Captive Angel Ch. 01

His big, sausage like fingers slid over her face, roaming over the red mark on her cheek made by his boss. "I was disappointed you chose to do what he wants," he whispered, lifting her chin with his fingers, cruelly holding her face still while his mouth came over hers.

Angel struggled against him, barely able to breath with his huge bulk holding her still. His tongue wiggled its way between her tightly clenched lips, pushing against her teeth until she opened them too. When she tried to bite him, he grabbed her breast through the layers of her scrubs and bra, squeezing until she moaned in pain.

"All I want is one kiss, bitch, so do it. Play nice, and I won't have to hurt you," he growled before kissing her again, lifting her so his groin pressed against hers. He dry humped her, pushing his obscenely large bulge against her cotton covered sex, grinding and rubbing, all the while slobbering wet kisses across her face.

Just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. He stepped back, letting her slide down his huge thigh before dropping to the floor. She sat there, staring up at him, terrified of what he planned to do next.

Clyde stood above her, shaking his head sadly. "It's too bad, just too bad you agreed. Oh well, maybe we'll get lucky, and the asshole will die. Then the boss will give you to me, cuz, Lord knows, that'll piss him off." With that, he turned away, walking to the door and shutting it behind him.

Angel heard the distinctive sound of a lock clicking before she jumped up, picked a likely door and hurried to it. Racing to the toilet, she lifted the lid and let the water she drank earlier come up. Tears streamed down her face, tears of pain and fear and rage even as she emptied her stomach.

Even then, the spasms continued, leaving her to dry heave until she thought she was dying. When the attack passed, she curled on the cool tile floor, pressing her cheeks against the coldness of the ceramic and wondered what she was going to do.

Even if she did what this jerk wanted her to do, he was going to kill her, she had no doubt. He hadn't tried to disguise himself. She saw his face and his man's face. They wouldn't let her live to run to the police. She had to escape, that was all there was to it. But could she? This place was huge, and she was sure she hadn't seen it all.

She forced herself off the floor, going to the sink and grabbing the wrapped toothbrush off the counter. Her brand of toothpaste was next to it and she quickly brushed the taste of her sickness out of her mouth before staring at herself in the mirror over the sink. Her eyes were rimmed with red, highlighted by the dark shadows under them. The green was lackluster, almost gray with worry and fear. Her face was pale, except where the red welt of the slap still marked her cheek. Her lips were swollen from being mauled by Clyde.

Her hair was a tangled mass of red, hanging well past her shoulder blades. It was limp, dirty from sweating in that box. She needed a shower. She'd feel better when she was clean. With that thought in mind, she returned to the main room, her eyes widening at the luxurious place.

It felt like a four star hotel, everything but the television anyway. A huge bed dominated the room, filled with pieces of furniture that were curved and gilded, covered in chintz and beads. Definitely not something she was used to living on her salary. Hurrying to the windows, she pushed aside the heavy draperies, staring at the bars bolted to the walls outside. The other window was the same, and she slammed her hand against the glass in frustration.

"Damn!" The room faced the back of a huge estate, looking over a large park like yard. Angel rested her forehead against the glass for a moment and sighed. Pushing away from the window, she walked to the long dresser, opened the drawers and found clothing, all new, though the tags were removed. All were in her size as if he somehow knew early enough in advance to buy it.

That thought scared her enough she grabbed a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, finding underwear and socks and headed back to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. She looked for a lock, but there wasn't one. Nor was there anything she could push against the door to keep anyone out.

There was a huge soaking tub along with a shower stall. She gave one yearning glance toward the tub before choosing the shower and turning on the water. She didn't know how much time she had before someone came to bring her food, and she didn't want to be caught undressed. She dropped her dirty clothes onto the floor, stepped into the glass-enclosed shower and, for just a second, allowed herself to luxuriate under the heavy spray of hot water.

Her eyes grew wide when she saw the shampoo and conditioner on the small glass shelf, along with the body gel and scrub. All were her brands right down to the small poof she used with the gel. How did he know? How long did he plan this?

She hurried and cleaned, grabbing a towel off a heated rack and drying off before forcing her still damp body into clean clothes. Curious, she opened the medicine cabinet. She could've been looking into her own at home. Her deodorant, her brand of floss, the Advil she liked to use for headaches, everything down to the package of rubber bands she kept for pulling her hair back. All were brand new, the seals still unbroken.

She grabbed the brush and used it on her hair, pulling mercilessly through the tangles. Her heart was beating way too fast and the air was whistling in her lungs. She felt strangely violated by this man knowing so much about her.

She carried the brush with her as she walked into the other room. A small tray sat on the bed. It wasn't there when she entered the bathroom; he must've come when she was in the shower. That thought gave her chills and she collapsed onto the side of the bed, her knees weak. She needed food, and she needed out of here.

She studied the tray, smelling the scent of bacon and eggs, a side of toast, a small bowl of sliced fruit. There was a huge glass of orange juice and a cup of steaming coffee. She had a fork, but no knife, and a small spoon for stirring her coffee. Picking up the toast, she sniffed at it before taking a tentative bite. Well, if it was drugged in any way, it was something she couldn't taste.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her it had been at least two days since her last hastily eaten meal at the hospital between emergencies. She picked up her fork and surprised herself by eating every bite.

She savored the coffee, definitely made by someone who knew his way around a coffee pot unlike the nasty brew they drank at work and the instant stuff, which was all she had time for in the morning before she left for work. As she was about to finish it off, there was a knock on the door. When it opened, he stood there.

She looked him over, noting in particular the gun he held in his hand. He motioned her forward with it.

"I'm glad you enjoyed your breakfast, doctor. Is there anything else we can get you?"

"You can put away the gun." Her eyes never left the shiny silver barrel. "They make me nervous."

"That's good. It means I won't have any problems with you then. You might want to go in and find the shoes in the closet over there, doctor. Where we're going you're going to need something on your feet."

She did as she was bid, pulling out a pair of soft tennis shoes the same style, brand and color as the ones she had at home, which added to the creepy feeling she'd been having. Without mentioning it, she pulled the shoes on her feet and quickly tied the laces.

"That's good, doctor. Now if you'll be so kind to come with me, I'll take you to your patient." He motioned with the gun, stepping back so that she exited the room first and then motioning her to the left, away from the hall she was familiar with. He stayed a few steps behind her, giving her directions when they came to another hall or a stairwell. Soon they arrived in an older area of the building, where no carpet was laid or wallpaper on the walls.

Cement block walls and concrete floors echoed their footsteps, and there was a decided chill in the air. She rubbed her bare arms under the dark purple tee shirt she wore and wished she'd grabbed a jacket.

"Stop right there." Her fussy captor halted her in front of a bank of elevators. He pressed the down button and motioned her into the car that opened up, smiling when she hesitated. "It's just an elevator, girl. Get in." His voice dripped with fake sympathy.

She took a deep breath and stepped calmly in, turning when he motioned her to. He hit the lowest button; a floor that would take them underground

and once more she wondered just how big this place was.

"My father bought this place off the government. It was some kind of research and design laboratory hidden by the mansion above it. It works well for my needs," he said, seeing the question she didn't ask in her eyes.

Angel refused to be drawn into conversation with him, instead watching the negative numbers as they flashed above the door. It stopped at level negative three and she grimaced, knowing she was under that much ground was going to be hard to ignore until she could get back on this elevator and ride it out of there.

The doors opened on another hallway, but this one was less than pristine as the others she'd seen. Cracked tiles, stained walls, mold and other fungi were easily discernable just from one quick glance. "You've an injured man down here in these conditions?" she asked him, outraged.

He just looked at her as if she were some strange insect he just discovered. "That way, please, doctor," he said, disregarding her words. He followed her out, fussily watching where he walked so not to soil his shoes or the cuffs of his pants.

At the end of the hall was a huge white door, locked from the outside with a coded lock. He motioned her off to the side with the gun and quickly typed in the six-digit code, blocking the pad from her sight. The door swung open, revealing a small room. It was dingy white with a small plastic table and two chairs in one corner. In the other was a silver-colored toilet and sink. But what shocked her the most was what laid on the tiny cot bolted against a wall.

He was a tall man, his feet hanging off the end of the short cot, and his arms chained above his head to a heavy-duty eyehook in the wall. His messy hair was shaggy as if he usually kept it short and was three months late for his next hair cut. Bruises and scrapes covered his body. She saw it all. The cuffs were the only thing he wore.

"What's this?" she asked, her eyes wide with shock.

"This is your patient."