Prey Drive by Jen Stevens

Chapter 48

the lamb

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you again,” Gabe says in an eerily even tone. At first glance, he appears relaxed and non-confrontational, but I know better than to believe that.

His eyes are a little darker than usual, his lips turned down the slightest bit. Even if I wasn’t trained to notice all the little micro expressions to avoid riling him up, his anger would be glaringly obvious in the forward set of his jaw and flared nostrils, as if he needs to make more space so he can breathe through his fury.

“I’ve been busy,” I reply in a calm, flippant voice, refusing to allow my fear to take hold of me. The fear is his favorite part of this game we play.

How is it that Bash is the murderer, but Gabe makes me feel more on edge?

He chuckles humorlessly, rolling his neck from side to side in a dramatic display of irritation at my attitude. I take the opportunity to map out an escape, though he’s managed to make that nearly impossible with his burly figure blocking the only path to any of my exits.

“Ah, yes. With your shiny new job…”

Nodding, I mumble a noncommittal, “Something like that.”

There's a weighted moment when he just stares at me, head tilted and a creepy, fake smile planted on his lips that doesn't reach his eyes. I fight the urge to cower under his watchful glare, refusing to break eye contact. Finally, after what feels like forever, he sucks in a breath and drops his gaze to my chest.

“Where is the man you've got living here, Jovie?” he questions, unbridled jealousy lacing his words.

I still. There's no way he knows about Bash. Not unless they've somehow run into each other outside. But Bash would have mentioned that to me. He's too curious not to.

“What man?” I pry, careful not to let my expressions give anything away more than they may already have.

“The one shacked up in your spare bedroom.” Gabe tilts his head backward, toward the bedrooms I never touch, and I release a relieved breath. “I can tell a man is sleeping there. It reeks of cologne.”

I’ve lived in your house beside you, stayed in your spare bedrooms for days at a time, and you had no idea.

Bash wasn't lying before. He really was staying in my house. Despite the open admission, there was still a part of me that wanted to deny it. But Gabe somehow knew…

He doesn't know about Bash, specifically. He's just fishing. Trying to frame me for a crime so he can punish me for it later.

But there is no crime. And he's not my judge and jury. I need to remember that.

“I haven't shown you my spare bedroom, Gabe.” So how would you know what it smells like, you creep?

My question from before about him knowing the layout of my house has been answered. Every feeling I should have had about Bash watching me comes creeping in tenfold at the idea of slimy Gabe doing it.

In true Gabe fashion, he doesn't own up to anything that has my stomach turned upside down.

“Let’s just make this easy for both of us. You’ve thrown your little fit and had all your fun, now it’s time to come back home.”

Home. What an odd way for him to describe the prison he created for me in the years that we were together? The place I literally died to get out of. There’s no way in hell I’m going back there. Not without a fight.

“I am home, Gabe,” I say in the kindest way I can muster.

It’s not as convincing as I hoped and my voice wavered on his name, but I doubt he’ll see past his own rage at my words to notice. I just need to be careful not to rile him up when he's got this crazed look in his eyes.

“I think you should leave.”

Shaking his head, he levels me with an evil glare. “I’m not leaving without you, baby,” he rasps.

“Well then, I’ll have to call the police on you for intruding.” I hold up my phone to punctuate the threat.

But Gabe doesn’t even flinch. His brows come together in an angry scowl as he challenges, “Go ahead. Let’s see who they believe.”

And there it is. All his work is paying off. I know now for a fact that he won’t go away without a fight. He’ll do everything in his power to get me back to that house with him—if that’s even really where he wants to take me—including destroying my reputation more than he already has to convince the world I’m the bad guy and he’s just doing his best to deal with my insanity.

That’s what he told the people in Sunnybrook. That's what he told the hospital staff when he came rushing in like the worried, dutiful boyfriend after they brought me back to life. The most terrifying part was that they all believed every lie he spun for them. No one had any idea that he was my cause of death, not me.

“You know, I meet a lot of people in my new job. A lot of rich bankers from the city. People who know the market and can give my clients a leg up. It’s a small world, really.”

He shifts on his feet, opening the gap even farther. “Imagine my surprise when one of those men comes to me with a proposition… a shit ton of money in exchange for my mousey little ex-girlfriend.”

I squint my eyes at him, completely lost. What would some investment banker from New York want with me?

“At first, I wasn't going to do it. It felt like a betrayal to myself if I just handed you over. You belong to me, afterall. But then I realized: what if I took my money, I took my girl, and we both just disappeared? What could they really do?”

He chortles, proud of this little plan he's concocted. Too bad I'm not going anywhere with him.

“So that's what we're gonna do. I know you're mad about Sunnybrook, but it's time to get over that and come back to me. We can start a new life together and forget about all this.”

Like a trapped animal, I start to feel like the walls are closing in on me. Every possible scenario runs through my mind as I consider what the best option is. Kindness isn’t getting me anywhere. My nerves feel like electrical wires that have been splintered, the current still jumping out of them in every direction. There’s no way I’ll be able to stave off the panic for much longer.

My only choice is to run. I know it’s the most realistic chance at survival, especially with the wild look in Gabe’s eyes telling me that if he gets to me, I won’t be coming out alive again. This is an attempt to clean up his own mess, and he doesn't plan on failing.

Before trepidation can infect my muscles and slow me down, I crouch into a ball and shoot through the small gap on his left, between him and the couch. I overshoot the space a tiny bit, bouncing off the couch and into him, but it ends up working out in my favor. Gabe is thrown against the wall and a burst of profanities escape his lips as he loses his footing from my abrupt departure. Luckily, I’m able to recover faster than he is.

I ricochet into the dining room, the sliding glass doors in clear view. Once I'm outside without any obstacles, I know I've got the endurance to outrun him. Gabe has always only focused on building muscle mass. It's turned him into a heavy, slow-moving boulder.

I'm so fucking close.

My hand reaches for the handle, when I'm stopped in my tracks by his arm wrapped around my stomach and yanked away. Gabe throws me to the ground on my back like a sack of potatoes, and all my breath leaves my lungs in one big whoosh from the impact. His face appears over me as his foot crushes my abdomen, and I struggle to take in oxygen.

“You know better than to run, Jovie,” he chastises breathily. “I've always been stronger.”

To prove his point, he jams his foot against my ribs. I swear I can hear one crack as he does it, and then he chuckles. He thinks he's crippled me enough with that to loosen his hold and gaze around the room, considering his next move.

But I won't lose to him again. I won't die by his hand a second time.

I gather every ounce of strength I can muster, refusing to succumb to the pain radiating from my back and side, and use it to grab his ankle and shove him off of me. The motion takes him completely off guard again, sending him straight to the floor beside me with a loud roar and a thundering thump. Rolling away, I go to climb to my feet, wincing when my rib screams in agony at the pressure.

I'm so pissed at myself for not taking more self-defense classes when I wanted to. For not fighting harder when it mattered and proving to him that I'm not some ragdoll for him to throw around. What the hell have I been doing this whole time that was so important? Why did I ever allow myself to get so complacent? What's the point of being given a second chance at life when I'm just wasting away?

Stop.

I've got to stop thinking this way. I'll never survive.

I'm only able to take half-breaths, and my lungs feel like sad, deflating balloons, but I push myself to run across the house toward the front door. I hardly make it three steps, when a hand wraps around my ankle and swipes me off my feet.

I go down hard and fast. My elbows bounce off the hardwood floor and my nose takes a direct hit, nearly knocking me unconscious. I can hardly see straight through the stars in my eyes when Gabe gets back up and sends his foot flying into my side.

“Stupid bitch.”

He kicks again. And again. Then he leans over and slams his fists into my back. Then my legs. Then, he lands a few blows into the back of my head.

I cry out in agonizing pain, my face still shoved against the floor in the puddle of blood pouring from my mouth and nose. My head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I can hardly hold it up enough to breathe, so I turn to rest on my cheek instead as my body takes the beating. Blood is gushing onto the floor and into my mouth, making the few shallow breaths that I can take wet and soggy.

I'm about to give up. There's no way I can break away from him for a third time in this condition. Especially when he's hardly taken any hits and has likely broken nearly every bone in my midsection.

He's stopped hitting me now. I'm wading in and out of consciousness, losing track of time. I have no idea where he went, but I don't feel his presence above me anymore. He must assume I'm knocked out. Or dead. I can't even fathom what he'll do to me now.

Death calls to me with her familiar, slow lullaby. She sounds so inviting, so peaceful. I want to drift away and escape all this pain and suffering. She agreed to give me a second chance, but it's only made me even more sure that this is what I want. To be with her…

I need this.

Just as I'm about to reach out and touch my old friend, a blur of blonde hair flashes in front of my eyes, forcing me to turn and focus my eyes above.

The blur appears again, faster this time. As if it's urging me to see something… to do something. Death's song fades farther away, and I can hear Gabe’s heavy footsteps trudging up and down the hall. I could swear a woman yells something above my head, snapping my attention back to the counter, where I can now see my butcher block is sitting right on the edge. I blink at it slowly.

That's weird. I don't remember moving it there. It's always lived by the stove.

Gabe must finish whatever he's doing down the hall, because I hear his footsteps coming closer again. The feminine voice has become so shrill, it's turned into a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

She's urging me to grab a knife. I've put that much together in my foggy mind. But how the hell am I supposed to do that? Every breath takes concentrated effort.

I have to make a decision. Death's song has become so drowned out by the ringing, I can hardly hear it anymore. Gabe must have turned back again. He's rummaging through my linen closet for something—probably a sheet to wrap my dead body up in.

In one last feeble, begrudging attempt at surviving, I use all my strength to throw my arm up toward the counter to grab a knife.

But it's at least six inches too short to reach the block.

“Fuck,” I breathe out, positive I'm going to die now.

But what happens when Death doesn't come back to guide me? Where do I go then?

The ringing gets louder again and the flash of blonde hair bustles past me with a quick, frantic energy.

She wants me to try again.

“I can't,” I wheeze out brokenly.

Angrily.

She chased Death away, and now I'm all alone.

The ringing somehow becomes even louder. As if she's arguing with me, provoking me.

Fine.

If it will put an end to this incessant ringing and bring Death's siren song back, I'll try again. Just to prove that I can't.

The linen closet door slams shut at the end of the hall, and I know I've only got seconds before he breaks past the wall and sees me alive. Using the blood pooled beneath me to my advantage, I slide my chest across the floor to get closer to the side of the cabinet. With everything I have to give, I jam my arm back into the air. And by some strange, inconceivable miracle, my fingers graze the counter and wrap around a cold, metallic blade.

The ringing turns into a satisfied hum when I pull the knife down to the floor with me. I'm holding the hilt so tight, my fingers are going numb. A burst of adrenaline has flooded into my veins, taking up the empty space left behind by my lack of blood. Gabe rounds the corner and, just as I predicted, he's holding a dark gray sheet. Just the right shade to hide the blood that would blossom through the fabric and incriminate him.

He leaves a wide berth around my body, carelessly throwing the sheet onto the floor beside me. My head is awkwardly turned in the opposite direction, feeding into the illusion that I'm more than half-dead, but I can feel his eyes grazing over me like talons. He harrumphs smugly,as if he's proud of his work.

Fucking bastard.Doesn't even feel any remorse for what he's done.

I want to lash out and stab him right now, but I know my body can't exert the effort it would take to reach that far. Instead, I have to lie as still as possible and wait for the perfect time—for him to come to me—hoping the blade is hidden far enough beneath me until then. I'm relying heavily on stupid luck, playing the unattainable game when my head is swimming, blood and adrenaline swirling around like the most toxic mix of fear and delusion. But any time I allow any negative thoughts to infiltrate my headspace, the ringing in my ears becomes more shrill, as if my guardian angel is clearing them before they take root inside my brain.

What is Gabe doing, anyway? He's been standing over me quietly for a suspiciously long time.

Wait a second.

The subtle, deep groan he releases from his chest vibrates against the floor beneath me.

Is that… is he…?

Oh, God. The sadistic asshole is jacking off over me. Over what he thinks is my dead corpse.

I'm going to be sick.

Well, if I had any doubt about stabbing him before, it's washed away with every grotesque grunt he's released through this entire psychopathic display.

I know he's finished when I hear the elastic waistband of his sweats snap back into place. His steps approach me again—probably to clean his jizz off his hands in my kitchen sink, the sick fucker—and I know I'm about to get my one and only shot.

Lucky for me, the universe is on my side for once. Gabe makes the grave mistake of stepping over me, and I watch with excited anticipation as the stars align perfectly, and I get a clear shot of his crotch.

Throwing every ounce of hate, betrayal, hurt, and anger that I have for this sad excuse of a man, I spin onto my back just as he's got his first leg over me, effectively trapping him in his spot. Then, without an ounce of hesitation, I jam the knife straight up.

Right into his dick.

Check. Mate.

Gabe roars, his voice reverberating off every surface in the house and amplifying against my ears. His cum-soaked hands grab at the knife that’s still lodged inside of him, but they're too slippery to get a good grip. Blood is gushing out of the wound and falling directly on my stomach. He doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m here anymore. He collapses onto his knees, then rolls onto his back, still releasing a series of agonizing screams that mine couldn’t even compete with.

What a spineless bastard?

His pain has somehow staved off my own, sending another bolt of adrenaline through my veins. With slow, weighted movements, I climb up to my knees and peer down at him. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face screwed into a broken, tormented expression.

Men are so weak. Women are capable of enduring days of labor pains, then pushing entire human beings out of their bodies, nearly splitting themselves in half in the process. We shed the linings of whole-ass organs and bleed quarts of blood every month, yet we’re still expected to do the same jobs as men during that time. For less money, I might add.

And here he is, crying because of a little cut to his manhood.

Pathetic.

The blonde blur is twirling laps around me, her high-pitched noises resembling something more akin to giggling than the screaming she was torturing me with earlier. If I catch sight of her long enough, I can almost make out her feminine form, but it’s like she's going out of her way to ensure I don’t get more than half a second to see her.

As if my hands are moving on their own, they reach out for the knife, magnetized to it. The girl laughs louder as I pull the knife out, inch by torturous inch, pulling even louder screams from Gabe’s mouth.

I should be running from him. His hands are fully functioning, and with this injury, he’d never catch up to me. But my body is far more beaten than my mind is allowing me to comprehend. Each breath feels like swallowing nails, and I can feel one of my ribs bent inward, probably scraping against some vital organ and causing severe internal bleeding.

If I ran, I wouldn’t make it far enough to find help. Not way out here.

I don’t even know where my phone is. My memory of everything before Gabe’s attack feels blurry, the thoughts swirling in the same way as the ghostly girl, close but just out of reach.

I’m going to die here.

I’ve already resigned myself to the fact. So I might as well fight.

Gabe’s eyes grow impossibly wide as I hold the knife above him, his limbs paralyzed in fear. Without a second thought, I drop my hands and jam the knife into his neck. This time, there’s no screaming. Instead, blood pours out of the wound, dropping down the side of his mouth as he makes distorted gurgling sounds.

Something about the sight breaks an integral piece inside of me. It severs a part of my conscious, and I turn into an raging beast.

Perhaps this is the sweet addictions my mystery man feels when he kills. Maybe we're more alike than I thought.

My hands lift again, then dig the knife back in. Repeatedly. In his stomach, his face, his arms, his legs. Everywhere. More times than I can even track. Not that I want to track. I don’t care if there’s nothing left of this shell of a human being. It still wouldn’t be enough of a punishment for what he’s done to me in all the years I’ve known him.

Only when there’s nothing left lying beneath me but an unrecognizable, bloodied corpse, I drop the knife and fall back onto the floor. Death’s song returns and, this time, the blonde girl doesn’t bother chasing her away.