Page 54 of Love Set Free

“I’ve never been in love before. I don’t…I don’t know what that feels like. Maybe that is what I’m feelin’ for you. How would I know?” His teeth crease dents in his lip as he worries it. “Is lovin’ someone and needin’ someone the same thing? Because, I do need you. I just don’t know if that also means I’m in love with you.”

“That might be another topic to work through with a psychologist,” I cautiously point out.

After a moment, Jackson nods his head, as though he’s reached some sort of decision. “I don’t…I don’t see why I wouldn’t fall in love with you,” he says, “if I, in fact, haven’t already. So, there is that.”

“Yes, there…there is that.”

My voice comes out in a croak. I’m trying too hard to choke back my hope to be able to speak properly. I worry that if I give it too much free rein, it’ll only hurt all that much more when it gets dashed.

But maybe…maybe…I shouldn’t be trying so hard. Would it really be such a bad thing to have a little faith? Faith that Jackson will, one day, love me the way that I love him. Faith that, maybe, he already does.

The circumstances of our meeting, the unfolding of our friendship, when Jackson was just a comforting voice coming from somewhere sight unseen, and then our evolution into being something more… All of that is already pretty unbelievable. Maybe I should trust that fate—the fate that already saw usgetting this far—is already working toward getting us to that final step.

Fate already brought me Jackson. Is it really so much to believe that fate wouldn’t also gift me his love?

“Come here, love,” I murmur, drawing his face closer to mine. I lean forward that last little bit, bringing our lips together. I let him taste my love for him. I let him taste my smile.

It’s a smile I can’t contain. Because I’ve decided to set my hope free, wild and unchecked, trusting that everything we’ve been through happened for a reason. Fate brought Jackson and I together, saw us locked up in cages, to set our love free.

Epilogue

Jackson

May, 3 months later…

“Are you almost done? We need to get going.”

Phoenix’s voice calls out from the adjoining bedroom. Despite his words, he doesn’t sound hurried, merely curious.

“Well, am I? Am I nearly done?” I ask the man with me in the white-on-white en suite bathroom of the house where I’ve been living in with Phoenix for three months.

Although…it’s not quite so white-on-white right this moment. More red-on-white-on-white, what with Jones’ blood drip, drip, dripping and forming a splodgy puddle below him.

Jones’ reply is an aggravated squeal and a thrashing of his body within the ties holding him securely to the kitchen chair I sacrificed for this particular task.

“Babe?”

“Yep, I’m almost done,” I holler to Phoenix in reply to his impatient second yell. “Should only be a few more minutes.”

“Okay, good. We’re already running late, and the last thing we need—because of, uh, your current task—is for Mom or Dad to pop by to see what’s keeping us when we don’t show up at the agreed upon time for dinner.”

I briefly sweep my eyes over the tied-up Jones and the things I have set up around him. “Yeah, just a few more minutes oughta do.”

Phoenix appears in the open doorway to the bathroom and makes his own assessing scan of my set up. Doubt is stamped on his face in his raised eyebrows and pouted lower lip. “Hmm. If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” I tell him.

Another long perusal by Phoenix had him commenting, “I hope we bought enough bleach. We’ve got a lot of cleaning we’re going to have to do after dinner.”

Even though neither Phoenix nor I have expressly told Jones what we have planned for him, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. The plastic shower curtain laid out underneath Jones, covering and protecting the white marble tiles, crinkles as he wriggles and squirms against his bonds. But his struggling only results in a fresh gush of blood spilling from the handful of shallow gashes I sliced into his skin.

Rolling my eyes, I comment, “Really? Trying to get free of the ropes didn’t work the last dozen times you tried, but you thought…thirteenth time’s the charm?”

The gag in Jones’ mouth prevents me from understanding the words he tries to scream at me, but I’ve no doubt they’re the foulest and vilest of curses in his vocabulary, based off the fiery anger blazing in his eyes.

“You don’t really have any grounds to be quite so pissed,” I tell him. “You’re not an idiot. Actually, I always had the impression that you were quite intelligent. So, you had to have some sort of an idea that this is how things would play out.” I watch as Jones shakes his head back and forth, making an insistent, wordless denial. “Really? Then what did you think would happen when you turned up here? Westerly isn’t that big of a town. I’m not sure how long you were here before we spotted you, but did you really think that you could get away with following us around unseen?”

The knife I used to cut Jones is long and slender, and Jones squeals a protest when I pick it up from where it’s resting next to me on the lip of the tub.

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