Predator - A Stand Alone Suspense Romance (5 page)

I hear him move and glance over my shoulder. He has a small bag with him. When he nears the bed I struggle back into a sitting position.

“Let’s make this quick,” he practically growls at me like it’s my fault that I’m hurting. He comes to stand in front of me and gives me a dark scowl. I sigh tiredly and move my aching body into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

I watch as he places the bag on the bed and then he takes out some antiseptic wipes. He just presses the wipe to my cheek, not giving me any warning. I hiss from the burn and yank my head away.

Scowling up at him, I give him a dark look of my own. “Is it really necessary to be so rough?”

He huffs out a breath and then, to my surprise, he sits down next to me. It makes my anxiety spike. I don’t like that he’s so close to me. He leans even closer making it hard to breathe as the air evaporates between us.

My breathing speeds up and I close my eyes. I don’t want him to see my panic and fear.

This time his touch is much softer. It still burns like hell, but the soft way he’s dabbing at my face makes my throat close up.

When he applies some sort of cream to my bottom lip, it becomes too much. I pull away, scooting back on the bed so I can put some distance between us.

I can’t bring myself to make eye contact as I fight the tears down.

I can feel his eyes burn over me. “Where else are you hurt?” The question is short but it packs one hell of a punch.

I wrap my arms around my waist and shake my head. “I’m fine.”

He keeps staring for a little while longer and then he gets up, taking the bag with him. “Sleep,” he barks.

I turn my back on him once more, curling into a small bundle. I pray the numbness of sleep will come quickly.

Cara~

The next day when Damian leaves to go get food, I get up and walk over to the window. Every movement hurts like hell, but I can’t stay in bed. I have to get better and get out of here. I move the curtain to the side and peek outside. There is a parking lot with only two cars in it. We’re at a motel, a Village Inn. I’ve stayed in one plenty of times so the experience is nothing new.

I spot Damian as he comes walking around the diner. He’s carrying a brown paper bag. I stare at him as he comes closer. His steps are hard and solid, and every movement seems calculated. He keeps his head down, but I get a feeling he sees everything around him, including me, even though I’m hiding behind the curtain.

I go to the bathroom, not closing the door all the way. When I’m done relieving myself, I wash my hands, and then my eyes settle on the mirror. It’s out of habit.

Damian always tells me not to look at myself so I expected it to look bad, but the thing staring back at me can’t possibly be me.

I lift my hand to my cheek and gently press the pads of my fingers to the ugly burn. He’s been taking care of my wounds, too, so I never had a need to look.

“I told you not to look,” Damian snaps, almost giving me a heart attack. I yank my hand away from my face. “Come eat.”

I walk to the bed and sit down. I take the paper bag and open it but then I just stare at the sandwich.

My throat swells impossibly thick with unshed tears and my breaths start to race over my parted lips.

I can’t deal with what I just saw in the mirror. It’s not that I’m black and blue, but rather the stark reminder of my time in the container that’s dragging me under.

I fight to keep control of the volcano that’s threatening to erupt inside of me. I sit for a long while just staring at the food before I finally reach into the bag. I eat and sleep, because that’s all I can deal with.

We’ve been staying in the room for four days now. He locks the door when he goes for food and he’s never gone for long. He reads a lot. I don’t ask what.

The TV is always on, murmuring in the background. I don’t ask where we are. I ask him nothing and he says nothing. He’s just there to bring me food and tend to my wounds, and for now I’m happy with that. I don’t think I have it in me to do anything more than the absolute basics.

“Morning, Cara,” Damian breaks the silence on the fifth morning. He sounds different. His voice is deeper and the neutral tone he has been using is gone. I open my eyes and glance up at him. It’s too early for anything.

“Get up. Dress yourself.
We
are going home.” All short sentences so I can’t miss a word.

“What?” I ask anyway.

I have not once looked at his face since the first day in the bathroom. I think it’s the way he wants it, too.

Today, my eyes have a mind of their own and they find his. I remember dead gray eyes. That’s why I’ve been avoiding his face, plus it made the past week easier. They’re still gray, but it looks like there’s a storm brewing in them, something deadly, penetrating and sharp.

I’m scared he can see too much and I drop mine to his neck. A tattoo peeks from the neckline of his shirt. It almost looks like some sort of claw as it slips away into his charcoal shirt.

Then he leans down, resting a hand on either side of my shoulders. My heart stops and I can’t even breathe as I wait for him to make his move.

“It’s time to go. You’re better now. It’s time for you to get on your feet and deal with all the shit that happened.” He says it so callously as if it’s the easiest thing to do.

When he pulls away, I quickly push myself up, not wanting to be cornered like that again. He picks up a bag off the floor. I watch him leave the room, not sure how I feel about leaving this room to go ‘home’ with this man. I’m not sure about anything anymore.

I quickly go to the bathroom. I don’t know where we’re going and when I’ll get to use one again.

I wash my hands and avoid the mirror this time. I walk out into the sleeping area and wait, unsure if I should just go outside.

I wring my hands together and wonder what would happen if I tried to make a run for it. I know he said Uncle Tom sent him, but that doesn’t mean much. He could be one of them, babysitting me until Uncle Tom shows up, and then they kill the both of us. It could be a trap.

Panic starts to build up in me as one dark thought after the other flashes through my mind.

Damian comes back into the room and then he walks right at me. My mind screams at me to move but I freeze like a deer in front of an oncoming truck. He lifts his hands and I flinch, but then I see the sweater. He pulls it over my head and I quickly shove my arms through the sleeves. He takes hold of the hoodie and he covers my head.

“You keep your head down out there. There’s no one outside. It’s a two hour drive home. Don’t even look out the window. It will be better if you just try and sleep all the way home.” He takes hold of my chin and lifts my face to his. My eyes jump to his. “After today this is all over. You get to disappear.”

I swallow. I’m not sure I understand.

“We just need to blend in as best we can so no one looks at us. Almost home.” His mouth twitches at the corner and then he lets go of my chin and he moves to the bed. He grabs a pair of flip flops from the floor. I didn’t even see them there. He walks back to me and then crouches in front of me. “Foot,” he snaps. I lift my left foot and I have to grab for his shoulder so that I don’t fall over. He slips the flip flop onto my foot, and then I quickly slip my right foot into the one he left on the floor, before he can pick it up. I let go of his shoulder and move away from him, my pulse racing from having to touch him. I don’t think there will ever come a time that I’ll trust another human being or feel safe again.

He rises to his full length and then he starts to strip the blankets and sheets from both beds. I watch him wipe the room – everywhere and with such precision it’s scary. I don’t move as he moves through the room and bathroom three times. Shit, this guy is meticulous. He’s making sure we leave nothing behind. “Let’s go,” he snaps once he’s happy with the job he’s done cleaning the room.

I rush out of the room and straight into the cold air. It’s still dark out. I don’t even know what time it is. I wrap my arms around me for some extra warmth.

When Damian’s arm falls over my shoulders, I flinch. He pulls me into his side and then starts to walk. I don’t look up. I keep my eyes on our feet until he pulls at me to stop.

The car is silver, a plain looking sedan type. Everything is plain but him. He nudges me into the passenger seat and I keep my eyes on my feet. I feel the car give under his weight and listen to the motor purr to life.

His movement is sudden as his hand comes at me and I press into the door, turning my face away from him and bracing myself for the impact.

When he places his hand on the headrest, embarrassment and relief courses through me. Our eyes meet for a moment before he looks behind him to back out of the parking. I shoot him an apologetic glance, one he doesn’t even see.

We drive in silence with only the buzzing of other cars and the hum of the wheels breaking the stillness of the night.

We don’t stop once and I don’t look up.

I think a lot.

I remember for the first time, and I don’t have tears to ease the flashes away.

It’s as if the motel was a cocoon of safety from my memories and now that we’ve left, I’m assaulted from all sides.

I remember the smell of the car when Damian put me on the back seat a few days ago. I remember the blankets he covered me with and that he never took them off, not until I woke up in the motel room.

I don’t know how long I was out for the first time, or the second, or until I finally woke up that day.

But I also remember the look in his eyes when he killed them all.

He killed people.

“They’re all dead. You killed them all.” My voice sounds as neutral as his has been the past few days.

“Yes,” he says. It’s all he says.

“Why?” I don’t know why I’m asking. A part of me wants them dead. Another part of me doesn’t want to think of them, doesn’t want to care whether they are breathing or not.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asks. I feel his eyes on me for a moment before he looks back at the road ahead. I look at his hand holding the steering wheel, the other is resting on his thigh. His whole demeanor is casual. Everything - but his eyes.

“Yes,” I whisper. I do want to know why he does what he does, and what exactly he does for a living. 

“I do various things, mostly I track and clean,” he starts. I keep my eyes on his hand, the one on his leg. He doesn’t make a fist; it stays relaxed as if this is just another conversation for him. “People hire me if someone goes missing and I find them before things get ugly. I make sure to remove any evidence that they were ever there, and I take out those responsible so they don’t come back. It’s what I’m good at.”

My eyes glue themselves to his hand. It’s the hand that pulled the trigger. That hand has killed. How many people has he killed? Does he feel remorse? Is he a serial killer and as soon as I let my guard down, will he kill me too?

“Who do you think deserves to die, an innocent child or a drug lord?” he asks me all of a sudden, yanking me from my panicked thoughts.

“Of course not the child,” I mumble from under my breath, aggravated that he even asked me such a thing.

“You or Henry?”

He knows Henry? The information shocks through my body and I clasp my arms tighter around myself. I shake my head not even answering him.

“You or Attridge?” he asks again.

I start to hunch over and wish he would stop now. I don’t want to hear their names. I keep shaking my head.

“You or Steven?”

My body jerks and the old shivering returns. “Stop.” It’s a low growl from the back of my throat.

“I clean up after people. It’s what I do. Your dad and uncle left a mess and I have to clean it up so you can live. You understand that?” He keeps going.

“Stop … the car,” I wheeze the words out and reach for the door as bile pushes up my throat. Shit, I’m going to be sick. My torso convulses and I press my hand to my mouth.

I jerk forward as he quickly brings the car to a stop. A moment later the door opens. It’s already building into my mouth by the time he gets my seatbelt off. I lurch forward and fall onto all fours, heaving over the road. Tears mix with a cold sweat dampening my face, while I heave until all that’s left are weak, dry croaks.