Creep - Jennifer Hillier [53]
His Bloody Caesar arrived. Before he even took the first sip, he asked Suki to bring him another. He ignored the look on the flight attendant’s face—yes, he was sure he wanted it, and, no, he didn’t need a lecture.
He’d never had a problem making decisions. But he did have a problem with quitting.
Halfway through his fifth drink, Morris made up his mind. He was going to stay with Sheila. He would marry her on Saturday, as planned. They could work everything out after the wedding. Every addict deserved a second chance, and he was damn well going to bet on her the way she’d bet on him. He was in it for the long haul.
But goddammit if he wasn’t gonna get good and drunk first.
CHAPTER : 17
Sheila’s wrists and ankles burned from the handcuffs. After three days of being chained to the bed, her skin was raw, her back and shoulders ached, and she was constantly disoriented from whatever sedative Ethan was mixing into her water.
He’d left the TV on, tuned to a channel that played old sitcoms. Sheila couldn’t stay awake long enough to watch an entire episode of anything, so she stared up at the white ceiling instead. Her greasy hair was sticking to her cheeks and forehead in itchy clumps she couldn’t swipe away. Her teeth—unbrushed since she’d been here—felt coated in wet cotton. She tried not to think about her full bladder. The adult diaper Ethan was making her wear was dry because she refused to pee in it.
She wiggled the fingers on her left hand to keep the blood flowing. Her engagement ring was gone. She knew Ethan had taken it and wondered abstractly if he was planning to pawn it or keep it as a trophy of some sort. She’d never ask him. Her questions aggravated him. He’d talk when he was ready.
The room was large and sterile, with a ceiling that appeared to stretch up forever. From her position on the bed, she couldn’t see any windows or doors, though a vent directly above her head funneled in fresh air. The only light in the room came from the overhead lights, which Ethan kept dimmed. A bottle of water and the remote control for the television sat on the bedside table next to her, but she couldn’t quite reach either. Against the wall across from her was a brown leather sofa where Ethan usually sat when he came to feed her. He never stayed long.
Sheila decided it was good he was keeping her tired. It helped pass the time. If not for the sedatives, the hours would have been agonizing. She didn’t have an appetite so she couldn’t eat much, though she did try. It angered him if she didn’t at least take a few bites—it was as if he thought her rude for not eating the food he brought.
So far, unless the chafed wrists and ankles counted, Ethan hadn’t hurt her. But she had no doubt he was going to. The anticipation of what was to come was the worst part of all.
Sheila considered herself to be a pretty good judge of character—most psychologists were—so how was it possible she’d been involved with Ethan sexually for three months without having the slightest clue as to who he really was? Never in her wildest, darkest dreams could she have envisioned she’d be locked up here, that any of this could happen. She and Marianne had pegged Ethan as a sociopath, yes, and blackmail had come as naturally to him as breathing . . . but kidnapping and murder?
Diana St. Clair’s face flitted through her mind. Ethan had killed the beautiful young woman—Sheila was certain of this now. To think, the comparison to Ted Bundy hadn’t been so absurd after all.
A door slammed from somewhere on the other side of the wall, jolting her. She whimpered as her wrists rubbed painfully against the cuffs once again.
Footsteps approached, and every muscle in her body tensed.
“How are we doing today?” Ethan’s head popped into view. “Miss me?”
Just the sight of him filled her with fear. But there was no point in screaming—the room was soundproofed and her shrieks were absorbed into the walls.
“I have to use the bathroom.” Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat, but didn’t ask for water. She wanted to keep a clear head long