Page 2 of Curves for the Mountain Man

But as the wealthy, well-connected son of one of our senators, knowing him came with certain perks and access to a societal rung my roommates, Crystal and Tiff, thirsted for. I don’t care about stuff like that, determined to make my own way and control my own destiny. Crystal and Tiff thought differently…

“Here, I’ve known you all this time, and still, I have to ask: Do you like hiking?” He laughs. “Duct tape’s got your tongue. My bad.” With one merciless tear, he rips the adhesive from my face. I wonder how much of my cheeks and lips he took. But when I lick them, I only taste a little blood and register a slight sting. “Well?” He repeats in mocking tones, “Are you a fan of hiking?”

I raise my chin defiantly, refusing to answer him. He probably wants me to beg. But I refuse to play his games.Fuck him!

Whack! His hand collides with my face, knocking me back into the trunk of a Jeep. I can tell by how the trunk door swings out and the telltale boxiness of the windows as I lie back dazed.

“I asked you a question, you fucking bitch!”

My cheek burns, and my head spins as I regard his menacing face, fury and fright tussling internally for dominance. What a coward! Preying on women in the dead of night. Asher sneers, and dejectedly, I realize I can’t spit at him. Dehydration has robbed me of excess saliva.

“Answer my fucking question!”

“Why Crystal and Tiff?” I whimper, barely able to produce audible sound due to dry vocal cords.

He laughs darkly, running his hand through his hair. “They were useful idiots. It’s you I’ve been after this whole time.”

Asher examines me as he delivers the words, a clinical voyeurism marking his features. I strain to keep my face stony and my words few, robbing the sadistic man of his delight in my suffering.

But as things escalate, how long will I be able to maintain the facade of composure?

Disappointment or maybe curiosity flashes across his glacial expression. “Get your fat ass out of the car. Time to hike.”

Just one drop of water. Something to put spit back in my mouth.

I stumble forward on legs stiff from inactivity, scanning my surroundings wildly for locational clues or anything that might help me escape and survive.

In all directions, a verdant, menacing forest greets me. It stretches into infinity, mocking the hope flickering inside. We’re deep in the Idaho backcountry. Or maybe the forests of Eastern Washington. It’s not nearly misty enough for a Western coastal location. Even if I could escape this madman, my chances of wilderness survival look bleak, especially in a freak April blizzard.

My feet are bare except for the fluffy pale pink socks I wore to bed. Every stone, every stick, dry pine needles, and pinecones stab into my tender soles as we move at the frenetic pace of his long strides.

I search out potential landmarks, noting broken tree branches, large boulders, streams, a river, mountains, and the slant of the light. Anything that might help me survive or find my way back … if I can escape.

But escape to where? His Jeep?It’s my only anchor to civilization. I have to try. Nothing left to lose.

Flurries and flutters of snow descend, and the sky darkens ominously. Our march takes on the quality of a funeral dirge, accompanied by my ragged breathing. On and on, we trudge.

I strain to capture snowflakes in my mouth, ravenous for a drop of water. They dance near my face and lips, evading me like hope. But I manage to gobble a few, savoring their fleeting moisture on my tongue.

My kidnapper stops abruptly. I dig my heels into the pine needles on the forest floor to avoid slamming into him. Narrowing his eyes, he observes the sky, rubbing his hand over his chin. “This weather’s the last thing we need. It’ll spoil all the fun.”

My throat fills with bile as menacing clouds engulf us, treading the thin line from stratus to fog as they sink.Fun. The word pounds panic through my veins.

Ahhhhhhhh! A deep, male scream pierces the quiet of the woods, echoing through the valley, his words distant and unintelligible. My heart thrills as my captor turns on his heels, stalking toward me. I try to swallow, wet my mouth enough to respond. But only a squeak emerges as Asher slams his soft, clammy hand over my face. His other arm encircles me, pinning me against him.

I fight to break his steel-band grip as he listens intently to the still forest. I could almost second-guess myself, believe I didn’t hear the scream at all, except for the rapt attention Asher gives it.

Minutes pass in tense silence. Finally, my kidnapper hisses against my ear, “One sound. One noise, and you’re dead.”

“I’m already dead,” I spit, glaring at the coward. He raises his hand to backhand me but hesitates.

A jolt of hope runs the length of my spine. Perhaps the male voice we heard is already protecting me, restraining Asher with fear I’ll make a sound loud enough to get his attention. After an interminable pause, he loosens his hold on me, and I struggle to swallow the bile rising in my throat.

“Hurry up!” he orders, blazing ahead on the game trail.

As each step takes us further from the scream, my mind spirals. I slacken my pace despite repeated threats, hoping a sliver of distance will help me sprint from Asher toward the scream. Or a cliff or the muffled rush of water I hear to the right of us. All are better than my current trajectory.

Fatigue, thirst, and hunger lodge in every cell of my body. Dragging my feet, I upset nearby bushes and break twigs, leaving a trail.

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