Chapter 3 - Clover
CHAPTER 3 - CLOVER
B eing blindfolded and sitting in the dark below ground means it's impossible to tell how much time has passed since the man left me down here. Every once in a while, I'll hear a creak upstairs, but that's it. It's been a long time, though. I know this because my lips are so dry they're cracking and I'm so thirsty, even if the gag wasn't in my mouth, I doubt I could even swallow because the rag, which smells and tastes like turpentine, is sucking up all saliva inside my mouth so there isn't a drop of moisture.
I need a plan. I need to figure a way out of this because my interactions with him probably total up to two minutes and in those two minutes he threatened to kill me three times.
I'm just gonna kill you and stuff your dead body into that trailer you were hauling.
You'll sit down here in this little dungeon until some unsuspecting construction worker finds your dead and decaying body six months from now .
Both of those were bad, but it was the middle one that really jolted me into compliance. I'll just push you . Meaning down the stairs.
I would die. I would break my neck if he pushed me down those stairs. And even though the other two were more vulgar, they were abstract. More of a warning than an immediate threat.
The stairs were right in front of me and the action he would take was seconds away.
Focus, Clover , I tell myself. Because the other two threats might have only been a warning, but there's something in this man's voice that tells me he's totally serious. He's here for a reason and if I get in his way, he's not going to hesitate.
You're not gonna fuck up what I'm doing . He said that too. You're just not .
I'm not getting out of here alive. Even if I do comply with everything he tells me to do. Maybe I don't live in Disciple anymore, but I've heard my share of what's been going on up here since Collin Creed came back to town.
First Lowyn was in danger, then Rosie. And it's all because of some place up in the hills that I didn't even know existed, but is suddenly involved in some very serious shit.
Lowyn didn't tell me much about what happened to her up in some remote village in the mountains, but she said more than enough for me to figure out that it's got something to do with Collin and what he's been doing these past twelve years.
That was bad enough, but I don't live here anymore and I'm not involved in the daily life of Disciple, so it was easy to forget about it. Until Rosie's son was kidnapped and that too had something to do with Collin.
Now this strange man is squatting in my half-renovated home and he tells me he's here to do a job. There's no way this has nothing to do with Collin Creed's return.
I don't even know what he was up to all those years he was gone and Lowyn wouldn't go into details about that either, but it's gotta be bad.
Which means I need to be smart or I'll end up the next girl in trouble.
Hell, Clover, who are you kidding? You are the next girl in trouble! You're gagged, and bound, and in a secret basement. If you don't get out of here before this man finishes whatever it is he's doing, you probably won't get out of here at all.
This is when the danger of my situation turns into something very real and my heartrate kicks up, thumping in my chest. My hands begin to shake behind my back. Then my whole body is trembling, like I'm freezing cold, but actually, I'm so hot that sweat is dripping all down my body. My head starts pounding.
Take deep breaths, Clover. Take deep breaths. You're going to give yourself a heart attack if you don't try and calm down and be rational.
I've heard of people dying of fright, but never thought it was true. But the way I feel right now, I can easily see myself going into cardiac arrest over this because I can't stop shaking.
I breathe like I'm in a yoga class. Long breaths in, controlled breaths out. And after a little while of this, the shaking starts to subside. I still feel like I'm cold, but at least my muscles are no longer on the verge of spasming.
Once my body calms down, I work on my mind. Because that's the danger. The mind is where fear lives. Fear leads to panic and panic leads to mistakes.
I can't afford to make a mistake. Not when my kidnapper is throwing gruesome threats around like confetti.
I breathe for a little longer as I try to envision the room around me. It's been a long time since I've been down here, but it hasn't changed. And it's not part of the reno. I would never renovate this room. It's a piece of history.
There are four windows. Two of them are underground now though, covered up with flower-bed dirt. The other two are boarded up. So even if I could get my hands free, I doubt I'd be able to get out one of those windows without a hammer to pry the nails off first.
So the only way out is up the stairs. And there's no point in getting up the stairs if I can't open the trapdoor. And right now I can't because I have no hands and there's a latch you have to release before pushing on it.
That leaves… him. I need him to open the door. Then I need him to come down here so I can… what? What could I do? Kick him in the face, stun him, then make a run for it?
Even if I could kick him that hard, I don't think I'd make it. I had a pretty good head start that last time and he caught up with me frighteningly fast.
It's not going to work. He's stronger than me, he's bigger than me, and he's got all the control.
The only weapon I have is psychology.
I took a psych class in college as an elective. But honestly, as a woman, I don't need a psych class to get the best of a man. If… that man is interested in me.
I might not be as pretty as Lowyn or as cute as Rosie, but I'm definitely an eight. At the very least, a seven point five. And that's just regular old me when I'm not trying to save my life with flirting.
This guy is my age. Maybe a little bit older, but not much. He's young. Which means, like all men, he's horny and his dick controls his life.
If I want to control him, then all I have to do is control his dick.
He might be a ruthless piece of shit, but all men are the same. A pretty woman with a hot body can make them do just about anything.
I spend a little while trying to make a plan for how I'll flirt with him without him knowing. Winning this game, and saving my life, depends on deception. I need him to believe that I'm really interested in him and from what I've seen so far, he's a rather suspicious guy. It can't be obvious. In fact, I need him to feel like it's his idea to like me. He needs to fall for me first before I flirt.
Then, and only then, will he care about my wellbeing.
So I spend a good amount of time trying to come up with ways to play on his sympathy while simultaneously looking hot and turning him on.
There's one problem with this line of thinking. I am an eight on my best days. A seven point five on my down days. But this isn't a down day, this is like… the worst day of my frickin' life. There's nothing sexy about being sweaty, and smelly, and bloody. And I know I'm bloody because I hit my head when he threw me into the closet upstairs, then again outside in the flower bed, and a third time when I tripped on the rug down here.
I can't be sure that I've got a goose egg on my forehead, but I suspect that's the cause of my pounding headache.
A burst of inspiration hits me. Maybe I could win him over by making him feel sorry for me?
Yes! I will use sympathy to play up my hotness.
But he hasn't come back. What if he never comes back? I need to get his attention. Which feels like an impossible feat when my mouth is gagged and my hands are tied. I won't even get a chance to put my plan in motion if I can't get his attention.
The only thing I've got going for me is that my feet are free.
I squirm around, trying to get up on my knees again, but my shoulders are so sore now, every time I move a painful twinge shoots up my arm.
I can rotate my body though, so that's what I do. Then I place my bare feet against the cabin wall and kick.
The noise this produces is a dud. It's not even a thud. I forgot that the walls are made of logs and mortar, which makes it feel a bit like kicking cement. And the sound doesn't carry. There's no way he can hear it from upstairs.
I picture the room again and decide the only thing I can kick are the stairs. And they are like ten feet away. But this is literally my only option, so I slowly begin scooting my body in that direction.
It takes forever to move inches. My shoulders hurt so bad and my headache is now a migraine. I'm out of breath too. Because this stupid rag is blocking half my airway and soon, I'm gasping through my nose.
I have to stop and rest every minute or two, so I'm sure it's actually hours later when I'm in position at the bottom of the stairs with my bare heels propped up on the lowest step. I rest, then wake up with a jolt and realize I fell asleep.
For how long? Who knows?
I feel like I've been in this basement for weeks at this point. Surely my three days are over. Which means he's gone. He's left me here.
I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of these unproductive negative thoughts, and then raise my feet and bring them both down on the step with as much force as I can muster.
It does make a good, loud sound. So I pause, listening for footsteps above.
Nothing.
I do it again. Harder this time.
But there's no sound from above.
I pound my feet again, and again, and again but if he hears it, he ignores it. Because he doesn't come. So much time passes as my pounding continues, I fall asleep from utter exhaustion. Only to wake up and do it all again.
Months have passed at this point. I'm sure of it.
My lips and mouth are so dry now, the corners become painful cracks and I taste blood.
I cry, sobbing into the smelly rag as the tears streak down my cheeks, and I wish that one of them would drip into my mouth, but they don't. They only find the cracked corners of my lips and make them burn.
I sleep again, then wake up.
And I decide this is it. One more try and then I'll give up. I'll just stay here and die of thirst. And my body will rot, and decay, and some unsuspecting construction worker will find me months from now.
My feet come down one last time, making the loudest thud so far, and as the pain shoots up my legs the trapdoor above me opens.
I feel him before he speaks.
An angry presence.
He's not going to help me and I've got no chance in hell of tempting him with my womanly ways to earn his sympathy.
So I just cry.