Anna
After I’ve returned Red Paw to his cage, we go outside and to the car. Samson was gentler with Paw than I would’ve given him credit for, handling him with a tenderness that, a day ago, I would’ve assumed was beyond a killer. But if Samson is opening my eyes to anything, it’s that people aren’t one-sided. A man can be a killer while also being a kind man. A man can be brutal, bloody, and yet still show an immense amount of love. I’d known this on one level, because Dad loves me, though he is a mean man. But with Samson it is clearer, he held the rabbit with the same hands he used to kill Eric only last night.
“From my safe house, we’ll be able to see anybody approaching,” Samson says, as the car drives through New York, the skyscrapers becoming smaller behind us. I look out the window and see that we’re on the bridge gliding past Newton Creek. I guess it’ll take us about an hour or so to get to Point Lookout. “You’ll be safe. We’ll figure this thing out.”
Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. It’s a thought I don’t really want to have, and yet it buoys up in my mind, impossible to ignore. “Should I call Dad?” I ask. “He might worry if I’m not at home, especially after last night.”
I hate that the thought of Dad worrying makes me uncomfortable. I imagine his lips trembling beneath his mustache; I imagine him bursting into tears. The fact that he would not do this does little to thrust this image from my mind. I hear his wrenching sobs, hear him roar, where is my daughter? Or perhaps it’s a more selfish impulse. I don’t want him to shout at me when I return. I don’t want him to call me names, make me feel small. Over ten years have passed since I found that dead rabbit at the side of the road, and yet when I think of Dad, I become that scared girl again, living in fear of Dad’s barbed tongue.
Samson must see some of the fear in me. He places his hand on my knee and squeezes it reassuringly. His grip is strong, keeping me grounded, stopping me from floating up and into my memories.
“I’ll sort that,” he says. “I’ll get in touch with him through one of my contacts and let him know you’re safe.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay, good.”
It’s a relief. If I called him, he’d only shout at me over the phone. Twenty-five years old, and scared of your dad! Shameful, but true. But I’m relieved for another reason, too. If I called him, I’d shout at him just as much as he’d shout at me, and I don’t have the energy for that. A shouting match with Dad always drains me, makes me feel small and deflated. Circumstances are straining enough as it is without adding that to the mix.
“Make sure you do,” I say. “He’ll freak otherwise.”
“I will. I promise.”
I leave it there. I trust Samson, trust his promises, trust him with my life.
###
The driver pulls up outside of a detached log cabin raised on stilts and sitting atop a high, oval rock formation. Stairs lead in zigzags up the side of the rock and to the cabin, around thirty yards above the parking spaces. The cabin is directly beside the ocean; you could stand on its roof and hurl a rock into the Atlantic. The air is colder here without the buffer of New York’s buildings; wind blasts us. The ocean sprays its waves and the air dances with drops of water. I wait for the driver to climb from the car, but he doesn’t.
“He’s shy,” Samson says, when he sees me looking. Then he opens the door, reaches in, and offers me his hands.
I hand him my bag and together we climb out of the car.
“This is yours?” I ask, the awe plain in my voice.
“This is mine,” he says.
We walk up the stairs and I’m constantly craning my neck, looking up at the cabin, until we’re in the middle of the stairs and the rock formation blocks my view. I feel as though I am in a James Bond movie, on my way to one of his hideouts. My legs are aching by the time we get to the top, and I know it’s from the sex yesterday. Sex that was harder and more passionate than any I’ve had before. The cabin looks bigger from up here, no longer framed beside the large mound of rock, but standing on its own. Wind whips at us, my hair flying around my face. I find myself wondering how strong the wind would have to get for the cabin to simply fly away, but its foundations seem strong. Apart from a low creaking, it sits silent, still.
We enter the cabin, walking through large oaken double doors, and into a wide open hallway. I’d expected mounted heads and paintings and couches and beds and all the rest of it. I’d expected a living space. What I’m met with instead is a barren hallway leading to barren rooms. No pictures hang on the walls and cobwebs coat the corners. The place is dark, dim. Samson turns to me, a sly smile on his lips.
“This isn’t it,” he says. “Follow me.”
He leads me through the living room, the fireplace empty, not even the charred remains of wood or coal in there, just empty as though waiting for somebody to move in. I’m staggered by Samson’s wealth. A man who can afford to buy a place like this—a place which must’ve costed at least a half a million dollars—and leave it resting, not renting it out, must be very rich indeed. I wonder if he’s a millionaire. He certainly dresses the part, and he moves around the cabin without glancing at its wonder, its high roof and spacious walkways, as if it’s completely natural for a man who’s not yet thirty years old to own a place like this.
Down hallways, around corners, he leads me until we enter a small bedroom. This room is almost empty, apart from a bookshelf which rests against one wall. The shelf is empty, but Samson walks straight up to it all the same. He rests his hand on it, and then takes it away and turns to me.
“You trust me, Anna,” he says.
It’s not a question. He knows I trust him. He knows what’s happening between us, this strange, inexplicable affection, intensified by Eric’s death, his protectiveness, our closeness, the heat between our bodies.
“I do,” I reply.
“Good. Because I need you to agree to this. I guess you could say we’re going to play a game.”
“A game? What sort of game?”
“You could call it you’re-going-to-be-my-hostage-for-a-few-days.” He laughs. “Or maybe that sounds too scary. I just need you to understand that I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know that,” I say. “But why are you telling me?”
“Because I’m going to take you underground now, and I don’t want you to be scared.”
“Underground?”
He turns back to the bookshelf, grips it, and then shifts it to the side. His immense body moves it easily. A small tunnel opens up behind the bookshelf, a tunnel carved from rock. Samson leans forward and flips a switch, and lightbulbs which hang from wires in the ceiling of the tunnel bloom into life, bright and yellow.
“This is the real safe house,” he says. “A base within the rock formation.”
“Ah,” I say.
I try to think about this logically. Do I know Samson? No, I met him yesterday. If a man you’ve only known for a day invites you into an underground bunker, should you say yes? Definitely not; you should run as fast as you can. Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate plot to get me to come here, with him. Maybe he’ll keep me here forever now. Now I’ve been duped.
But then I look into his eyes, and I’m sure he’s not tricking me. I’m sure he would do anything to protect me. Logic falls away and is replaced by instinct, and it’s my instinct that Samson would never do me any harm, would never let anybody else hurt me. I can’t fight the instinct. I think of Red Paw, never shying away from me, hopping straight into my hands without the slightest hesitation. I’m not so different to that rabbit, I think, not when it comes down to trusting Samson. I’ll go to him with the same confidence Red Paw came to me.
“Be your hostage for a few days?” I say. “Strange, but that doesn’t sound so bad.”
He smiles and steps into the tunnel. I don’t think. I just follow.
###
Samson turns the bank-vault-style handle, and the large bunker door swings open, squeaking on its hinges. I flinch at the sound, despite myself, despite knowing that Samson would never allow anything to hurt me. It’s a reflexive response. My heart begins to thump. Down in the deep dark, a vault door creaking, lit under bright clinical lights . . . It sounds like the start of a crime novel.
But when I step into the underground bunker, I’m taken aback. It’s one huge room, divided into sections by wall partitions. The bulk of it is taken by a large living area: a couch, a TV, an exercise bike, weight lifting equipment. Beyond that is the kitchen, fully fitted with a refrigerator, and an oven. And in the opposite corner is the shower and toilet, the shower cubicle clouded glass, the toilet surrounded by a curtain. Everything is lavish, the couches plush, the floor covered with rugs upon rugs of soft fur. I walk into the room, my eyes drawn to the pictures hanging from the walls. Abstract art, all squares and circles or sprays of paint, overlapping.
“Wow,” I say.
I turn to Samson and he tilts his head at me.
“Impressed?” he asks.
“Impressed?” I laugh, turn in a full circle, taking all of it in. “More than impressed. This is incredible.” Chandeliers hang from the ceiling and electric sconce lights are imbedded within the wall, chucking up orange light, fire-like. I face Samson again, and now he’s grinning openly. “I’m more than impressed,” I say. He beams.
“Good,” he says. “I know I said you’re my ‘hostage’, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to treat you right.”
“Treat me right . . .” My voice grows husky, and as if from nowhere I’m gripped with lust, lust which will not be ignored, lust which moves through my body like something alive, burning, demanding.
He drops my bag and walks right up to me, our bodies almost pressed together.
“You need to get out of those clothes,” I say. “They’re dirty.”
Without saying a word, he strips. First his jacket and shirt and then his shoes and socks and pants and underwear, until he stands there like a sculpture, muscles tensed, cock rock-hard and resting against my belly.
“Now it’s your turn,” he sighs.
He doesn’t wait for me to undress myself. He reaches down and yanks at my top. He tears at my clothes; soon they’re in a bundle on the floor. Both of us are hot. I can feel the heat rising from his skin. Drops of sweat slide down his muscles, between his pectorals, and to his tight abs.
“I have to leave after,” he whispers. “I need to see someone. But you’ll be safe here.”
“Don’t think about that now,” I say. I reach down and grab his cock, hard in my hand. “Just think about us.”
He leans down and buries his face in my neck, kissing, biting, and for a time both of us forget about everything.