Lost (Captive Heart #1) Page 6

  Char laughs. Like really laughs. Genuine, rolling belly laughs.

  “Oh God, Tucker. Are you serious? There is no way that will work!”

  I feel defensive and furious now, with her sitting there laughing at me.

  “Shut up!” I slam my fist into the side of one of the bunks and Char goes quiet as a church mouse. Now I’ve got her attention.

  “They’re not going to give you anything.” She talks to the hands folded in her lap.

  “I know it’s not the best plan, but it gets us both out of this. So why the hell not?”

  Char looks at me, her brown eyes holding back tears. “I haven’t spoken to my parents in more than a year. So they’re not riding in to save me from a deranged lunatic. They probably will think it’s all a big joke. You couldn’t pull it off anyway.”

  Huh? I mean, I knew Char’s home life wasn’t amazing, but it seems strange that she hasn’t talked to her parents in over a year. But she’s right, this idea is stupid at best. Fucking tragic fail at worst. It was bound to end up with me dead or imprisoned at the end of it.

  I abandon the notion and go back to my cabin, not caring if she’s quietly weeping into her hands.

  15

  Charlotte

  The first week passes and no one comes to get me. And then another passes, and still, no one comes. It’s just me and Tucker, out in the woods. Alone.

  We haven’t said much since that night he talked about his injury. A passing statement, a check-in, an invitation to take part in whatever meal the other was making.

  I find more clothing, not any that fits me but some that will do so I don’t have to try and wash them every single day. I found the laundry room though, which is nice so we won’t have to be dirty as criminals on the run, which technically is only one of us.

  The toughest part of being “trapped” here, besides the awkward past with Tucker I am trying not to fake, is showering. Each cabin has a shower, which is nice enough not to have to go to a main bathhouse like the camp used to have back in the day. The problem is, old Pocono Mountain pipes in October don’t carry scalding hot water. They don’t even carry lukewarm water.

  I remember the first day I stepped in the shower, intent on washing all of the dirt and sadness off of my body, and screamed like a hyena. Tucker had come running in, yelling my name, and had almost opened up the bathroom door before I stopped him.

  “It’s just the water temperature,” I’d said, “I’m really fine!”

  He’d probably thought I was being murdered instead of having liquid ice pelted at my naked skin by the way I’d screamed.

  I keep my distance and Tucker doesn’t seem all that interested in approaching me. There is still no plan, and I still have no real desire to escape. It sounds crazy, fucking nuts, but I simply have nothing to get back to. The only person I’ve ever truly loved is here, and while I know it is under the most dire of circumstances, and that I would never allow him close to me again … I can’t help it. I am a moth drawn to the flame.

  The moonlight filters in through the window of cabin three and I hear a wolf or another creature howl somewhere far in the distance. I’ve taken to sleeping on the floor, on top of a stack of the flimsy, thin mattresses with my sleeping bag thrown over me. It’s not half-bad.

  And like all nights, I lie awake wondering what Tucker is doing over there. What he’s feeling, what he’s thinking.

  I remember the day he got hurt. I was watching on TV, just like I always did, while I studied in my dorm room at Bryn Mawr. It’s not like I had anywhere else to be on a Saturday afternoon. My stigma had followed me to college. Aside from my serious boyfriend, whom I’d met sophomore year, I had no real friends. Clark and my academics, those were my world. And Saturdays with Tucker. Not that Clark knew anything about that.

  I remember when he went down, the way it looked so horrible on television. I remember biting my lip so hard when I screamed that it bled for ten minutes. I remember sitting directly in front of the screen, crying for him. Because even I could tell it was all over. I remember cancelling plans with Clark that night, too depressed to go anywhere and paste a smile on. I’d told him I had a virus.

  It was such a shame. That he’d felt that his whole life was over at that moment.

  He’d tried to kiss my forehead the other day. No he had kissed it. Why the hell did he have to do that?

  I don’t even think he knew the power he had over me. Back in the day, he could have looked at me and motioned with this finger and I would have come crawling. I did do that. Over and over again. So desperate for him to love me back.

  Footsteps on gravel have me jarring awake, my surroundings confusing me for the first second until I remember where I am. I move to the window of the cabin, catching the motion of a person as they run by.

  Wait. Not a person. The only person. Tucker.

  And he’s … running.

  Over the last two weeks, although we haven’t really spoken to each other, I have noticed his complexion getting better. His cheeks filling out as he wolfs down more and more food. His body getting stronger. Yeah, I’ve definitely noticed that.

  But this is the first time I’ve seen him do any kind of physical activity. As I watch him wind his way through the paths around Camp Marsh, his wild brown curls jumping and swaying with each movement, it’s clear that this is also his first time getting back into any kind of physical activity.

  He looks disjointed; the athlete I once knew has all but left his body. Sure, he still has the stature and the muscle definition, but he doesn’t cut through the air anymore, he doesn’t move with beautiful but strong grace. His body isn’t cooperating, his arms moving out of sync with his legs.

  And his knee. I can tell its lagging behind, that left leg dragging just a little too long on each stride.

  But at least Tucker is trying. My chest swells with emotion, as I’m sure this is the first time he’s tried at anything in years.

  I shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t even go outside, but of course my stupid, proud heart doesn’t listen to a damn thing my head is screaming at it.

  I venture out onto the porch of the cabin, standing and squinting at the bright morning rays reflecting off the lake. Tucker is just rounding the path back towards the mess hall, and I know he can see me now.

  “You look great!” I wave like an incessant child. Jesus, I’m already embarrassing myself.

  Tucker stops short, the sweats he found fitting his body in all of the right places. Way better than the ones I found look on me. His midnight-black eyes are sparkling, there is a glow to his olive skin. I can make out the brawny, built muscles coming back to his figure. It’s a wonder I don’t melt into a puddle of idiotic goop on the porch.

  “I feel great. A little slow, but good. How did you … uh, sleep?”

  I think he’s doing that trying thing again. “Great, actually. It’s so quiet out here. Not that it’s not quiet in Lancaster but you know—“

  The sound of an engine cuts through all of that silence I was just blabbing on about.

  In less than a second, Tucker is on me, his hand covering my mouth so tight I can barely breathe as he backs us up into cabin three. He maneuvers my body, shoving me hard against the back wall while his hand stays clamped on my mouth.

  “Make a sound and I will knock you out.”

  His voice is deadly and my heart plummets to my feet. Not only does he not trust me, but this just cements into my head why I’m actually here with him.

  He’s taken me against my will. He’s not flirting, he’s not pursing anything with me. I am a victim. He is the bad guy.

  I can feel my blood pressure rising, feel the fury creep its way up my throat.

  After the sounds of the boat die down, Tucker waits an extra five minutes to finally remove his hand from over my lips.

  “Jesus fuck, I am such a goddamn idiot!” I stomp across the cabin, furious at myself for reverting back to the way I acted when I was seventeen years old.

  Tu
cker looks confused. “What the hell?”

  “Here I am, falling into the same old traps. Tucker Traps. That should be your invention or something because God, you’re so good at it. You get everyone to play into your little charades. You’ve got me practically supporting and encouraging you, eating out of your goddamn hand just like I used to. But that was before you FUCKING KIDNAPPED ME!”

  “Hey, now come on, I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.”

  “I don’t care if your head was in outer space, you took me from my job at gunpoint, threatened to kill me, and are now holding me hostage. And silly little Charlotte, here she is acting like she’s on vacation! You probably think you’ve got me right where you want me, huh? Not this time!”

  I stomp out of the cabin, or at least I try to. Tucker grabs my arm, swinging me back around to face him again before he pins me to another wall.

  “I haven’t said it yet, but I’m saying it now. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I dragged you into this mess, Charlotte. It’s eating me up inside that it was you in that bank. That I could have gone so far as to hurt you. You know me, you know the real me, the sane me, would have never done that.”

  I don’t look him in the face, instead turning my head like some insolent child. He doesn’t try to make me look into his eyes, just keeps going.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about with this whole manipulation business. The only thing I’ve asked is that you don’t leave, and you know why you can’t. I haven’t made you do or say anything besides that. I’ve never trapped you or played you, or whatever you’re going on about.”

  I can’t stand to listen to him downplay it any longer. “Oh no? You don’t remember why we stopped talking all those years ago?”

  Tucker’s face looks completely blank for a moment, and then his cheeks redden and he has the decency to look ashamed. “Char, I—”

  “Yeah. So don’t fucking lie to me and say you never played me.”

  16

  Tucker

  Eight Years Ago

  Fucking asshole.

  I slammed my way out of my house and started down the driveway, pissed off and seeing red.

  That prick. Why did I have to get stuck with such a prick for a father?

  “Second rate college,” my ass. I’d worked my ass off in high school to get where I was today, and UConn was a damn good school with a damn good football program. Sure, it wasn’t Texas or Ole Miss, but there were so many players in the NFL who came from schools no one had ever heard of. Or seen play in a BCS bowl game.

  It didn’t matter what he said anyway. UConn was one of the only Division I schools that wanted me, and I’d made my decision. I was verbally committed. I wasn’t changing my mind now. He always accused me of being a quitter, why wasn’t he pleased with this decision?

  Because he was never fucking pleased.

  I walked aimlessly through the neighborhood, pacing the sidewalk until I decided to head over to the playground. I stepped into the Morsey’s backyard, thinking about a time so long ago when I’d sat with Char on the back steps. Now we were all but strangers. My fault really.

  Something rustles in the grass as I walk through their lawn. Staring out into the middle of it, I see Char there, lying flat on her back with a book held up over her face. She was reading.

  My sneaker must scuff on something in the grass, because Char glances up, her expression turning from calm to irritated in two seconds flat.

  “What are you doing?” I don’t miss the annoyance in her tone.

  “Just passing through. What are you reading?”

  She looks like she might not answer, but a couple of seconds go by and then she does. “This book by Chevy Stevens. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

  I walk closer to her. I always forget how hot Char is until I see her. With her quiet personality and nerd status, it’s easy to pass her by. But when it’s just us, I remember how, just … pretty she is.

  “Mysteries, right? You like mysteries? I remember when you used to read um … Nancy Drew, wasn’t it?”

  Char sits up, placing a bookmark in her book. “Yeah, when I was like eleven. Since that was probably the last time you ever spoke to me, it figures you’d remember that.”

  I’m not dumb enough to miss the hurt in her voice. I drop down to the ground next to her, not close enough to touch but close enough that I can see the outline of her features in the slowly setting sun.

  “I say hi to you in school!”

  She scoffs. “Yeah, right. Pigs will fly before that actually happens.”

  Now I just feel like an asshole. “You’re right. I’m sorry. School is, well …”

  I can’t tell her that I feel so much pressure from every aspect of my life that I might explode. I can’t tell her that if I had one normal thing for myself, it would be crushed under the expectations from those around me.

  “School is hard.” There. That sounds more normal.

  Char’s jaw drops open. “School is hard? For who? You? Give me a break. You’re Tucker Lynch. Prom King. Football Star. You have no idea just how hard high school is. You don’t even have a clue.”

  I can see this discussion is going to get us nowhere, and I don’t feel like leaving just yet. I don’t feel like being alone. “So what are your plans for after graduation? Only two months left, have you picked a college yet?”

  She sighs. “I’m going to Bryn Mawr. To study business and accounting.”

  “Double majoring? Damn, that sucks.”

  “Yeah.” Char looks away when she talks, and I get the feeling the double major isn’t exactly her choice.

  “Do you think you’ll come home often?” Bryn Mawr is only about an hour or so from Conestoga. I’m so glad I’m getting out of Pennsylvania, I could practically shout it from the rooftops.

  “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  Char is cryptic, like she’s been since that night at Camp Marsh when we kissed. I didn’t know what to do after we got home, and she seemed so stand-offish when I tried to approach her after our first week of high school, that I just kind of stopped trying altogether.

  But now, sitting so close to her, I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. I’d had kisses, blowjobs, sex … and still sometimes I thought about that innocent make out session under the obstacle course.

  I don’t think before I gently grab her chin and make her look at me. Her beautiful brown eyes fill with confusion, so sweet and innocent. Things with Char, every encounter, has always been so easy. There is no pressure here. I can just be who I am with her.

  I move my head in, puckering my lips and laying them on hers. Testing. I swipe across her mouth once, twice … and feel the sparks of lust and excitement course down my spine, landing in my balls and causing my dick to start swelling. I don’t pull back even when Char makes a tiny noise of hesitation, like she might put an end to this.

  Instead, I coax her mouth open, sliding my tongue in and lapping it against hers. And instead of apprehension, I’m met with the sweet sensation of her lips and tongue moving in rhythm with mine. She’s slow and soft while I bring some heat to the kiss, the addicting way she ends each meeting of our mouths with a tiny suck on my bottom lip is driving me insane.

  I take her head in my hands and tilt her backwards, moving on top of her, the entire time our mouths never disconnecting. I lay my body down, all hard ridges on her soft curves. Her kisses are making me drowsy, the way her tits feel pushed up against my chest is the only thing my brain is registering.

  Char moans into my mouth and I finally break the seal of our lips, coming up to look her in the eyes. “You’re so hot.”

  Her cheeks turn a cute shade of pink before I kiss and suck my way down her jaw and neck. At the same time, I finally move my lower half to kneel between her legs, the jean shorts she has on riding up her thighs. I connect us, pushing my throbbing hard-on against the seam of her shorts and grinding there.

  “Huh! Tucker!” Char’s voice is breathy, and it spurs
me to cover more territory, to feel more of her. I slide my fingers under the hem of her tank top, caressing the velvet skin of her stomach as I go up and up, hoping to God she won’t stop me before I can unfasten her—

  “Stop! Stop …” Her command is quiet but firm.

  I immediately sit up and take my hands off her. “What’s wrong?”

  Her long brown hair is mussed and so sexy, it’s hard for me to concentrate on what she’s saying.

  “I’ve never, you know … um …”

  It takes me a minute before I realize what she’s getting at. “Ohhh. You’re a virgin?”

  I can’t say it’s surprising, but the way she’s so embarrassed about it is kind of cute.

  “Yeah. I’ve never done … well, anything.”

  “Um … okay.” An awkward beat passes. “Well, do you want me to just leave then?”

  “No. I’d like you to stay.”

  In a bold move, that both impresses and turns me on more, Char reaches for my hand and pulls us both up. She starts for her house, letting us in the sliding glass door and moving toward her staircase. I’ve only been in the Morsey’s house for things like summer barbecues or the annual neighborhood Christmas party. I’ve never actually seen Char’s rooms.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Away for the weekend.” She doesn’t elaborate.

  At the left of the stairs, she pushes open a white door and pulls me inside.

  Her room is not typical. I’ve been in teenage girls’ rooms—most of the time in their beds, but still—and Charlotte’s doesn’t look anything like their rooms. It’s done in lavender and gray, with a floral bedspread. There is a desk in the corner filled with textbooks, a laptop and Bryn Mawr pamphlets. On the other wall is a large bookcase full of, well, books. But also trophies. Dozens and dozens of them. This girl might have more trophies than me. There are no pictures with friends stuck to the mirror over her dresser. No life-size posters of the latest Hollywood heartthrob. Not even a bunch of clothes or jewelry on the floor. No, it’s all neat and … I don’t know. It feels like a hotel room.