Page 37 of Bathed in Blood

When my mind becomes mine again, it’s Christian’s hands that pull me back, his rough knuckles drifting over my thigh absently as he speaks in a hushed, angry tone into his phone. “Get the fucking jet. I want wheels down in Virginia by sunrise.”

We’re not in Virginia?

I would almost think I keep falling asleep had the effects of exhaustion not been pressing into my skull like a baton, my eyes burning from not blinking.

Christian’s boots squeak against the wet tarmac. I'm still wearing the hoodie, now paired with the gray sweatpants someone gave me during my brief stay in my own room. Christian made a deal of it to some small girl who looked close to tears at some point. I can’t for the life of me remember the ride here, but I know at some point that sleep did, in fact, take me.

If Christian's arms are tired from hours of holding me, he doesn’t show it as he carries me up the narrow stairs to the plane. A bubbly woman appears, offering him a drink and aprivate show. For a second, something oddly hot bubbles in my chest before it fades. I clutch him harder. Christian shifts me so that I’m straddling his lap, taking the drink and requesting some type of food I don’t pay attention to. I’ve never been on a plane before.

That’s not right, though. We aren’t in Virginia. I know that’s where my family lives, where the Sullivans lived when they were still breathing. Logic tells me he probably took me in one before. I nearly kick myself for missing my first ride in a plane.

He cradles me, now nursing his second drink. The smell of alcohol on his lips should disgust me, fill my chest with panic like it would with them, but they aren’t with me anymore, their mark taken by him. The weight of it was profound, even as a new one settled in its place. Pleasure and agony bracketed me as I watched him, transfixed, as he slowly cut the skin away.

Christian stops trying to force feed me when I lift up in his arms, tasting his lips. I’m sure even tainted with bourbon, they are more appetizing than whatever food he’s been trying to give me. He doesn’t kiss me just like I don’t kiss him. He lets me run my tongue over the soft, bowed line. Even as his cock grows underneath me, he just holds me tighter, running his fingers through the hair he brushed.

The next time I awaken, I’m positive sleep finally took hold of me. A small groan slips from my mouth as I stir, my head pounding. My back aches like it does after hours of being settled in a position my spine doesn’t approve of, and when I shift my head to the opposite side, it’s to a line of passing trees, the gentle engine of an expensive car, and the smell of lemon and leather.

Christian eyes me briefly before turning back to the road, like he’s waiting for something. I try to seem as casual as possible as I swipe away the slowly crusting trail of drool decorating the corner of my mouth.

My throat feels like sandpaper, each swallow of my own spit only seems to further irritate it. It takes several attempts at gathering my own saliva in my mouth before I cave. “Water?”

“Center console, princess.”

I stare at the passing trees, the nearly empty stretch of highway as I sip the bottle, evading his stares. At this point, he’s paying more attention to me than the road, his hand flexing and unflexing on the steering wheel like the anticipation is killing him. I’m not sure what he’s expecting from me, so I just watch the trees.

It isn’t until the sign for Bedford wizzes past that my lips part, remembering his comment about heading to Virgina. We always took day trips here for the harvest festival. I can almost taste the crisp apples we’d pick, Lewis always reaching for the highest ones, even knowing they were so far out of his reach. When the slight pang in my chest folds in on itself, giving into a searing knife wound, I suck in a ragged breath, clutching the seat belt Christian strapped around me. My eyes slam down to my lap, like that might save me from the reality of my situation.

My face is everywhere, all those men I spent years pleasuring behind a mask, the crimes I committed.

Theyhavemy face.

Vomit roils up my throat before I can stop it. Thankfully, one panicked look at Christian was all it took. He maneuvers the luxury car to the side of the highway with a skill you’d see in a racing movie, and I fumble with the lock before he’s in park, wrenching my car door open just in time to vomit.

There's not much to it, just loud retching that makes my abs hurt and throat burn like hell.

He’s there, quiet, gathering my hair and smoothing his rough palm down my back until my body gives up on trying to purge my stomach acid. My mouth gapes to warn him as he steps just barely around where I threw up, crouching to hover above it. His lips render me mute as he kisses me, tenderly, like he’s trying to comfort me. When he pulls back, there’s not a trace of disgust or irritation on his face.

“Ready?”

I don’t nod, just lean back in the car, gripping my bottled water like it’s a life preserver as he leans in, the smell of rich bergamot enveloping me as he buckles me in before shutting my door. He’s not wearing a suit today; his white t-shirt and dark jeans fit him well. Maybe at some point, he was a normal guy, like maybe at some point, in my crumpled, musty sweats, I’d be normal too. My stomach has settled well enough, my mind drifting to the sweet vendor food Mom used to gush over at each festival as we drive deeper into the heart of Bedford.

My eyes flutter open again as Christian puts the car into park. The trees are naked and bare, all the leaves having long fallen and rotted, Christmas lights dawn the porches of all the quant light colored houses. My eyes find a nativity inflatable that lays limp in the damp grass just down the street. Mom used to put one up like it every year. Even when Lewis's drug addiction took what was left of her, she still plugged it up. It was the only thing she bothered with at that point, having long forsaken the Christmas tree.

It’s not until my gaze turns to the beaten-up, tan 2000s Honda accord that my heart stops in my chest, the Jesus fish magnet that still slings to the back bumper tarnished, a car I know for a fact still probably holds a couple dozen of my Lite Brite sticks trapped between the seats.

I open my mouth to speak when another car pulls in behind it, a newer SUV blocking out the beaten Honda. I lurch forward,waiting for a moppy head of blonde hair, the seatbelt locking up at my sudden jolt. When a tall, tanned woman steps out in baby blue scrubs, I sag, my breath leaving me all at once.

I can feel Christian's eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to look away from her as she walks to the door, typing on the phone before shoving it inside the large tote bag she carries. She lets herself into the unfamiliar home, not even bothering to knock.

“Who is she?” I whisper.

Christian shifts in his seat, but I can’t take my eyes off the door. “Andrea Carrillo. She’s a hospice nurse. Good credentials. Clean record.”

My chest cavity bottoms out. Mom had always been so strong, even in her weakest moments, I don’t think she ever missed a day of work. Hospice? God, last year, she turned fifty-five.

My hand is on the seatbelt, pressing the release just as a warm, rough hand encases around my wrist, stopping me. The hold is brushing, brokering no questions.

“Christian, I need to—"

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