live at halfway. Not all girls like that…” He seems to disappear from his own gaze. “She called me a freak. Dirty. Wrong.”

His jaw pulses.

“Who did, Tyler?”

“Martha Argerich,” he mutters, detached. The blue in his eyes seem to cloud as he loses focus. A memory stirs within him, and it’s so close to the surface that, if I reach out, I could caress his pain with my fingertips.

I touch his forearm. “The famous pianist?”

He refocuses, finding himself quickly. “No. Not her.” He leans past me and switches the tap off. I hadn’t realised it was still running. “I get confused. My piano teacher.”

“Were you in love with her?”

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