Page 19 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“Didn’t seem that way to me,” he answers. “Seemed to me like you were fixin’ to be a stubborn brat, and I needed to do somethin’ about it.”

I sputter. A brat! Really!

“Now, either you get in that shower yourself, or I’ll put you in it. It’s up to you, darlin’,” he says.

I guess I will be taking a shower after all.

I snatch the clothes from his hands and push him out of the bathroom. Well, try to push him. The man is solid muscle. I don’t think a rhinoceros could push him if he didn’t want it to.

Thankfully, he takes my cue and steps backward out of the bathroom. I swing the door shut and lock it with a satisfying click.

I take a deep breath.

Okay, Millie. Time to take the world’s fastest shower.

And the world’s fastest shower it is. I speed through, putting my years of showering in gyms and trucker stops to good use. I never thought I’d be grateful for those experiences, but I could kiss the fungus-ridden floors of those communal showers for the practice and knowledge they’ve given me. I’ll never disparage a public shower again.

I’m in and out in what I estimate to be five minutes. I dry myself off haphazardly, then struggle to put dry clothes on my still damp body. In my rush, I forget that I need to step into my shirt to get it on, so I put it over my head and then have a panic when my handcuffed arm gets stuck in it. I bump into the sink, then the door, trying to get it off.

“You okay in there?” Stryker calls. I squeak.

“Fine! I’m fine! Everything’s fine! Donotcome in here!” I yell, finally freeing myself from the shirt.

“I’m not comin’ in there! Stop freaking out!” Stryker yells back. Yeah, like I believe anything that lunatic says. I step into my shirt while eyeing the door. Once it’s properly on, I relax some. The pants go on next, easy as can be, and I am clothed once again. I breathe a sigh of relief. Yeesh, that was stressful.

I do the rest of my night routine at a much more sedate pace, enjoying the relative security the bathroom gives me. It takes Stryker rattling the chain and threatening to break down the door to get me to exit my tiny safe haven.

“Stop pouting. You can’t stay in there all night.” That’s what he thinks. I could have stayed in there for the rest of eternity if I wasn’t worried he’d break the door down – and me with it.

Stryker grabs his mysterious duffels and enters the bathroom. The door closes behind him and I am left to sit and wait, wondering what could be in his bags. One, I assume, has clothes. The other one intrigues me. It could be full of anything. It could be full of guns, or explosives, or cabbage patch kids. All the normal things crazy people carry around. Maybe it’s got his stock of newspaper clippings and red string. Or maybe it’s carrying all of the medication he’s supposed to be taking but clearly isn’t.

I amuse myself with several more theories, ranging from mundane (more clothes) to silly (ten pounds of confetti) to scary (the cut up corpse of his last kidnapping victim). He gets done in the bathroom around the time I’m debating with myself over whether his last victim was blonde, like me, or a redhead. Ultimately, I think she’d have been blonde. These guys always have a type.

I eye his bags closely when he exits the bathroom, looking for any body part shaped lumps. I see none.

What a relief.

Unless, of course, he’s wrapped them up real well. I squint at the fabric. Nah. Even if they were padded there’d still be some unsightly bumps sticking out. The duffel’s surface is relatively smooth.

Probably just confetti.

He drops them back in their space against the wall, then reaches down to put his hands in my armpits and lifts me tostanding. I squawk in annoyance.

“You could’ve just asked me to get up!” I tell him.

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” He grins at me. I look away, posthaste. I hate this guy.

“Time for bed,” he announces, a thread of amusement in his voice. I stomp to the bed. He makes his way to his cot, repeating the routine from the night before. Sheets, pillow, blanket, then he lays down. I follow suit in my own resting place.

He stretches his bulk to turn the light off, and then we are lying together in the dark with only the moon to see by once again.

It’s easier like this – in the dark, when I can’t see his face. I can pretend he’s not even here.

Except that I can’t. Not really. I am hyper aware of his every shift. He sighs and it rings as loud as a siren in my head. It takes ages for his breathing to level out and a light snore to come from his direction.

I wait longer, barely daring to breathe, lest I wake him up. I count to five-hundred in my head. Then I count it again.

Time to execute a key retrieval.

---