Disclaimer: I only own Emily
Warning: Rated M, for abuse and adult content.
Feedback: A little constructive feedback would be nice. For my new readers, I hope you enjoy and for those of you who read the old version, I do hope you like this one better. Please let me know.
*I did not have a lit of time to edit this. Anyone wanting to Beta. Let me know.
**This takes place before Red Canyon because otherwise things get far too confusing. So, Enjoy!
Two Weeks Ago...
There was absolutely no logical or sensible reason for her to be subjecting herself to this masochistic, mental torture. That was the worst part about her current predicament, the mental punishments she would endure for silently agreeing to this trip. It was clear to her now, that her publisher was a sadist. If he was not, then he would not have rented her a house in hell. What exactly about this place made it hell to her? It probably would have been a relaxing vacation for the more mentally stable, whose mind was not filled with chaotic thoughts about areas similar to this. But Emily was not one of those people, she was an author. The give of the creative written word, often came with a price, its' cost was great. Each historically brilliant mind of the written word, held inside, some form of mental psychosis or instability. It is well known that a handful of them would self-medicate with the help of spirits or more often narcotics of all variations. But in her current state (although they would help to stifle her wondering mind), she could do neither. For as long as she had written, Emily had avoided using drugs. Yet, every now and again, she would drink. Her drinking was not to excess however, but a beer or two for relaxation.
As she headed down the long stretch of desolate pavement that was dotted with random corpses of roadkill, her mind began to wonder. It drifted back to the memories which were the cause of her current situation. Those memories held a physical sensation with their form and as she allowed them to drift back into her conscious, those feelings over took her once more. There is an old adage that says 'sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me'. This saying is a forceful insult to the emotional well being of any man or woman. Emily herself well knew that words held the power to inspire over whelming thoughts and emotions that could cripple, even the strongest of men. Only recently however, did she learn that words had the ability to inspire horrific emotions in even those who wielded their power on a constant basis. Now, she understood why they say, the pen is mightier than the sword. Where physical, sword wounds could kill or mutilate the victim, the injuries created by the word, could last forever. No, words would not kill their intended victim instantly, but that was the beauty of them. The man or woman who was effected by the power of those statements, would live on being tortured until they end their own life or until death finally took them in whatever form was determined. So, even though Emily held the pen and she could use it well, nothing had prepared her for the two words that would cause her unreasonable fear. Perhaps if she had listened to the messages her body had spoken to her, she would not later have to discover their meaning. But the skeptic that often sat between her physical and non-physical worlds, had whispered in her ear and told her to ignore her body. It would be the most misguided decision Emily would make, one with deadly consequences. Even though her body had never once lied to her and that her internal warnings were never misguided, she chose this time to follow the advice of her inner voice.
Only two days ago, Emily had attended a morning meeting with her publisher, Jack Furlong. Of all the people in the city, Jack was the only one who she despised with ever fiber of her being. He was a pudgy man with lightening hair, combed in such a way, it very much resembled a poor Donald Trump. Nearly all of his clothing resembled that of a man who had far more money than he did. She had long come to the conclusion that he owned ever sports jacket that had ever been made and that he had no sense of smell. The cologne he wore daily, was made more from alcohol, than it was of anything else. But there was a good chance he had chosen it because it helped to mask the smell of his constantly putrid breath. As she sat in front of his desk, sunk into a brown leather chair that smelled very much like dog shampoo, she let her mind wonder else where. The scenery of the office around her no longer provided the distraction necessary to keep her from smashing the desk lap over the back of Jack's skull. Emily was in no way a fighter, nor was she prone to sudden violent outbursts. However, if she got mad enough and it boiled over, she would occasionally slam her fist into something hard. One thing she never could understand about Jack and men like him, was why they believed that they had the right to judge other people's work. They have no creative talent and they have never attempted to create anything of worth, so why in hell could they pass judgement on others who did have some creative intellect?
In the corner of the room, Emily found at least one object that was still capable of calming the rage that his mere presence ignited, a solid oak grandfather clock. Its' golden pendulum swayed back and forth in a slow rhythmic motion, lulling her into a state of hypnotic calm. This clock was her only vice, while she endured the destructive feedback from her asshole of a publisher. It was the fine line between being calm and completely losing her temper. On this day however, she would not have to worry about her anger. But she would come to learn that some places in the world can strike fear into the heat by their name alone.
"...Caineville, Utah. I have rented you a small house-"
That trance-like calm she was once in, had been sledge hammered by fear at the mention of that town. As far as she could tell, there was no logical reason for her to suddenly be anxious. But she was afraid. A cyclone of butterflies stirred in her stomach as her blood rushed adrenaline to every limb in her body and her heartbeat kicked up to full speed. Emily dug her fingers into the soft leather of the arm on the chair and searched for something else to distract her. She was also trying to hide her fear from Jack. Because of her emotionally stimulated, color shifting, hazel eyes, Emily knew he would see her fear, unless she calmed down. A shadow of fear was already drifting slowly across her eyes, changing them to a light blue color. She made a futile attempt to act casual, tucking a strand of chestnut colored hair behind one ear, before shifting her attention to the large window across from her. The sunrise had brushed a array of colors across the still blue sky, providing her the distraction she needed. But this time, she did not allow her mind to drift elsewhere. She wanted to hear what Jack had to say about Utah and to figure out what about its mention had sent her into a mini panic attack.
"Emily, are you listening to me? This vacation would be good for you. Get you away from the city for a while."
"Great." She replied sarcastically.
Who was she really trying to lie to in that moment of passive aggression? In some analytical part of her mind, hidden beneath the layers of mixed emotion, she had her own psychiatrist. The devious little voice now piped up with its' analysis of the situation and exchange of words with Jack. The last word she remembered, 'nothing' , had been a subconscious lie, meant to trick or convince her body into complying. If she could believe that the emotions overflowing every cell of her, were just nothing, then perhaps the feeling of terror would cease. But just like the rest of her conversations with her ignoramus of a publisher , her spoken words were hollow. They were spoken only because their definition fit the conversation. So, the lie she attempted to tell him (and herself at the same time) only succeeded in working on one of them. Emily sighed as she realized that this emotional roller coaster was not made of hills and loops. It was more of a diagonal hill and it was accelerating as she grew closer to her destination. Ever progressively the memory of her conversation with Jack, drifted off in her subconscious until it was a whisper of noise. Their conversation may have become nothing more that a shadow of a thought, but the smell of his cologne, still clinging to her clothes, was not something she could push away. It was one of those over bearing, throat clogging scents that he had clearly picked out himself. That man seriously needed a woman in his life, if not to improve his smell, then perhaps she could improve his dress. Although his cologne was over bearing, it did help to cancel out his breath, at least from a distance. If only someone had informed her that she would soon come to miss his stench. There were worse smells and worse mouths with meth rotted teeth, who would want to invade hers. The owner of such a found essence would smother her with his scents and violate her cleanliness with his dirty limbs. Her mouth would taste foulness beyond comprehension and at the same time she would feel disgust, she would love it and take great pleasure in this perversion. And the hands of the critics she imagined, those fat nubs wrapped around their brandy glasses, would seem like nothing. Emily would discover worse hands. Those hands were rough, they would handle her delicate flesh with lustful aggression and would leave bruises in the wake of their contact. All of this information would be presented to her later, too much later.
As the Utah sand kicked up under the wheels of her Chevy Cavalier, she attempted to stifle the chaotic thoughts swirling around in her brain. Silence and time (without intellectual stimulation) are the enemy of even the greatest writers. When the creative mind has far too much of these and none of the other, they have no distraction from the other ideas in their twisted mind. The things that come to mind, during the silence, are made from infinite amounts of perversion and sometimes unexpressed homicidal emotions. There is no order in which things occur within these unused ideas. So, the keeper of these nightmares is only able to suffer inside of themselves, until they can create an inner numbness or find some distraction. The desert was the worst possible place for Emily to be, because there was nothing to keep her mind busy. Behind her stretched miles of dusty pavement and ahead of her, lay miles more of road. Along with the mental issues she was having, road fatigue was slowly beginning to set in and she had no where to pull off to rest. In desperation, she rolled down the drivers side window, hoping that the hot desert air would help to at least wake her up.
A warm, dry gust of Utah heat brushed against her face and pushed her fatigue away. But it could not stop her mind from racing or make her fear subside. Now that she was actually here, in this place that had caused her so much stress, she thought she understood why it had such an effect on her. It was very likely that she associated Utah with her book Country Hell and some part of her feared that she would run into a man who was similar to the main character from the book. She had created a man named Anthony, who was a drunk and a rapist. But she had also created an inescapable situation for the main female character who he kidnaps and tortures. At the very end of the book, the girl believes she has gotten away and is safe from the clutches of Anthony. That is until, he suddenly appears in her bedroom one night and takes her back to an abandoned shack in the desert and no one ever hears from her again. The book did not have a happy ending but it did get some fantastic reviews.
As the sun made its' descent behind the mountains that loomed on the horizon, Emily's fear worsened. The man she feared, the one she created, always attacked at night. Anthony was a nocturnal animal, rarely seen during daylight. So if there was an "Anthony" out here, she would encounter him now. The faint sound of country music drifted in through the window, drawing her attention away from her fears. Emily scanned the horizon and surrounding area for the source of the music. Her eyes finally fell upon a small glowing shack, off in the distance. At the rate she was traveling she would soon pass it. She was curious about the place and her stomach was growling with hunger, so she slowed down, stopping at the entrance to the parking lot. The building she had only seen from a distance was now in full view of her passenger window. Now, she could tell it was a small bar with the name Luna Mesa painted crudely on a white sign that hung on either side of its' roof peak. Its' parking lot was pretty full for being in such a secluded area of Utah. After a few moments of hesitation, she finally decided it would be safe enough to grab a beer and a burger before jetting off to her final destination. She wanted to avoid the local population that currently inhabited the small lot and avoid any chance of running into an Anthony-like figure. So, she pulled into a dusty parking spot in the back of the building, far away from the other vehicles.
After turning off the car, she popped open the glove compartment and shuffled through the various fast food napkins and receipts, looking for one particular item. Emily knew there was one thing she could use to keep some distance between her and the undesirable locals. Or at least protect her from the type of man she did not wish to encounter. Although she did not even like carrying the thing in her car, in this place, she would make an acceptation and actually carry it on her. From behind the cacophony of mess that was the contents of her glove box, she produced a boot dagger in a black boot sheath. She was quick to slip it into her right boot and pull her pant leg down over it, so she could hide it from prying eyes.
In anticipation of the harsh environment she knew she would encounter, Emily had put on her black steel-toed boots. To counteract the desert heat, she was wearing a white tank top with grey cargo pants, that hugged her hips a little too well. Although the outfit server her well, in keeping her cool, it did not help her keep from drawing attention to herself. The last think she wanted, was to stick out like a sore thumb. But with the outfit she was wearing, she would. In areas as desolate as this, she assumed there was not much in the way of law and that most crimes (some of the worst), went unknown or unpunished. The very realization, made her shudder and begin to worry about Anthony again. Before the whole Anthony cycle could start again, she got out of the car and headed for the bar entrance.
As she walked, she listened to the sand crunch beneath her boots and the sound of the large trucks that pulled into the lot. Just the sound of their engines, rattled her already unstable nerves. But she pushed on, trying hard to ignore her growing paranoia. The smell of cigarette smoke tantalized her senses as it drifted from the porch that surrounded the front entrance. Emily made a note of the large, drunken men who were hovering there, each one of them holding a cigarette or a beer. As she moved through the crowd to get to the door, several sets of glazed over eyes stared at her and seemed to peel every article of clothing from her small frame with their gaze so they could drink in her naked flesh. Emily purposely made an effort to avoid eye contact with any one of them, so they did not get the wrong idea about her. She wanted nothing to do with any one of them. The rusted handle of the storm door, that would lead her inside, was a welcoming cool to her heated flesh. Even if she wanted nothing to do with them, she still could not help but blush as she felt them rake their eyes over her skin. To escape from their hungry predatory gazes, she yanked open the door, causing it to groan on its hinges, before she stepped inside. The door slammed against its' equally weather warped frame as it closed behind her and created a barrier between her and the drunken morons.
The interior of the bar was adorned with various taxidermic animal heads, license plates and other odds and ends. As she was surveying the building, the feeling of being watched, began to tingle at the small of her back. Emily scanned the bar for the eyes that would not leave her body and what she found, was an old bartender, leaning on the counter, watching her intently. From what she could discern, he was of mexican descent. His goatee was reflective of the stereotypical mexican of the fifties western movies. It came to a point just a few inches below his chin and the ends of his mustache had been curled elegantly upward, very much like the pringles man. There was a salt and pepper ponytail that descended to his waist, moving very slightly as he made his way around the bar. This stranger wore a light button down, short sleeve shirt that was clearly meant to try and hide the growing belly beneath it, brought on by age. After enduring the long trip and her own endless paranoid delusions, Emily had very little patients to deal with him. So, she shot him a hard glare, hoping it would be enough of a warning to make him leave her alone. It must have worked because he quickly turned away from her and headed off to procure another beer for the man sitting at the corner of the bar. For a few minutes more, she stood there watching him move, that same ice cold glare in her eyes. She wanted to be sure that he got her warning and that he knew (even though she was not a fighter), she was not playing games with him. When he did not turn to look at her again, she made her way toward a corner booth so she could watch the bar and watch as the cars pulled into the lot from the large window near her table.
Emily was watching everyone around her so intently that she had failed to see the bartender, make his way to her table. The sound of a thick mexican accent and a placid greeting were enough to make her jump. His presence, drawing her attention back to the semi-friendly atmosphere surrounding her.
For a few seconds, she studied his features. There were stress lines across his face and around his cold brown eyes. She would not forget those dark pools. But for now, she would play nice and pretend she was alright.
It was a cold response but situation appropriate.
"Wha-t can I gh-et you?"
"Uh...burger, medium well and a beer. Bud Light."
"Coming rh-ight up."
With the idle exchanges over, she watched him head back toward the bar and disappear through the door behind it. While he cooked, she looked around more, watching the patrons that entered or already occupied the bar. As she watched them, the smell of smoke and liquor began to burn her nostrils. Every bar had a scent, she knew this and this one smelled mostly of dirt, fried food and cigarette smoke. If anything happened to her in this bar, she knew that those smells would trigger the memory of the event. Emily glanced outside once more, before the smell of food wafted into her personal space. She glanced up in time to see the bar keep heading in her direction with a red, wax paper lined basket and a frosted bottle of Bud Light. Still keeping up appearances, she made sure to at least be civil when he set the items on the table in front of her.
The words passed through her lips in an almost automated response. It felt unrealistic and in a small way robotic. But still her intention was genuine. He said nothing, only smiled. Emily pulled the cold bottle to herself and took a good swig of beer. She was hoping it might calm her nerves, at least a little bit. At least the burger helped to stifle her growling stomach. It was thick, cooked to her liking and as she bit into it, it was so juicy that the juices from it, ran down her chin. Emily pulled a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wiped her chin clean before downing the rest of the burger. She finished eating in no time at all, washing her dinner down with the rest of the beer. Once she had sated her hunger, she went right back to watching the bar with the intent of an officer studying a crime scene. There was just one problem with this, in her effort to protect herself by watching the patrons around her, she had neglected to see or hear the beat up Silverado that was currently pulling into the parking lot. She also failed to notice the driver of the truck and his similarity to the nightmare she had been so afraid she might run into. After a few minutes, the bar tender (who no longer creeped her out), made his way back over to her booth, to collect the empty basket and bottle. Upon realizing that one beer would not be enough to stifle her still rattled nerves, she made the decision to order another one. Just as the bar keep was turning to leave, she spoke up, this time a little more friendly than she had been before.
"Could I get another beer?"
The man disappeared behind the counter and came back with her beer, rather quickly. This time, she only nodded at him, remembering to keep him at a distance. She was just beginning to relax, the beer she had drink before was starting to kick in and helping her to ignore the fear that still raged just under her calm exterior. However, very soon, her peace would be shattered and her placid state would fall into hell, straight out of her own novel. It was slow when it started, at first, she only felt goosebumps trickle across her arm and then a cold sweat began to form on the back of her neck. Again, her body was attempting to warn her. But against what? As far as she could see, there was no prevalent danger around. Still, the feeling was enough to make her reach down and touch the hilt of the dagger, through her pants. If someone was planning to cause her trouble, then she might have to use it.
Emily had just put the frosted neck of the beer bottle to her lips and inhaled the sweet barley scent of beer when something crashed through her calm, awakening her nerves with a lightening quick dose of adrenaline. It was a voice that had interrupted her meditative state and jolted her body into alarm. But it was not anything the voice had said, in fact the owner of the voice was not even speaking directly to her. So then how was her calm disturbed? What about it shook her peace? There were several things about it that disturbed her. For one thing, its' familiarity struck her heart, causing its' to beat to rapidly increase. Its' very tone and the gruffness within it vibrated through her body, tingling her very core. It awakened parts of her in a way she had not expected or wanted. The voice also caused her to pause with her beer still resting against her lips, its' contents still tickling her nostrils.
As a could of fear slowly drifted across her hazel pools, morphing their color to dark blue, she shifted them in the direction the voice was emanating from. It was not that she wanted to look upon the nightmare that had stepped out of her book and mind. But it was a necessity that she confirm or deny his existence. Emily hoped with every fiber of her being that the owner of the voice belonged to someone else. Anyone who was nothing like the fictional rapist from her book Country Hell. When her eyes finally fell upon the owner of the voice, Emily felt her mouth go dry and her breath leave her lungs. She swallowed hard in an attempt to moisten her throat. Once in a lifetime, everyone has that one surreal moment where the mind cannot grasp what is happening. For her, this was the very moment where her mind could not and refused to accept what was conspiring. All her attempts to remain calm, were futile, the damage was already done. It had started when she crossed into Caineville, it had spread like a slow poison and it had generously eaten away at her nervous system, until it eviscerated her courage. But that poison was not finished with her, it currently was creeping through her brain, wearing her down with thoughts of violent perversion. As those thoughts began to overflow from her subconscious, her body aroused to an unmanageable lust. It tingled just under the fabric of her clothing, the only barrier between her soft flesh and his rough, wanting hands. In her mind, he was pinning her against the bar, his right hand tangled in her hair, pulling it hard and his left one was sliding down the front of her jeans. Emily shook her head, attempting to catapult the erotically destructive images from her mind before they could cause anymore damage to her withering composure.
All she could do was stare with wide eyes at him as he lingered around the bar. In what sweet hell had she fallen into? The figure she was examining by the bar had stepped from the pages of her novel and into the Luna Mesa. By some dark spell, the words she had used to describe him, had transformed into flesh and blood. Now, from pale lips, encircled by dark hair, there erupted a barrage of foulness, coated in that alluring country accent. The dark greasy locks that hung around his eyes, were coated with just as much oil and dirt as the rest of them. Emily's eyes could just make out the strength he held as it strained beneath his vile clothing. Even without seeing his bare flesh, she could tell he was the type of man who worked with his hands all day and because of that, he was powerful from head to toe. Nothing about his appearance was off putting, despite the grease that seemed to coat most of his body. There was a thin sheen of sweat that glistened across his powerful fore arms and across the back of his neck. She felt her breath catch in her throat as she watched his shoulders flex with unreleased power and she realized just how easily he could probably hurt her. The very thought made her shiver. Even without speaking, his movements reflected that of a man who was lustful beyond the point of satisfaction. That thought caused Emily's body to react in very contradicting ways. There was a bit of arousal, along with that thought and a bit of fear.
A man like that would not hear no, instead he would take what he wanted from her. Somehow a generalized thought about him had come to include her as the target. All of her thoughts and emotions were coinciding with the partial deafness she currently was experiencing. The only sound she could hear was the deep, gravel tone as it fell from his lips. It tingled her ears as it reached them and caused her body to moisten at the apex of her thighs. Time seemed to slow as she watched him run his tongue across his chapped, bottom lip and she watched him sway with the shift of his weight, moving from one foot to the other. The action of his tongue causing her mind to drift to places it thought would be better suited for licking. Emily swallowed hard as she battled for control over her bodily reactions to the temptation before her. That fight for control, nearly slipped when he began to run his finger across his lip before chewing on it slightly. With the erotic centers in her mind racing off to seductive thoughts, that she was attempting to fight off, she was drastically losing to a man that had no idea what he was doing to her. Emily had been so hypnotized by this too familiar man, that she had barely noticed her other physical reactions. Her heart was threatening to break her ribs, the salivation glands in her mouth had ceased completely and she was still holding the bottle of beer to her lips. On top of that, there were a million butterflies cycling her stomach and a fair amount of moisture had gathered between her thighs. Emily took a slow, calming breath before she finally sipped her beer, in a desperate attempt to wet her desert dry mouth. With another sigh, she allowed her eyes to drift back to the intimidating form-that to her was Anthony from Country Hell.
It was upon a second, survey of him, that she realized exactly how like that fictional character he was. The 'Anthony' before her wore a blue, dirt spotted, button down work shirt with a tattered long sleeve shirt underneath his work shirt, the sleeves of which were shoved to his elbows. Around his powerful hips, tied over his grease spattered jeans, was a red flannel shirt which hung around his thighs like a scottish kilt. This was all very similar to Anthony but what really sent an icy cold chill through her, were his dirty black steel-toed boots. Anthony, in the book was a woman beater and he indulged with great pleasure, in kicking women with those. Emily subconsciously shook her head at the thought of those evil boots, slamming into her rib cage. With that sobering thought spiked into her brain, she found herself in control of her body once again. Now, she realized, she needed to slip past that animal and escape the bar before he set his eyes on her.
As she sat there in her paralytic trance, contemplating her next movements, some things became alarmingly obvious. In her survey of the environment around her and the sweat coated, drunken patrons, Emily had failed to take any notice of other possible exits. Almost as if n a stalemate with an experienced chess player, she had idiotically walked right into their planned position. From what she could tell, there was one exit in this building and it was at current, barricaded by the clone of Anthony and his cult of friends. On top of her failure to plan an exit strategy, Emily had completely lost control over her inner thoughts. The end result being a continued release of oxytocin into her blood stream, which in turn resulted in the continued release of wetness between her legs and a deep, throbbing ache that would not cease unless satisfied. But that ache between her thighs would only be sated by the object of her arousal. Emily refused to let that happen because she knew all too well, what the possible outcome of that encounter could be. To make matters worse, the longer she stared, the worse things became because the more she watched him, the more details she noticed and the more he resembled Anthony.
Emily set her beer on the table in front of her with a small thud. The numbness in her limbs had caused her to set the bottle down a little harder than she had anticipated. The sudden sound of it caused her to flinch slightly and she dropped her darkening eyes to the floor, in a futile effort to hide from anyone who may have noticed the sound. For a few minutes she kept her eyes glued firmly to the floor, at the same time she shoved herself into the corner booth further in another wasted effort to remove herself from his line of vision. Emily fought back the advancing flood of fear-filled tears that threatened to spill forth from her ducts and give away the over bearing fear that now occupied every cell of her anatomy. Her body was a chaotic mixture of fear and lust. Neither one of them would cease unless she removed herself from the increasingly dangerous predicament. There was just one small problem, she had to manage to sneak to the bar, pay her tab and slip by him without drawing his attention. As she was calculating the odds of success and anticipating her next move, her spine began to tingle with that familiar feeling of being watched. The eyes of her voyeur, seemed to burn through her, right to her very soul. Their heated gaze could be felt as it moved from her face, down the rest of her before finally resting upon her barely visible cleavage. It felt as if, by vision alone, they had slowly pulled every article of clothing from her and now viewed her in complete nudity. There was that moment of complete paralysis, she herself had written about. It was the moment where the predatory male figure, spotted his would be captive and mentally victimized her with his eyes. In that moment, the object of his soon-to-be obsession, was powerless to do anything about the situation. Emily shifted her eyes across the dirt covered wooden floor in an attempt to avoid eye contact. With slow steady movements, she reached down and unstrapped the dagger in anticipation of what was to come. The simple movement of unstrapping the dagger so she could pull it if she needed to, was reassuring and helped to give her a small amount of courage. That courage was a grain of sand among the other detrimental emotions that filled her body. But it was still enough for her to decide, if his intentions were impure and masochistic (as she suspected they were), then she would not be part of his twisted fantasy.
The heat of his gaze still warmed through her body, causing her delicate flesh to heat once more with arousal. But her determination not to give in, helped her to push aside the lustful wants of her womanhood and choose a more logical course of action. So with her mind made up, she plotted a path of escape and made some side plans for any obstacles that might arise. Even though she had managed to find some stability in an unfamiliar and dangerous environment, she had still failed to escape the paralysis that kept her eyes glued to the floor. Emily knew that she had to face him, she had to look into the eyes that were bonding her to her seat. If she could not look into his face and overcome the emotions it caused, then she would become his possession. Emily mentally willed herself to look up and into the dark pools of the predator, leaning against the bar. When she looked up at him, he was slowly smoking a cigarette and watching her every move. The smoke from his lungs, drifted seductively between his wet lips that were glossed because with ever other drag he took, he licked them. Again she felt her breath catch in her lungs, almost as if someone had kicked her in her diaphragm. She had clearly underestimated the power he held over her and the effect that his look alone could have on her.
Now, looking directly at him, she could see the dark, coarse hair that trailed his strong jawline and the thin layer of dirt, sweat and grease that coated most of his face. Emily dug her nails nervously into the wood beneath her, as she watched him lick his bottom lip again. But this time, he did it slowly, almost as if he knew what sort of effect he was having on her. That steel gaze never broke from her as he licked his lip. Even though she caught the faintest glimpse of his black, rotten teeth as he licked hungrily at his lip, she was still aroused by him. The realization of her never ending lust, despite his lack of hygiene, quickly transformed into slight disgust. But the disgust was not for him, she felt disgusted by her own feelings. There would be time later to be disgusted with herself. For now, she needed to leave this bar and do it without getting stopped by him. From his body language and the look in those dark blues, Emily knew his intentions were immoral and (there was the high possibility), violent. But do you get past the cobra when it was in close range and waiting to strike? At this point, she could not reach for the dagger and tuck it in a closer, more convenient location without it being spotted. Emily sighed defeated. He wan an unavoidable obstacle to her freedom and safety. The only way out of this situation was to hurry to the bar, avoiding any advance from him, pay her tan and barrel her way to the door. For added courage, Emily emptied her beer in one large gulp. The alcohols alteration on her perception, only gave her the ability to ignore the heated glare that currently still pierced her clothing and raped her flesh.
Her slow precession toward the bar, felt almost dreamlike. Every footfall was another step into the lions den, a place she was determined not to visit for an extended period of time. Those lustful eyes never left her as she moved within closer proximity to him. The closer she came to the bar, the more intense the whirlwind of emotions within her became. By the time she reached her destination, she was trembling with fear, hot with arousal and had almost no courage left. As she stood at the counter, waiting to be spotted by the bartender, she heard the distinct sound of steel-toed boots on wooden floor, behind her.
Emily continued to fight off the thoughts that were raging through her mind and the oxytocin coursing through her veins. As her internal battle raged on, she felt him close the distance between them, his powerful form close enough to press himself against her. The feel of his muscular chest and arms caused hr legs to quiver and threaten to collapse. There was another thing as well, a growing problem strained just under the fabric of his pants and now it pressed lightly against the back of her thighs. It was almost enough to make her lose complete control. But to counteract his seduction, Emily dug her nails into her palms, hopeful that the pain would stave off her feelings for him. The little bit of pain did help for a little while, at least until her leaned into her more and whispered in her ear.
"You're a long way from home."
The deep, gravel tone of his voice seemed to vibrate down to her aching core and his hot breath on her neck, made her body break out into goose bumps. Before she could stop herself, Emily spoke. Her voice shaky from fear and arousal.
"I...I was just leaving."
"You're not going anywhere. You're gonna stay and drink with us."
After he said that, she heard the men in front of the door, move closer to it. Emily swallowed hard as she slowly turned to face him, stepping back toward the bar to put some distance between them. Emily glanced from him to the crowd now purposely blocking her exit. The fear in her stomach now climbed to her heart and kicked more adrenaline into her veins. Just barely making eye contact with him, she spoke in a low nervous tone.
"I-I have to go."
He licked his lips, a smirk spreading across his features. Then he leaned in her ear and whispered low so only she could hear him.
"What's the matter? Scared? You should be. If only you knew the things I am gonna do to your sweet little body."
Emily said nothing.
"What's your name little girl?"
"Em-Emily." She gasped.
The sound of her name on his lips was enough to make her shiver and she knew he felt it. Why she even answered him, she did not know. But she wished that she had kept her mouth shut. When he finally did pull away from her ear, Emily was barely breathing and he was smirking. She knew there was only one way to get past him and make it out of here. But instead of executing her plan, she stepped backwards toward the bar, trying to shrink away from him. There was no denying it, she was afraid of this man and what made it worse, she had to contend with his friends as well. Finally, she heard a familiar voice behind her, but he was not speaking to her. Instead the bartender spoke to the man who refused to let her leave.
"Mac, leave the girl alone."
The mere proximity of his body to hers, was enough to make her whole anatomy burn for his touch. This man was her poison, her weakness and she feared him because of the things he could do to her without touching her. She feared him also because she wanted him so bad and she knew that like a poison, he would destroy her. At the same time she was afraid of what he could or would do to her, she wanted him to do it. Some part of her wanted him to violate and ruin her. There were very few men in this world who could effect her her this bad and turn her into this lustful animal. This man, was unlike the rest, he was the drug she knew would make her scream with ecstasy and then leave her lying on the floor, broken.
Somehow she knew that Mac, would not listen to mere words. So, if she wanted away from him, she would have to hurt him, bad. Emily carefully turned her back toward the bar and crouched down as if she was retrieving her money from her lowest pocket. What she was really doing was pulling her dagger with her left hand and palming a twenty in her right. Then, as quick as she could, she slapped the money on the bar and turned-with dagger in hand-and attempted to stab Mac. Things did not go as she had hoped. Before the blade even touched him, he had her pinned, back first, against the bar with the dagger to her throat. It was not the blade that kept her stil, but his body pressing her against the counter. As he kept her there, his free hand grazed across the flesh showing just above her jeans. He knew that there was nothing she could do to stop him. Emily felt her body moisten even more (her panties were now soaked) as he pressed his growing erection against her heat, through the thin fabric of her cargos. A shiver slipped past her control and passed down through her legs. To make matters worse, he leaned in her ear and whispered something.
"Got some fight in ya. That's good. It's better when you fight."
Emily swallowed again as she fought back shivers and tried to keep her eyes from rolling back in her head. Even with his toxic breath, his very scent was arousing. It was a mix of cigarettes, sweat, grease, dirt and musk. To her, there was nothing better than the smell of a working man. The concoction of smells penetrating her senses, only heightened her already ridiculous arousal. They were forceful as they invaded her senses, everything about him was forceful and powerful. Emily regretted the admission to herself, that she loved his aggressive nature. It had an unmistakable effect on her, one she wished she could ignore. His smell coupled with the muscles pressing against her and his volatile nature, did not help her to keep her control. She knew he was dangerous and could probably hurt her really bad, but that only made things worse for her. At this point, she could only breath in slow, shuddery breaths. As she was fighting for control, Mac was trying to break her control. Taking her dagger from her throat, he ran the tip of it slowly across her exposed flesh, causing her body to shiver once more.
"You like that?" He whispered in her ear.
Emily let out a small whimper and because his ear was right next to her mouth, he heard her. She mentally cursed herself for not biting her lip. As if things were not bad enough, that free hand of his passed down from her waist, toward the apex of her thighs. Without the dagger, she was more apt to fight back and she did so by trying to push him away from her. But he was quick to respond, he drove the blade into the counter before grabbing her by her hair and pulling hard. She got the message and the pain was enough to stop her from moving. With desperation in her eyes, she begged him not to do what she knew he was about to do. It was too late, she felt his long fingers pressing against the fabric at the apex of her thighs and beginning to slowly rub her through her pants. She knew there was no hiding her arousal from him now. Mac leaned in her ear again.
"Why are you so wet Emily?"
As the words left his lips, her knees weakened and she had to fight to stay up right.
Finally, someone said something to him.
"Back off da girl."
Without warning he let go of her and she nearly sank to the floor. Emily looked up to see Mac backing away, hands up in a surrender gesture. With his arms up in that angle, she could see the sores that littered the underside of his arms from where he had picked at his skin. As he backed away from her with his arms up in the surrender position, he brought his index and middle finger to his mouth one at a time so he could lick them. It was clearly a screw you gesture to whoever had yelled at him. The damage had already been done and he damn well knew it. There was a mocking smirk still spread across his face.
The bartender's voice was followed by the sound of a shotgun cocking. That sound jolted her from her trance-like state and gave her the strength to stand upright. Emily glanced from the older mexican to Mac and back again. She knew he would probably try to retrieve her dagger from the counter if she did not grab it first. So, she turned around and pulled the knife from the countertop, placing it back in its' sheath. Emily watched the old man gesture with the shotgun, to the group in front of the door, in a move motion. The group slowly slid out of the way of the door. With one last glance between them all, she moved cautiously toward the door, unsure if a shotgun was enough to keep them all under control. As she placed her hand on the door to leave, Mac yelled.
She should have left, but instead she turned to look at him.
"I'll be seeing you soon."
That was enough, she shoved the door open and ran for the car. The plan was simple. sleep one night in the rental and then leave for good. But things, as we well know, do not always go according to plan.