Page 90 of His Captive

My name rings out from the top of the stairs. When I turn around and look up at Ethan, all I can do is watch as he rushes the stairs toward me. He charges forward, his eyes hungry and determined as he cages me against the door, preventing me from leaving.

I don’t have a chance to protest, because his lips slam hard on to mine, and I can't stop myself from sinking into them, opening my lips and letting his tongue take over my mouth.

His hands frame my face. Holding me as though he’ll never let me go, while his lips move against mine and his tongue slides across the roof of my mouth.

He steals all the breath from my body and replaces it with his own. And when he finally pulls away, he takes a step backward and pushes his hands through his hair, shock on his face like he’s just done something unimaginable.

When his eyes pick up from the floor and meet mine, I see the need in them. Ethan Shaw has just given me the final part of himself.

“Ask me to keep you,” he says, trying his best to sound controlled.

I shake my head, my cheeks beginning to feel heavy.

“Lysetta, I belong to you now, so, ask me to fucking keep you.” His pain seems to be turning to anger, and I see how venom mixing with sadness forms tears in his eyes.

It’s too much.

I fumble behind me for the door handle, pulling it down and feeling it open. Then taking one last look at him, I run.

Three months later

“Come on it will be fun.” Lucy slams the flyer onto the bar.

“Not my thing.” I look at her unconvinced.

“Have you ever even done karaoke?” She asks, resting her hand on her hip.

“No, but I already know it would be horrific. Especially if you’re the one singing.”

“Oi.” She swipes at me with a cloth she pulls from her apron.

“I’ll have you know, me and Ian do a fabulous Black-Eyed Peas. Don’t we?” she calls over to the bar, where Ian is stocking up the fridge ready for another busy night.

“Sure do, honey. We’d be even better if you let me be Fergie once in a while.” He rolls his eyes.

I chuckle at them both, and finish wiping off the table, while Lucy dusts out the ashtrays and puts out a fresh bowl of nuts. We move to the next one and I lift the local paper from the table and hand it to her so I can wipe it off.

“He is so fucking hot,” she says dreamily.

“Who, Ian?” I look over to the bar, to where he’s swinging his bar towel over his head, thrusting his hips like he’s Freddie Mercury.

“No, stupid. Ethan Shaw.” His name sends a shiver through me, as she smacks the paper back down on the table. And there he is, staring back at me. He’s standing outside the new hospital wing. Scissors in hand and shaking the senator’s hand. My knees feel like they will give out beneath me and I hold onto the table to steady myself.

“You ok, doll? You’ve gone awful pale. Don’t tell me you’re coming down with that bug that’s been going around. Celina will go crazy if I call her in on her night off.”

“No, I’m fine. I just went a little hot for a moment.” I pull myself back together.

“Well…” She looks back down to the paper. “I guess that’s what Ethan Shaw will do to a gal” she laughs.

The girl has no fucking idea.

It’s another late one at the bar and my feet are killing me by the time I make it home. When I open my apartment door I almost trip over the pot waiting on the doorstep. I smile to myself as I pick it up, unlocking the door, and pushing it open with my shoulder. Mrs. Rodgers always leaves me something on the nights I work. She tells me it ‘gives her a reason to cook decent meals, and not live on that microwave shit’ if she’s cooking for two people. I flick on the light and stick the pot in the oven to warm it up.

When I back towards the door I see it sitting prominently on the door mat, I must have walked right over it on the way in. It’s a thick carded envelope, my name and address written in his handwriting on the front. I don’t open it. I never open his letters, I’m all about moving forward these days. I’ve seen for myself what living in the past can do to someone. I keep myself busy because if I stop and think for too long, it hurts bad enough to make me want to go back.

I pick up the card and throw it straight in the trash before I become tempted to read it.

Three months I’ve worked at getting over him. And I’m still just as cut up as I’d been the day I left. I’ve found friends, got myself a job that insures I’m surrounded by people, I even volunteer in the oncology ward. But nothing seems to fill his void.

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