Page 29 of Love Set Free

But Phoenix doesn’t give me much time to think about this odd reaction. With one last brush of his fingers against thescraggly beard on my chin, he removes his hand. Then he goes a step further by taking a, literal, step away from me, breaking the physical connection between us as my own hand falls away from his chest.

“Now, my shower really is calling out to me,” he says, a tired smile tilting up one corner of his mouth. “And I’m sure yours is calling to you, too.”

He digs in his pocket and pulls out a plastic card. He steps around me and passes the card in front of a small, black square attached to the wall next to the hotel room door. There’s a faint clicking sound, presumably the lock releasing, then Phoenix swings the door open. “Right. This is your room and I’ll be just across the hall. Good night, sweetheart. Get plenty of rest and I’ll see you in the morning.”

My stunned eyes take in a brief impression of so many shades of white—thick carpet, furniture, drapery—as Phoenix nudges me to go inside. But I’m much more focused on Phoenix stepping back into the hallway once he’s assured I’m safely in my own room.

“Oh, and order whatever you want from room service.” His words are casual, almost indifferent, and it’s such a stark change from the close connection I felt with him, mere moments ago, that I’m a bit disoriented. “It’ll all be charged to the room; you don’t have to worry about the cost.” The door starts to swing closed behind Phoenix and his voice drifts back to me as he says, “Good night, Jackson.”

And then I’m left standing, staring at the white panels of a closed door. I’m free. No more kidnappers. No more plot. No more blindfold, or box, or danger, or barely edible food.

But also, at least in this moment...no more Phoenix.

I’m free.

Now what?

Chapter Nineteen

Phoenix

It’s amazing what a nice long, hot shower will do for a man. After over a half hour in the luxurious, spacious, glass-enclosed shower in my suite, soaping and scrubbing over and over, under the glorious spray from the multiple shower heads, I’m feeling almost back to my usual self. Donning the brand-new clothes my parents graciously left in my room—and relegating the disgusting, filthy, rank clothes I’ve been wearing ever since leaving my house and boarding a plane in Providence, more than a week ago, to a crumpled heap in the corner of the bathroom—certainly helps as well.

In fact, I’m feeling so much more myself that I decide I don’t want to stay holed up in my suite all alone, to gorge myself on room service. If I’m going to make a pig of myself—and don’t get me wrong, I sure am fuck am going to be doing that—then I might as well have some company while I do so.

And, despite how spacious the two rooms of my hotel suite are, they feel stifling and confining when it’s just me in them. I feel an urge to be in a bigger space, around people. Lots and lotsof people, doing normal people things, going about their normal people lives.

Although, maybe not my parents just yet. I know they’re going to want to see me and spend a lot of time with me, and I want that too. But on the other hand…I’m not sure I’m ready for how reactively clingy and loving they’re going to be with me. Or for all the questions they’re bound to have over what I’ve been through this past week.

But Jackson… Jackson’s just the right sort of company I want while I submerge myself in the bustle and din of other people for the first time since we made our escape. And I do feel bad for the way I sort of brushed him off in my haste to get into my own room and get my long-awaited, highly anticipated shower.

I’m in such a better mood that I’m almost humming as I exit my suite, cross the hallway, and raise my fist to knock on Jackson’s door. I’m not–I’m so tone deaf that even humming is a danger to the ears of anyone in my vicinity–but I amalmosthumming.

It’s especially a good thing that I’m not, because if I were, the sound would’ve covered up the faint noise I hear coming from behind Jackson’s door.

At first, my brain leaps to the conclusion that somebody has locked up a dog of some kind in Jackson’s room. But then I realize how unrealistic that would be, both that someone snuck a dog into my Jackson’s suite and that someone snuck a dog into this hotel at all. I’ve nothing against dogs–I like most animals, in general–but I’ve stayed at this hotel a few times before and, unless they’ve changed their policy recently, this is not a pet-friendly establishment.

So, my next logical conclusion is that it must be Jackson making those whimpering, crying noises. And the very idea of that is enough to ratchet my heartrate up to pounding and makeme want to break down his door to get to him so I can find out what’s wrong and fix it.

Thankfully, before I can manage to injure myself, and wrack up charges for property destruction, I recall that I have a copy of Jackson’s hotel key tucked away in my pocket, next to my own.

The second it takes for the lock to whir and disengage is perhaps one of the longest of my life. Not something I think lightly, particularly after the many other fraught moments I’ve had over the past week plus a couple days.

When I push the door open and rush into the suite, the first thing I notice is the lack of light. This hotel, sitting mere footsteps away from the very popular Copacabana Beach, has practically wall-to-wall windows making up all of the exterior walls in all the suites. But all of those windows in Jackson’s suite’s sitting room have their gauzy drapes pulled close, giving the space a hazy dimness. All of the lights are also off; there’s nothing in here to beat back the approaching gloom of dusk.

The connecting door leading to the bedroom is closed, and I can hear Jackson’s crying through the solid, white-painted wood. I don’t know what to expect as I cautiously swing that door open. My mind and heart are racing in tandem because, after our mutual recent experiences, I can’t help but fear the worst—that somehow our kidnappers have tracked us down and gotten to him, hurt him.

The drapes in the bedroom have also all been drawn, but I can still make up the solid lump of what must be Jackson, smack in the middle of the bed, the covers pulled over him and completely covering his body. A swift glance reveals that there doesn’t appear to be anyone else in the room. It’s just him, a trembling, crying and whimpering lump of misery.

But even though it’s only him in the room, I’m still careful as I approach the bed. Nothing is going to keep me from him, but I don’t want to make things worse. The last thing I want to do isstartle him or scare him. Or hurt him. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt my Jackson.

The bedroom feels close and heavy with fear, with turmoil, but the AC has kept the sheets cool to the touch as I softly place my hands on them, close to where I think Jackson’s shoulders could be.

“Babe? Jackson? Are you… What’s the matter, sweetheart? Just tell me and I’ll make it all better.”

I sort of doubt he heard me come in, not over the sounds he’s making. But perhaps he did. Or perhaps he merely sensed my presence or knew, sooner or later, I would come for him. Either way, thankfully, Jackson didn’t startle at my voice.

His body still visibly shakes, but his helpless sobs quiet to shaky breaths and faint sniffles as he replies, “You were gone. I was here, but you were gone. And it was like before. Before, when they…when I… I didn’t know if you’d come back or if you’d just be gone…forever.” It’s hard to tell if his last rambling, halting words are about what happened a few days ago or about his fears from today. “I don’t… I can’t…” There’s only one response I can give when Jackson pours out his plea, “I can’t lose you, Phoenix. Not forever. Not even for a little while.”

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