Page 18 of Captive

For a man who doesn’t get any, the possibility of sex must be enticing. Maybe I’m slightly out of my mind, but if he’s down, I’m down.

Two days later, the entire house is locked down. And by locked down, I mean the guys install sensors on every window and every door that leads to the outside. I get a waterproof bracelet that I can’t take off, one that’ll track me if I ever leave the confines of this house, with an alert sent to an app that all three of the guys have installed on their phones.

I’m like a dog, basically. A dog with very nice hair.

After Hawthorne puts the bracelet on me, he addresses the elephant in the room, so to speak: “There is something I want to talk to you about.” Just the way he says it informs me he’s not about to spill all of D.D.K.’s secrets to me.

“Shoot,” I say, staring at the bracelet on my left wrist. It’s not too tight, but I’ve never worn a bracelet for so long before. Should be interesting.

“Ezra mentioned a certain conversation you had with him and Royal.” The way he brings it up, I can tell he’s not used to speaking about such things. He sounds awkward, and there is a slight blush to his cheeks beneath the bottom rim of his glasses.

“That was literally two days ago. Why bring it up now?”

My direct questioning causes him to stutter a bit, “I—well, I didn’t know how to address it.”

“But now?”

“Now I still don’t know how to address it, but I don’t want to let things go on too long without at least attempting.” Hawthorne leans on the front of his desk, while I sit on the leather chair facing him. The others aren’t in the room, so it’s just me and him.

Me, him, and this conversation that he is making way more awkward than it needs to be.

“There is a reason we don’t let ourselves get… involved with anyone, as I’m certain Ezra told you. We can’t—we don’t—” He adjusts his glasses and looks away. It’s almost like he can’t hold eye contact while having this particular talk with me. “It’s simply easier that way.”

But I’m not having any of it. Besides the fact that we’re all a little murderous in this house, there’s nothing wrong with any of them. Not only are they nice to look at in their own way, but they’re also of like minds when it comes to cleaning up the streets. What more could a girl ask for?

A normal girl wouldn’t want a serial killer, I know, so maybe I’m biased.

“It’s kind of bullshit, though, don’t you think?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “In no way is it bullshit. What we do we take very seriously, and that includes mitigating possible risks. Besides, there’s always a singular option when it comes to… to that.”

He might not be able to say it, but I can: “Using your hands isn’t nearly as fun, though. It might get the job done in a pinch, but it’s not comparable, you have to admit.”

Hawthorne coughs, and he walks around his desk and reclaims his usual seat. “I don’t have to admit anything of the sort.”

I stand and move closer to the desk, leaning on its front and thereby causing him to look at me. “You know, ever since I was a kid, when I was told I couldn’t have something, it only made me want it more.”

“Yes, well,” he says dryly, “it’s a good thing none of us are children here, then.”

“All I’m saying is, since I can’t exactly leave this house, what’s the harm in getting a little freaky? The three of you probably go stir-crazy in here, and I can think of some worse ways to pass the time.” Since I can never leave well enough alone, I lean over his desk and add, “Come on, Hawthorne. I bet you could use some stress-relief too.”

I think I hear him audibly gulp before he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs like he’s never been more exasperated in his entire life, and points to the door. “Please leave.”

Pushing off his desk, I deadpan, “To be clear, do you mean please leave the room, or please leave the house?” The look he gives me right then is enough, and I smirk and saunter out of the room, satisfied with myself.

Hey, somebody’s gotta find me amusing. If it’s not them, it might as well be me.

Chapter Eight – Ezra

Royal catches me in the gym downstairs, in the basement. I’m on the treadmill, getting some cardio in, but the expression he wears makes me slow down the pace. He wants to talk, and I have the feeling I already know what about.

It’s obvious. Of course it is. He wants to talk about Abby. Abby and her offer of stress relief.

She’s so cavalier about killing, I shouldn’t be so surprised she’d be equally as nonchalant about sex. Still, not only is it a rule we have, but it’s also something I haven’t let myself think about for a long, long time.

Sex hasn’t been on my radar in years, and up until the whole conversation between the three of us two days ago, it wasn’t even something I was interested in revisiting.

Now? Now it’s a weird mixture of guilt and something else. Even if you ignore the fact that I’ve only known Abby for a few days, I’m not the kind of guy who likes to hook up with no strings attached.