Page 7 of Filthy and Dirty with my Captors

The bathroom is no different. It’s a gorgeous space with a large standing shower, two shower heads, and a clear glass wall. The toilet has its own room, and the sink wraps around, farmhouse style, with a second sheer cascade of water flowing down. The floors are some kind of tile that’s made to look like pine, and though there’s a medicine cabinet to the left side of the wall, there are no leftover prescription bottles to identify anyone with.

I flick off the light and head back to the bed, lying flat on the mattress as I stare at the fan whirring above me. When I was a teenager, I used to fantasize about being alone with three big men, though this isn’t what I had in mind. I imagined a mansion, a huge pool with pink floating flamingos, and tall men with cut abs and biceps to spare. I never imagined how we all got to Barbie’s Dreamhouse, all I know is that it would be fun when we got there. Big, warm hands rubbing on my skin, hot breath surrounding me, and all the adoration in the world aimed straight at my dark little heart.

Too bad that’s not the fantasy the captors had in mind.

The door opens with purpose and Moose steps inside, weighing the room down with his presence. He’s not wearing his mask from earlier. Instead, he’s pulled a ski mask over his face. Without words, he drags the rocking chair toward the side of the bed and returns a moment later with a folding table and a tray of food.

“Sit,” he groans heavily before returning to the door to knock twice. I assume that means he wants the others to lock it up.

A moment later, I hear the soft click of the lock, and my stomach tightens. I can’t imagine seducing this man. He doesn’t seem like the seduction type. He seems like the bulldog type. The don’t-fuck-with-me type. The big giant stay-out-of-my way type. The type that wouldn’t fall for seduction under any circumstance for fear of how weak it would make him feel.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at the plate of food in front of me. Steak and baked potato with some kind of dried herb on top. I’m not a huge fan of steak, I’d have rather the pizza I rejected earlier, but my stomach is growling, and I need to put something in it if I’m going to keep my energy up, flush whatever kind of drugs they gave me, and think straighter.

Moose settles into the chair across from me and leans back, studying my face as I chew the small bite of potato I’ve taken. I’m glad he’s staring. It offers me a chance to stare back. In the ski mask, I can see the dark blue of his eyes, the soft wrinkles beside them, and the long salt and pepper beard that spills from beneath the fabric.

His gloves are missing too, giving way to big, rough, tattooed hands that look calloused by hard work and age. His nail beds are worn with dirt, and though I’m sure his hands are clean, the cracks are stained with shades of black.

I stare at him from across the small table, which he’s managed to make look even smaller. “Do you, ugh, do you do a lot of work outside?”

He groans under his breath as though he doesn’t want to talk. “Yes.”

Okay… a man of few words, I see.

I slice into my potato, letting the garlic butter flavor melt in my mouth before I speak again. “What kind of work do you do?”

He glares up at me as though talking isn’t his idea of a good time. “I own a farm.”

“A farm! Oh, I was thinking the other day how much I wanted a farm. I love walking through the Tractor Supply store and fantasizing about a little chicken coop that I can collect eggs from in the morning. Do you have eggs on your farm?”

“Sure do.” The man’s voice is even deeper than I remember, but I still don’t recognize it.

“Nice.” My heart slams against my chest as I rack my brain to think of anything this man might find remotely interesting enough to open up about. “Did you grow up there?”

“Five generations.” He rocks back and forth in the chair, then grabs his beer to take a swig. I hadn’t realized until now there’s one waiting for me too, which I don’t hate.

I smile awkwardly and grab the IPA, taking a sip, then another longer one. I’ve never been a fan of the stuff, but right now, a little buzz would do a world of work relaxing me.

“That’s a lot of generations. My family were dairy farmers in Wisconsin. Not my parents, but my grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins… that sort of thing.” I smile and take another bite of the potato. “I love animals so much and I used to think I wanted a big farm like that until I spent the night at my cousin’s house and realized how much work it was. They were waking up at like four a.m. to go to the barn.”

He rocks back again, bending one leg over the other as he takes another swig of beer. “I’d rather be dog tired from workin’ hard than well rested with nothin’ to show for it.”

“So, is it hard work kidnapping women?”I guess I’m switching back to the asshole approach. For fuck’s sake, Rosalynn. Can you make up your damn mind?

“Eat your food,” the man growls.

“Why does it matter if I’m well fed? You guys know I’m a virgin even when I’m hungry, right?”

The man shakes his head back and forth, then rubs his hand on the back of his neck as though he’s annoyed by me. “Just eat.”

“No.” My fork clanks against the plate as I take another swig of beer. “Tell me where we are.”

“Colorado.”

Was it this easy all along? All I had to do was ask a question, or is he lying?

“Where in Colorado?” My heart squeezes in my chest as I wait for his reply.

“My farm.”

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