Beyond the Breaking Point - Lori Sjoberg Page 0,83
up with his first public erection since high school.
Before he made a total ass of himself, he turned and headed for the door.
Chapter 21
Alone for the first time in days, Hope toed off her shoes, curled her toes in the carpet, and basked in the wonders of silence, safety, and solitude.
Such a simple thing, being alone and unafraid, a combination she hadn’t experienced for the better part of a year. There were so many things she wanted to do, things she used to take for granted: talk to her uncle, eat a real meal. Read a book. Sleep in a bed.
But first, she wanted a shower.
At the compound, she hadn’t felt safe enough to properly bathe, and had mostly relied on quick sponge baths after barricading herself in the bathroom. Eager to be clean, she set Wade’s razor on top of the stack of clothes she’d retrieved from her old room at the compound, stripped to the skin, and locked herself in the bathroom—what could she say; old habits died hard.
The water pressure was weak, and the hottest setting wasn’t all that hot, but she didn’t care one bit. For a few minutes, she stood there with her eyes closed, naked beneath the showerhead, and let the water splash over her body. It was heaven. She released a long, contented sigh as the last bits of stress and tension bled away from her body.
In her rush, she’d forgotten the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner, but luckily there was a small bar of soap on the tray on the wall. Not the greatest way to wash her hair, but it wasn’t any worse than what she’d used during her months of captivity. She cleaned her face, her body, her hair, not stopping until the last bits of dirt and grime swirled down the drain and her skin was pink from scrubbing.
Feeling refreshed for the first time in what felt like forever, she shut off the water and dried away the droplets with a big, white, fluffy towel. Now that she was clean, she hated the idea of getting dressed. Yes, she had clean clothes, but they were the ones Aranza had provided for her. Putting them on felt…wrong. Then again, it wasn’t as though she had much choice, at least until she went shopping.
She wiped the steam off the mirror over the vanity and took stock of her reflection. Needless to say, she saw no point in asking who was the fairest of them all, because it certainly wasn’t her. If anything, she was relieved the glass didn’t shatter. Sleep deprivation, sun exposure, and poor nutrition had taken a toll on her body. She’d also lost some muscle tone, though it wasn’t as bad as she’d expected.
On the bright side, most of it was reversible. With regular sleep, better diet, a whole lot of moisturizer, and a return to her regular workout routine, she’d snap back to normal in no time.
A noise outside the bathroom made her breath catch in her throat. She went completely still, her ears straining. Fear slid through her veins. Her gaze flicked to the doorknob, relieved to see she’d remembered to flip the lock.
Her first thought was to call out, “Who’s there?” but shit like that got people in horror movies killed, as did going to investigate strange noises. Still, it wasn’t as if she could stay in the bathroom forever. Sooner or later, she’d have to go out and see who—or what—was in her room.
Not making a sound, she tugged on tan pants and a white short-sleeve blouse, and then searched for something to use as a weapon. The pickings were slim; she settled on the only thing in the room with some heft—the hair dryer. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Steeling her nerves, she yanked open the bathroom door.
And saw nothing to sound an alarm.
To be safe, and yes, because she was paranoid, she checked the closet, behind the curtains, under the beds, and her grip on the hair dryer relaxed when she didn’t find any knuckle-dragging psychopaths lurking about.
Relieved and feeling somewhat foolish, she plopped down on one of the beds and set the dryer on the nightstand. In the back of her mind, she wondered how long it would be until she felt at ease. A month, six months? Odds were, she would never feel truly safe until Roberto Aranza was behind bars…or six feet under. She didn’t like to think in those terms, but the drug