"How was your patient," he asks with a wry grin.
The side eye I send his way must convey what words never could. While Rave wasn't the worst he could be, he certainly has room for improvement.
God's eyes darken and he adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders back. My back straightens when I catch his expression. Something in me just wants to please him and the look on his face has the hair on the back of my neck standing at attention. The man must have been a teacher before he took up a life of crime. The way he corrected me with just a look, that takes experience.
"Figures," he says almost disappointed. "You look bored. Sorry about that. We don't really have much in terms of entertainment."
"It's fine, really. I've trying become some kind of solitaire expert," I say with a thin smile and awkward laugh, all teeth and gums. "Figured I should brush up on some kind of new skill since I'm pretty sure I'm fired. Card shuffling and counting have to be needed somewhere. Maybe I'll try my hand in casinos. Far away from here. A new life, a new me," I sigh wistfully.
Although the idea sounds great, I can never leave. Being that far from Rachel would kill me. Even the closest casinos in Louisiana or Oklahoma are too far away. I'd never forgive myself if she needed me and I couldn't get back in time, not that she would blame me. Always telling me to seek out my own adventures, she would be proud as long as I was living and not running. I'm not even sure I know what living really is. Shackled to Colt, he limited me so much for so long.
"Wouldn't be the first time would it?" He asks and I freeze even though his words aren't accusatory, just curious.
Playing it off is my first instinct, but from what I know of God, he wouldn't fall for my lie. He may allow it for the moment, but he won't forget it and there's just something in me that hates the thought of lying and disappointing him.
"Do I have to answer," I ask, peering up at him through my eyelashes.
"I'll never make you do anything Calista. I will however ask you to try." Sitting down on the couch, he seems so much more approachable than when he was standing over me. It no longer feels like an interrogation, more like a conversation between friends.
"I'd rather not," I whisper. "If that's alright. It's not a happy story," I say, that painted on smile returning to my face though it never touches my eyes. It's silly, the need to smile despite how I may feel. That grin and bare it attitude has been drilled into me though and no matter how much of my old self I've shed over the years, I think that part may be here to stay.
"Not all stories are," he responds and I force myself to look into his eyes, seeing a reflection that tells me so much more than his words.
"Just know that it's not because I don't trust you," I start.
He arches one of his thick brows at that.
Fair point.
"Okay, I trust you not to hurt me." I look down and see the bruises Pretty Boy left on my skin. "Too much," I amend with a flush of my cheeks. "But trusting you guys with any more than that, I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for."
God takes a second before he answers, fully taking in everything I've said. Colt never really listened. Oh, he nodded along when I spoke and would look at me, but he never really heard me. I doubt he ever really did, but as time went on, he stopped trying to pretend.
"I get it. Just know that the hard stories are usually the ones most in need of telling."
His scars stretch over his neck as he talks, the skin stitched together like a human patchwork quilt. "Will you ever tell me yours," I quip back.
The grin that spreads over his face could stop traffic on I35 in the middle of rush hour with minimal horn honking. "Alright. I'll tell you mine when you tell me yours," he says, leaning in close to where I can't mistake the hunger for anything else. "I can't wait."
"There was something I've been meaning to ask. A pen and paper. You can look over it. I'm just worried. My aunt and I talk every day. She must be going crazy worrying over me and a note could make it better. I need her to know I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere or worse," I plead. "Please," I add.
"No promises it'll get sent, but I'll see what I can do," he says before taking off for the kitchen. He returns shortly with a crayon and a piece of lined paper. Seeing my stunned expression at the crayon, his mouth twists into an amused smirk. "Can't take any chances Calista. It's a crayon or nothing."
I take the offered crayon and paper. Hard to be picky when he didn't have to give me anything at all. At least it's purple, my favorite color.
"Fine. Thank you," I say, truly grateful that he's even entertaining the thought of letting me contact Rachel in any way. "Sir," I add at that last minute, loving the little hitch in his breath at the honorific. He never crosses the line, not like Dario and Jaxson, but stays within sights of it all the same. I just know it'll be explosive if he ever does.
"I'll leave you to it," he clears his throat before heading off towards his room. I track him as he leaves, his jeans tight in all the right places.
I am no better than a man.
The task before me is daunting. Convey to Rachel that it is both really me and that I'm okay without spilling any details about the guys or where I am. Neither is easier than the other. Say something that obviously sounds like a code and the note is going to get thrown out. Too wooden and Rachel is likely to join the cavalry, convinced I'm being held at gunpoint and being fed a script to write down. Not my goal at all.
Ugh. Time to buck up Callie Jean. Despite my mother's strict parenting, my name pointed to a small Marilyn Monroe fascination. I can only hope to live a life with a better end than the gorgeous starlet.
Staring at the paper doesn't make the words appear, much to my disappointment. Neither does twirling the crayon around in my fingers or humming any number of songs that flit through my head. No pressure or anything. It's not as if my letter will be any kind of reassurance to the most important person to me, whose health is already fragile. Yeah, no pressure at all. Think brain, think.
I've got it. When in doubt, go with The Doctor.
Still not Ginger, Aunt Rae. I'm not gonna bother trying to set your mind at ease and say everything is good. You know it isn't otherwise I'd be talking to you in person instead of through this letter.
I really should cut out some of the chatter before I run out of space, but I am who I am. Plus crayon isn't exactly designed to be erasable.
Other than the whole kidnapping situation, I'm fine.
I could smack myself. Other than the kidnapping? As if it's such an insignificant event. Lord never let my notes be kept as historical record. I'd either be seen as some tragic figure or some strong heroine that something as small as a kidnapping didn't faze me. Both things are so far from the truth. I just am. Yeah, there's been some harder parts of my life, but I think that's everyone. Life is only perfect in pictures. It's all about how you rise from the fires that strive to burn you.
I'm being treated well. No need for red lipstick just yet.
I chuckle at the thought. Even Rave isn't worthy of me earning the shade.
I want to get home. I do. I'm just worried that all the news will see is Calista, victim and not Callie, me.
Please understand what I'm trying to say. She loves puzzles and hopefully I've dropped enough clues for her to decipher this one. My words won't stay between us. They'll be read by the guys, Rachel, and probably the authorities. Hell, that has me more worried than anything. They could just as easily end up in his hands and the less he knows about the guys or where we are, the better. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, I can't leave and even if I could, I'm not sure I'm any safer out there than I am down here.
I can't count on the same benevolence twice to help me disappear. It was a long shot the first time.
The guys haven't exactly been giving me regular updates on what's going on in the world. I don't even know who's investigating my disappearance and I don't see them being eager to share if I asked. Don't need to give Rave any more reasons to be suspicious of my presence.
I love you. Save me a glass of whiskey when I get home. Miss you loads. I don't want to go, but I must.
I sign off with a bit of the tenth doctor's last words, my favorite. I finish it with a poor attempt at a smiling me drawing. A kindergartener could do a better job, but we all have our strengths. The arts have never been mine.
The crack as I roll my neck is surprising. Guess I've been hunched over the note longer than I thought. I didn't even hear God leave.
Stretching my arms over my head helps get the blood flowing again. My feet are asleep below me and as always, the waking up is just this side of painful. Anyone who says different is a liar.
I look over the note again. "This is trash, but the best I can do at the moment," I mutter. It's not as if I have a ton of practice writing letters. I doubt anyone my age does. "Ugh," I groan, the frustration bleeding out of me. I don't know why this is the straw that breaks the camel's back, but it is. A stupid letter, written out in crayon with my terrible penmanship. Or would it be crayonmenship? Either way, it's representative of the lack of control of my life.
I'm barely in control of my feelings. It's impossible to know if the connections I'm forming are real or just a product of my captivity. The odds of any of these guys even looking my way in the outside world are laughable. Pretty Boy would just have to exist to have girls falling over him. Dario's cute and so easy to be with, the women around here would eat him alive. With Rave's accent and body, somebody's mama would already have the wedding planned if he said hello and smiled. God, well that man has tall, dark, and handsome written all over him with a dangerous edge that would have him snatched up in a heartbeat.
I'm just me. I don't even have a real hobby. I can't knit, crochet, or paint. I can only cook three things that aren't frozen and the idea of going out regularly makes me break out in hives.
Any interest in me has to be based off proximity. With options, I would never be their choice. Maybe Rave has the right idea. I am just an unwelcome guest. The sooner I get that through my head, the easier this will all be. No feelings, no pain.
If only I could get my heart to believe that.