Page 20 of Love Set Free

“I don’t…” A bony, long-fingered hand comes into view as Jackson runs his fingers over the jutting ridge of his nose. Oh, God. That hand. The mirrored mate of the one that was so recently pressed up against my own hand. “You sure this is the kind of face you wanna be thinking about? I know what I look—"

“You look perfect,” I hastily interrupt. “Simply perfect. You’re you. And getting to seeyou…knowing whatyoulook like… There are an awful lot of things I’d like right now. Freedom, for one. A hot shower. Edible food. Clean clothes. A clean, working toilet." I take a chance and bring my uninjured hand to the jagged edge of the hole in Jackson’s box. When Jackson doesn’t move, I tentatively extend my fingers past the opening and brush them along the crest of his cheekbone. “But getting to see you…to finally be face-to-face and able to look into your eyes. Your blue eyes. Makes all those things seem not so necessary. Not as long as I get you while I’m waiting.”

Chapter Thirteen

Phoenix

I’m completely disoriented when I wake. I hadn’t even been aware I was sleeping and I have no idea how long I’d been asleep for. I just know that I’m now awake and the thing that woke me is multiple very loud voices coming from one of the other rooms outside the locked bedroom Jackson and I are stuck in.

When my eyes focus, I find myself staring at the peacefully sleeping face of Jackson, mere inches away from me. Jesus, we must’ve both fallen asleep while we’d been gorging ourselves on the sight of each other and rambling on about whatever inconsequential shit popped in our heads.

I didn’t tell Jackson about my finger. About the way Blond Guy so ruthlessly and coldly casually chopped the tip of it off.

I’m not really sure why. I’m notashamedof the injury. I’m not even embarrassed about the way I screamed and passed out because of it.

I just... I don’t know why I kept the information to myself. Maybe... Maybe I didn’t want Jackson feeling any sort of guilt over the fact that I was injured and there was nothing he could’ve done to prevent it. Logically, there’s no reason for himto feel guilty. I certainly don’t blame him or hold any sort of resentment or anger that he was locked away in an entirely separate room when it happened. But logic often has very little to do with guilt. Fuck knows I’d feel a heaping pile of guilt if the situations had been reversed and Jackson was the one who’d gotten hurt while I’d done nothing to protect him.

At any rate, the news of my mangled finger is something I shouldn’t have any difficulty keeping to myself for the time being. Even though all Could’ve Been a Model did was slather some antibiotic goop on it and slap a bandage on it, it actually isn’t bothering me too much. It aches, sure. But only with a throbbing faint soreness, like a toothache. In my finger. Which means there’s plenty of time to tell Jackson about it once he’s out of his box and we’re on our way to safety. When he’ll hopefully have plenty of other things to concern himself about other than one little, measly, violently shortened finger.

The voices are getting quite loud now. I’m not sure how in the world Jackson is still sleeping with what sounds like a very heated argument going on just a door or two away from where we are. I take one more fond and avidly greedy glance at him, then reluctantly disengage my right hand from his—we’d somehow managed to fall asleep with our hands still pressed together—and roll over away from him.

I cautiously approach the closed door, expecting any one of the kidnappers to burst in at any moment. And while my exposure to that burningly cold, calmly measured voice has been limited, I definitely recognize the barely constrained fury in Blond Guy’s voice. Even with a door between me and it, I have to muster my limited courage to keep from fleeing across the room, away from that voice, to hide behind the dubious concealment of Jackson’s box.

“Am I to understand…Silva still has yet to show?”

What’s this? Curious, and desperate over the thought that I might be about to overhear news of some sort of trouble in kidnapping paradise, I lightly rest the side of my face against the scratchy wooden surface of the door and try to stifle the sound of my own breathing so I don’t miss anything else my kidnappers have to say.

“And you justnowthought to bring this news to my attention?”

Oh, yes. Blond Guy is definitely not pleased. I’m half happy that he’s not happy and half terrified that he’ll somehow take his displeasure out on me or Jackson.

“Hadn’t really thought it was anything to be concerned about, Mueller,” a voice that sounds like Tattooed American Guy replies. “Not until far too many hours had passed. Too many hours that couldn’t be accounted for with just his task of distracting and laying red herrings for the cops that were sniffing around our old home base that is.”

“The minute, theminute, Silva failed to show by the designated time, I should’ve immediately been told," Blond Guy snaps. “That is not the sort of professionalism I—"

“Weareprofessionals, Mueller. This is not the first time we’ve all worked together," Could’ve Been a Model interrupts. I have to give the woman credit—she has bigger balls than I do. Blond Guy sounds about two seconds away from whipping out his knife again and using it on one of them this time. “We trusted that Silva was doing what he was supposed to be doing. The fact he’s not here now…”

“For his sake, he’d better have been picked up by the police. They’re about the only thing that’ll be standing between him and a permanent retirement—six feet under—from his erstwhile employment.”

The sound of several pairs of footsteps loudly clomping around—one of which sounds as if it’s coming this way—has mescurrying away from the door before I can be found pressed up against it and listening in on their conversation. So, I miss most of what Blond Guy says next, although I do manage to catch a few words, like “contacts”, “monitor account”, and “find Silva”.

“Phoenix?”

Normally, I’d be happy to hear Jackson—now, clearly awake—saying my name. But not right now. Not when there are several agitated kidnappers just in the other room and one of them is most definitely headed our way. Accompanied by the rasping scrape of a key being inserted into whatever lock was securing our door, I shush him.

“Shh. Quiet, sweetheart. Can you… It might be better if you pretend to still be asleep,” I suggest. “Can you do that for me?”

Jackson sounds confused. Not that I can blame him. But he quickly agrees without asking any unnecessary questions. Jesus, I wish I had the time to do more than scramble over to the far corner of the room and fling myself down onto the floor, curling up in a small ball, as Jackson pleads with a worried voice, “Be careful, okay?”

But all I can spare to reassure him is a hurried, “I will. Promise.”

I’m not sure if I’m relieved that it’s Could’ve Been a Model that enters our room or not. On the one hand, she did treat the injury I got from Blond Guy. But that might’ve only been because Blond Guy had ordered her to do so. She certainly didn’t exude any sort of friendliness or sympathy otherwise.

Yeah, not at all friendly or sympathetic; a conclusion that’s only reinforced by the disdainful sneer she aims my direction once her eyes find where I’ve taken up position.

“Makes my heart sing to see a selfish, spoiledcoñolike you reduced to...a sniveling, cowering dog.“ Her tone is all smug satisfaction seeing me huddling on a cracked, filthy floor. I don’tknow what she just called me, but I don’t doubt that it’s an insult.

At least, to my great relief, she doesn’t seem to pay Jackson or his box any sort of attention. I’m not sure if she’s assuming that he’s asleep or unconscious, or if she figures there’s nothing he can do against her from within the secured confinement of his box. I’m good with either, as long as it means she continues to leave him alone.

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