By the time early January reared its head, Livvie and I were starting to settle into being a couple. Granted, we weren’t your average couple, but we were getting comfortable with who we were. The nightmares became less frequent and we attacked each other less often. Livvie let me put it in her ass sometimes (grin).
Naturally, I had to try my best to fuck it all up.
Okay, before I even go on, please let me say I am not proud of what I did next. I was bored and insatiably curious. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not your typical boyfriend material.
It was the first time I’d ever been in Livvie’s apartment alone. She had classes during the day but didn’t have to work in the evening. She asked if I’d be there when she came home and I said yes because it beat being in my hotel room.
The sun flooded Livvie’s apartment. I lay in her bed, smothered in throw pillows of various colors and shapes (Seriously ladies, what the fuck with all the pillows?). I felt especially dirty jerking off in her frilly bed. I was sure to wipe up my come with a fuzzy pink pillow. I hoped it would prompt Livvie to throw the damn thing away.
Afterward, I took a shower, made myself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, and perused the stack of movies Livvie had rented and left on the coffee table. I’d never been the type of man who liked to eat cereal, let alone kid cereal, but Livvie loved the stuff and it was often the only thing I could find in her kitchen. I knew she could cook when she wanted to, but it seemed the mood rarely struck her. Some nights we ate cereal for dinner.
I decided not to watch the movies without Livvie since she seemed to enjoy regaling me with random movie factoids as we watched. I made the mistake of asking why we were watching “Episode IV” instead of starting from the beginning, and what followed was a diatribe about George Lucas and how he ruined Star Wars when he released three prequels. I didn’t much care, but I enjoyed watching Livvie rant about things that weren’t me. What I didn’t much enjoy was the way she stared at me the entire time I watched the movie to gauge my response during “awesome” scenes.
As I sat on the couch eating my cereal, my eyes landed on Livvie’s laptop. It was just sitting on the coffee table—daring me! Livvie was on the thing whenever she had time. I desperately wanted to know what Livvie had been writing and why she was keeping it from me. I remembered the way Livvie had snapped at Claudia to be quiet. Then the way she’d avoided the topic in Paris. It only made me more curious. I determined fairly quickly it had to be about me, us, or better—her.
I shoveled the remainder of my cereal into my mouth and set the bowl on the table. I scooped up the laptop and opened it. A smile curved my lips when I saw her screensaver. It was a picture of me asleep on her couch on Thanksgiving. I was wearing pants, but the photograph focused on my face and naked chest. What a little pervert, taking pictures of me while I’m helpless.
I was prompted for a password. Why did she need a password? Didn’t she trust me? I hope you’re smiling, because I know I am.
Anyway, it took me the better part of the morning, but I finally gained access to Livvie’s laptop. Her password gave me mixed emotions: Survival. If you’re horrified, please consider that I was fully aware Livvie would discover what I’d done. I wasn’t trying to hide my actions. I just wanted to know what the hell was on her laptop and why she chose to keep it from me.
There was a fleeting moment when I considered I might be opening Pandora’s box, but it really was fleeting. I make it my business to know what’s going on around me, and it has saved my ass more than once.
Livvie is very systematic. Her desktop was organized into a series of folders: FLM101, ENG202, HIS152, ART102, School Plan, and most alluring, Captive. One guess as to which folder I opened first? No! Not film.
There were several different documents inside the folder: Caleb, Reed, Sloan, FBI procedures, Mexico, East, Stockholm Syn, Human Traffick, Captive_D1_R2. My fingers began to shake as I hovered over each file. I wondered what I would discover. I wondered if I could process what I’d find. I wondered if I would feel different toward Livvie once I read them. If she was betraying me in some way, did I want to know? I knew already there would be no going back. Ignorance had never served me well.
I tested the waters by opening the document labeled “Sloan”. It contained a description of her appearance and a list of her mannerisms. I found Sloan interesting in a strange sort of way (free-form knitting and interpretive taxidermy? What?). I immediately moved on to the file on Reed.
Height: 6’2’’ Weight: 195? Desc: Pitch black hair that’s a little too long (surprising because of his job and his obvious anal retentiveness). It curls a little around his ears and the nape of his neck. His eyes are dark and expressive due to his dark brows. Clean shaven (very meticulously groomed aside from the hair). His lips (mmmmm). His mouth is warm and he tastes like coffee and mints. Bit of an angry shit when you kiss him unexpectedly (ha!).
Rage hit me fast and hard. Why had she kissed him? What had she really been up to when Reed had come to “check on her”?
I had to stop reading and take a few deep breaths. Livvie wouldn’t betray me. Would she? She obviously hadn’t turned me in. I forced myself to keep reading.
Livvie went on to describe Reed as good looking and sharp witted. I’m fucking good looking and sharp witted! I bet Reed only speaks one language. I’m sharp witted in five!
I moved on to my file. Surely, it had to read better than the one she had on Reed. I recalled Livvie telling me in Mexico that she hoped to write a book one day. She’d also told me the first rule of writing was to write what you know. The thought filled me with foreboding.
The document was longer than the previous two—about three pages. She’d managed a great deal of detail. The description calmed me somewhat. Livvie was very flattering, except I felt she had transformed me from a person into a character, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about being picked apart.
Height: 6’4’’ Weight: 210? Desc: blond hair, Caribbean blue eyes. A full mouth made for kissing. He has a canine tooth that is a bit sharp and slightly out of line with all of this other perfect teeth (the first time I saw him smile). Muscular, but lean—not bulky or overly muscled. His skin is tan from the sun, not a machine. He has almost invisible blond hair everywhere (kissing his back, they stood on end—super soft).
Mannerisms: Caleb always seems to think something is funny or amusing (that ridiculous smirk). His eyes can be beautiful or fucking terrifying (peaceful waters v. dark murky water). His mouth gets tense when he’s pissed and trying not to show it. He scowls a lot and sometimes he does it while he’s smiling, which usually means he’s about to do something especially cruel (that first whipping).
Livvie’s character profile went on and on about me. She wrote down pieces of things she remembered about me. She even went on to describe my dick, what I looked like when I came, and the way I laughed. Had Claudia read these notes? I knew she’d read at least part of Livvie’s story. What the fuck could she possibly have been thinking? I resented taking instant notice of how tight my lips were as I bit down on the tip of my tongue to help calm me down. I laughed bitterly.
I finally opened Captive.
Prologue:
This is not a romance. Romances are filled with valiant men and simpering damsels in distress. Romances have heroes worthy of the title. They slay dragons and climb towers to rescue beautiful princesses they immediately marry and impregnate. Romances end with a happily ever after. This is not a romance.
This is a love story. The characters are flawed to the point of being broken. The hero is beautiful, but ugly in ways that defy the ordinary imagination. The heroine isn’t trapped in a tower, but a dark and lonely room. There is no prince coming to save her. While love blooms and thrives, there is no happily ever after. Love does not always begin or end the way we wish it would.
A love story can happen to anyone. This one happened to me.
The words stirred something inside me. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. Livvie was writing a book about us. Our story was not romance. I was not worthy of being called a hero. I was beautiful on the outside and hideous on the inside. We… didn’t have a happily ever after.
I swallowed hard. I swallowed a few times.
I’d come too far to stop. I kept reading:
I’m hurrying down the sidewalk, trying to get away from the sinister man in the car behind me, when I look up and see him. Perhaps it’s his easy stride, or the way his gaze sweeps past me instead of over me, but for whatever reason, he seems safe. I throw my arms about his waist and whisper, “Just play along, okay?”
He does, and I’m surprised when his arms wrap around me. The moment of danger seems to pass very quickly, but for some reason I don’t want to let go. I feel safe in these arms, and I’ve never really felt safe before. And he smells good, he smells the way I imagine a man should smell—like crisp, clean soap, and warm skin, and a light sweat. I think I’m taking too long to let go, so I release him as though he’s burned me. Then I stare up and acknowledge the angel in front of me. My knees almost buckle.
He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. That includes puppies, babies, rainbows, sunsets, and sunrises. I can’t even call him a man—men don’t look this good. His skin is beautifully tanned, as if the sun itself took the time to kiss his skin to perfection. His muscled forearms are dusted with the same golden hair of his head. And his eyes mimic the blue-green of the Caribbean Sea I’ve only seen on movie posters.
He smiles, and I can’t help but smile, too. I’m a puppet. He pulls my strings. His smile reveals his beautiful white teeth, but also his sharp canine on the left side. His teeth aren’t perfect, and the small imperfection seems to make him more beautiful.
He’s saying something to me, something about another girl, but I refuse to listen.
It was the first time we’d met. She’d felt safe in my arms, never guessing, never knowing what I was about to do to her. Even knowing all the things that happened afterward, the fact we were having a relationship, I felt sick to my stomach over her words. Her choice of phrases made her youth obvious. She’d compared me to puppies, babies, and rainbows. So young and naïve—I’d ruined that.
Livvie’s first draft looked nothing like what you’ve read. She didn’t have my perspective. She didn’t have the knowledge of my thoughts or the things that were in play during those first encounters. The picture she painted was of a sad, lonely girl trapped in a room at the hands of a sadistic monster who cared nothing for her well-being. This was Livvie’s recollection of me.
I read about her kidnapping, living every moment of her fear with her and feeling rage when she talked about Jair slapping her unconscious. It was beyond surreal to read about Livvie’s first impressions of my cold and detached voice as she lay bound and blind in Felipe’s house. She’d thought I was going to rape and kill her. I suppose I knew those things then, but I didn’t care and that was the worst part. I remembered I hadn’t cared. That was the truth about the man I was.
I was a glutton for punishment and I kept reading. To my surprise, I found erotic undertones. While I remembered the moments vividly and with a certain sick fondness, reading them from her point of view was like a knife twisting in my gut. I wasn’t sure if the Livvie I had come to know was honestly the Livvie she had been. Perhaps I had simply altered her to suit me.
I wondered if Livvie had been someone else, a different girl as I had once suggested, if I would have gone through with it and sold her to Vladek. I wondered if Livvie had never gotten away from me, never suffered the encounter with the bikers, if I might have taken this beautiful woman and ruined her. In those moments, I would have done anything to unmake the words in front of me. I didn’t want them to exist. I didn’t want them to be true. With all that I was, I longed to go back to that first day I had met Livvie and make different choices. Yet there was the nagging voice in my head reminding me how far back I’d have to go to undo my mistakes. I would have to go back to the night Narweh beat me and give up my fight to live.
Where would Livvie be in her life if I had just died?
Where would all of the women I had made suffer be? I’d been too late to save Pia Kumar. I’d buried her masters alive next to her so that she might be able to hear their screams.
I had to look away from the screen. I had to set the laptop down and walk onto the balcony for air. My chest felt heavy.
It was no wonder she couldn’t say she loved me. What right did I have to love?
I went inside and wrote her a note.
I read your book. I know you’ll be furious and you have a right. I realize you’ll want to scream at me and you have a right to that as well, but I have to be honest and tell you I’m not sure I can take it just yet. I’ll be at the hotel for a few days. I need to think.
Yours,
Caleb
p.s. I’m sorry for all of it.
I gathered up what meager belongings I had in Livvie’s apartment and locked the door behind me when I left. I was numb and unsure what to do next.
I could barely drive. My attention wasn’t focused on the road, but on Livvie. Why had she let me stay with her? After all the things I had put her through, I couldn’t imagine her reasons for inviting me back into her life. Perhaps it was only that she feared me. Perhaps she only wanted to keep me close and keep an eye on me. It was the smart thing to do. It’s what I would do.
I hated how weak my feelings for her had made me. I was not a sniveling child. I hated the way I felt empty when she wasn’t around. I loathed waiting in my hotel room for her to get out of school or off work. I thought of her as mine. She was mine, and yet I couldn’t touch her where it mattered. I couldn’t touch her heart and force her to give me the things I had stupidly come to need. For a moment… I hated her. I hated loving her.
I’d meant to return to my hotel, but my thoughts took me elsewhere. I’d seen the gym a few times and had even considered going inside, but I ultimately decided against it. I was a violent person. I didn’t think it was a good idea to be around violence. I had apparently changed my mind. My violence needed to be let out.
I parked the vehicle and went inside. I was immediately assaulted by the smell of male sweat. The room practically teemed with body odor. There was no air conditioning, or escalators, or walls lined with treadmills and circuit training machines. This was a real gym. This was a place where men went to commune with the beast that lives in all of us.
Adrenaline found me at last. My heart pounded with it, my fists clenched, my muscles yawned and flexed. I was practically lusting for a fight. I searched the room for someone who might be willing and able to take me on.
“Can I sign you up?” someone asked in Spanish. I turned and glared at the man behind me. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he carried himself with extreme confidence. He was perhaps a little younger than me too, and I thought that added to his demeanor. I took my measure slowly and decided the man was likely a martial artist of some kind—his legs looked capable of snapping bones.
“I’d like to fight,” I said as calmly as I was able. I must not have been very successful in portraying calm because he eyed me somewhat suspiciously.
“English? Okay. I speak little bit. You need…” He struggled for a word but ended up tugging on his clothes.
“I didn’t bring any,” I said. “I don’t need any. Just like this.” I swept my hand across my t-shirt and jeans. I didn’t bother explaining I could speak Spanish. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He smiled and shook his head.
“Fighter? What style?” He walked back toward the front door and into a room on the left. I assumed it was the office. I stepped inside, somewhat annoyed I couldn’t just jump into the action.
“I’m trained.” Rafiq had been a military officer and had given me quite the education. One of my favorite memories was the day I’d finally bested him in hand to hand. He’d taken a big risk teaching me all that he did. Without him I’d have been an illiterate, defenseless whore. It was ironic that the very skills he’d taught me had aided in his demise.
The man at the desk rolled his eyes and muttered about me in Spanish. He thought I was an idiot who’d come to get his ass kicked. He seemed amused by the idea. He grabbed some papers from a printer behind him and placed them in front of me.
“Please to write all your information and sign the bottom. Need identification and money for membership.”
I filled in the necessary information and took out all the cash in my wallet. It was enough to cover my membership for three months. The man at the desk seemed pleased with my payment and stood to shake my hand.
“Carlos.”
Seeing no reason to make a new enemy, I shook his hand and tried out my name.
“James.” I dropped my hand and looked toward the ring. “Can I fight now?”
Carlos shook his head, somewhat exasperated.
“Okay. You fight.” He walked beyond me and I followed him toward the ring. He called out to a nearby fighter. I listened while he informed the man of my intentions. The fighter sized me up and smirked before he informed Carlos he was willing to take me on. Neither of them seemed to think I had any talent.
I paid them little mind as I removed my socks, shoes, and shirt. I didn’t care how the fight was going to go. I only cared about hitting. I accepted the ill-fitting mouth guard handed to me and put it in my mouth. I also took heed and wore the required headgear.
Within minutes, I stood in the ring across from Fernando. I thought we were fairly matched. He was a touch shorter than me, but his muscles were bulkier and more defined. I knew his fighting style involved the use of his legs as he stretched them, bending his feet toward his ass.
I rolled my head and shoulders, shaking my arms out. I bounced on the balls of my feet, warming my muscles as much as I could in the short span of time I’d given myself to prepare. I held no illusions about not getting hit. In fact, I craved the blows that would soon land on me. I knew they would incense me. I knew they would trigger the rage I’d been keeping locked inside. I knew once the rage took over, all thoughts of Livvie would cease. I knew the pain inside would yield to the pain on the outside.
Carlos called us toward the center and went over the rules for my benefit: No gouging, biting, breaking of bones, hits to the groin, head-butting, or fighting after the bell. There were more rules than I was used to, but then again I’d never fought anyone but Rafiq for fun. Even then, I was learning survival. Implicit in the rules, but not necessary for anyone but me, was one more rule: No killing.
Fernando and I nodded at one another and took one or two steps back from the center. Carlos left the ring and took a position not far away. He rang the bell. The man opposite me was not eager. Despite the smirk and overconfidence he displayed, he took the time to circle the ring and gauge my strengths. I did the same.
It erupted quickly. For all that I was expecting a kick from his powerful legs, I was caught off guard when he simply rushed me with the full force of his body. He lifted me and threw my back into the corner. A knee came up and landed on my ribs. My breath left me in a rush.
My hands free, I joined them together and hit him in the junction between neck and shoulder. He took a step back and I landed another blow in the same spot before I had enough room to lift my right leg and push him back. He smiled and made a motion with his upraised hands: Come on.
He’d winded me and I had barely done anything to convince him I was a worthy opponent. It was a situation I intended to remedy quickly. I came at him with a series of kicks that he met easily enough. I came at him with so many kicks he diverted his attention from my hands and I made my move. I punched him in the side of the neck with my left, stepped in, and sent an elbow to his temple with my right. He lost enough of his balance I was able to hook one of his legs and push him to the mat.
Fernando was a skilled fighter and the attack did not daze him for long. He quickly rolled, catching me with his powerful legs and flinging me to the mat. His foot came up and his heel landed on my back with impressive force. The gym seemed to come to life in those moments as others began to gather around the ring. They cheered for Fernando.
On the mat, we grappled, each of us avoiding an arm around the neck or an arm grab that would undoubtedly lead to a painful submission hold. The bell rang before either of us was willing to surrender our position.
“Separate!” called Carlos. I kicked Fernando off of me and scrambled to my feet. We stared at one another and heaved for breath. Carlos was laughing and remarked that I had more fight than he thought.
Fernando told me not to get too excited. He’d been taking it easy on me but was ready to kick my ass just as soon as Carlos rung the bell.
I took off my headgear and threw it outside the ring. Mimicking Fernando’s hand gesture from earlier, I raised my hands and told him to kick my ass if he thought he could. Everyone seemed pleasantly surprised by my ability to speak Spanish. Everyone except Fernando. He removed his own headgear and tossed it. Carlos rang the bell.
Fernando rushed again, but I was ready this time. I waited until he was within arm‘s reach and used his momentum against him. I stepped to the side, caught his neck with my arm and jumped on his back. We went down with a loud thud as I rode Fernando to the ground. With my knees firmly planted in his sides, I went to work punching Fernando in the face before he covered himself. My hands throbbed with pain after colliding with bone.
Fernando rolled, knocking me to the side, and delivered a backward kick that landed between my shoulder blades. I cried out, my hands scrambling for purchase on the other man’s sweaty flesh. Wearing jeans had been a mistake. The fabric trapped me. Two more kicks landed on my back and I saw spots.
The fight had gone from a sparring match to an earnest struggle. Fernando scrambled to get on my back, his arms trying to wind their way around my neck. I kept my arm up to protect my windpipe.
A familiar feeling spread throughout my body. Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was winning. A fist collided with the side of my face and my teeth bit down hard on the mouth guard. I could taste blood in my mouth.
“You can’t kill me, Khoya. I’m a god here.”
I gritted my teeth and pushed with all my strength on the arm attempting to circle my neck. Fernando’s arm trembled and eventually he was forced to readjust his position on my back. The bell rang and Carlos yelled for us to separate, but neither of us listened. I refused to be saved by the bell for a second time.
I pushed myself up with my arms, exposing my neck to Fernando in a way he couldn’t resist. As he wrapped his arm around my neck, his face pressed to the side of my own, I reached behind his head with one arm and grasped my other hand. I squeezed. Fernando grunted into my ear. I crushed his windpipe with my shoulder as I pressed him from behind.
With each of us having the other by the throat, it became a test of endurance. Fernando’s position was better than mine, but he was used to fighting for sport. I was accustomed to fighting to live. I squeezed until my shoulders burned. I had run out of oxygen long ago and black spots invaded my vision. But I held on. I held on until I felt Fernando sag against me, only seconds before I blacked out.
I was jolted into consciousness by a forceful slap and cold water being splashed on my face. Carlos’ angry glare was all I needed to realize what had happened. I looked beyond him to watch as another man treated Fernando to the same. He sat up with a cough and rubbed at his neck.
“I knew you were a troublemaker when you walked in,” Carlos said in Spanish. “Get dressed and get the fuck out.” He stood and tossed my shirt onto my chest. I pulled it on and stood as quickly as I was able.
“Good fight,” I managed through a strained throat. “We’ll do it again.” Fernando managed to smile and nod as I turned to leave the ring.
I grabbed my socks and shoes and left without putting them on. The cold was bracing as I walked toward my car, but I didn’t mind. It was the only thing keeping me upright. I knew I’d be bruised to hell in the morning. At last, something felt normal.
I managed to get back to the hotel before the first stirrings of bruised muscle, scraped flesh, and weary bones had me longing for the comfort of a hot bath. Slowly, I eased my body into the water. It stung viciously. I put ice on my face. No one could accuse me of being pretty at that moment.
