Page 30 of Pose for Me
I close my eyes and try to trace the layout of his house from what I can remember, but nothing sticks out as an escape route. Maybe I can climb through a window, but if he has those remote locks on his doors, I can guess that his windows are similarly equipped.
It’s so hard to think down here. I want to rebel and fight and find a way, but at the same time, I can’t. My brain won’t come alive until Ryell visits, and how fucking pathetic is that? I shouldn’t want to see him, talk to him, or hear his voice, but after whatever unholy shit he did to my body, it’s like I can’t function properly if he’s not nearby.
Just as I’m thinking of him, I hear his footsteps on the stairs. I sit up, stashing the drawing back under my pillow. I want him to see that I’m looking at the sketch but not that I’m losing myself in it. I can’t give him that much of me.
Ryell strides around the corner, and I can’t help but admire his figure, which makes me fucking sick in the head. I remember him naked, how hard and fit he was.
How he sucked my dick while fucking me.
The man did things to me that I can’t even begin to forget, and that’s on the forefront of my mind, not that he’s a fucking killer.
And…the way he talked to me in the bar. He was attentive, funny, giving and taking in our conversation in equal measures. I felt seen. I felt…wanted.
That’s the problem. After my childhood?—
I push that from my mind and stare at Ryell. He has a tray in his hands, full of food. My stomach growls. If I thought a hunger strike would work on someone like Ryell, I wouldn’t touch what he brought me, but I tried for three days, and he didn’t even bat an eye when he saw the full trays of food remaining. When I realized he didn’t care, I stopped denying myself. As much as I want out of this basement, I don’t want it to be because I’m dead.
He slides the food through the slot, and I take it, giving myself a minute before I dig in, though my stomach is pissed at being denied food because of my pride.
As he always does, he sits in the chair across from my cell and pulls out his sketch pad. I stand and pace while I eat. Frustration is evident on his face.
For some reason though, pissing him off today feels hollow. I try to ignore that feeling, but it sticks with me. That alone helps my anger burn red hot, because I don’t want to be like this. I want to be a normal fucking person and not feel anything but disgust when I look at him. He’s taken more lives than Ted Bundy, for fuck’s sake. I should be revolted.
“You never told me why you didn’t become a teacher,” he says, and I stop pacing and look at him, confused. To answer my unspoken question, he says, “In the bar, you said you wanted to be a teacher. Why change from that to law enforcement?”
I don’t answer his questions. Instead I ask, “Is anything you told me that night true?”
A smile spreads across his face, and he sets his sketch pad by his feet. “My name. That’s the most important thing, right?”
“What do you do?” I ask.
He tuts at me. “Maybe I’ll tell you some day.” Ryell crosses his arms. I roll my eyes and pace. “You do that a lot. Why?”
“Do what?” I ask after I take another bite from my sandwich.
“Pace while I’m here. Do I make you nervous, Lane?”
I swallow the food in my mouth and shake my head. “No.”
He makes a noise in his throat as if he doesn’t believe me. “I like you, Lane. Have I told you that?”
“You say my name a lot,” I answer instead of acknowledging what he said. If I’m honest, him liking me warms something inside me. Something that shouldn’t like that a psychopath is into me but, nonetheless, is fucking preening.
“Yes, I do. I like how it sounds.”
“Are you fucking flirting with me?” I ask, finally understanding what’s going on. All this getting to know me shit isn’t a game. He really wants to get to know me, and he’s not trying to throw me off-kilter by saying he likes me; he fucking means it.
What the fuck timeline am I on where I enjoy that this fucking maniac is flirting with me?
The kind that doesn’t get enough attention.
I push that unwelcome thought away. I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need attention that badly.
Except I do.
Ryell simply smiles, not answering my question.
After I polish off my sandwich, I stuff the chips in my mouth and then guzzle the water in less than a minute. I push the tray out of the cell and sit on my butt, not worried about pacing anymore. I feel so weak, what with not having adequate food and water in…a week? Two? Fuck, I don’t even remember how long I’ve been down here.
