Loving the Cult Read online

  “Don't make me do this.”

  “Do what?” I retort. “I'm not making you do anything!”

  Jameson's face is completely guarded as he approaches me, forcefully takes my hand, and leads me to the closet.

  “No! I'm not going in there!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Before I can tense my muscles to put up a fight, I'm thrown through the door and plunged into darkness, followed only by the click of the lock as it settles into place.

  I wake hours later, my limbs curled painfully under my torso. My throat is sore from screaming obscenities at Jameson and I have to pee like a Russian race horse even though I haven't had anything to drink in hours.

  Being enraged, sore, and hopeless isn't a good combination. Never in a million years did I think something like this would happen to me. I still have yet to figure out why it happened.

  I've always been so sure that I would lead a mediocre, unimpressive life. I planned on working my boring job until retirement, where I would then sit in a threadbare recliner playing solitaire until the day I choked on a popcorn kernel and left the world, cold and alone.

  That was the plan. This definitely isn't part of the grand scheme of things. Taken by a group of crazies and stuffed in a closet is not my idea of fun, but I have to admit, it doesn't lack excitement.

  “Excitement is overrated,” I grumble to myself as I stretch out along the closet floor. I can't stand up because of the row of shirts hanging above my head, but the floor is mostly empty, so I'm able to readjust myself more comfortably.

  If I can just go back to sleep, maybe I'll wake up with a clear head, muscles that aren't burning and sore, and above all else, a plan.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I startle at the knocking even though it's soft and not the least bit menacing. But that doesn't keep my mind from overacting and sending a flood of adrenaline through my veins.

  “Tess?”

  Even though his voice is muffled, I can tell it's him. It's Jameson, and he sounds... dejected.

  I prop myself up on my knees and turn the door knob. It's still locked.

  “You okay?”

  I huff and shake my head, completely aware that he can't see me. Who hits a woman, throws her into a closet, and then asks if she's okay? A crazy man, that's who.

  “Yes, Jameson,” I yell. “I'm just fucking ecstatic. I love dark, cramped closets.”

  There's silence on the other side of the door and I think for a minute that he's left me again, fed up by my snarky remarks.

  “Jameson?”

  Again, he doesn't respond and I'm about to say screw it and try to kick the door open, but my heart leaps into my throat as I hear the click of the lock.

  The cynic in me starts to wonder why he's letting me out. Surely he can hear from my tone that I'm far from done, far from giving up. I shield my eyes from the glare of a lamp next to the bed and wait to be hauled from the closet, but Jameson doesn't advance.

  Blinking to clear my vision, I crawl out of the closet and shakily get to my feet. I'm drained. Between the tantrum I threw after he locked me in the makeshift prison and my lack of sustenance, I'm dead on my feet.

  “Here.”

  I squint at the object he holds in his hands and grab for it once I realize what it is. Water.

  After chugging the entire bottle, I gasp for breath, immediately thinking that was a bad idea. My stomach is rolling. There's a very big chance that I might throw up every ounce of blessed water I just downed.

  “You really shouldn't drink so fast,” Jameson says softly.

  “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.”

  He cringes at my profanity and I think for a moment he's going to hit me again, but he just balls up his fists and looks away.

  “What?” I say, offering him the empty bottle. “You gonna hit me because I said a bad word?”

  Of course, it doesn't matter that I was abducted, or that I'm being held hostage by a bunch of lunatics; I still can't control my damn mouth. I have a feeling he doesn't appreciate my sarcasm and I know I'll probably pay for that little remark later, but Jameson does something I'm not expecting.

  He smiles.

  “A bad word?” He turns back to face me. “What, are you ten?”

  I'm still pissed, but he did just manage to bring the tension in the room down a couple degrees.

  “Oh, look at you, you do have a sense of humor.”

  He lifts an eyebrow, takes the bottle I'm still holding and throws it in a small trash can. “I do. I'm not a drone.”

  “Aren't you?”

  He lowers his chin as if to say 'seriously', but that really is how I see him. A drone.

  “I'm assuming you always take orders from Crazy Lady downstairs?” His eyes flutter away from my face and I know I've hit the nail on the head. “See? A drone. I could tell from the moment you stepped foot in that room down there. Whatever this place is, those three down there rule the roost. That queen bee barks orders and you scurry to obey. You're a drone.”

  Jameson finally lifts his eyes to look at me. His brows are drawn together and lips are set in a firm line.

  “You can't talk like that here.”

  “I'm sorry, did we leave the United States without me knowing? Last I checked, we still had freedom of speech here.”

  “Just because you're free to say whatever you like, doesn't mean there won't be consequences.”

  “Ah, yes, the closet. Oh, and the backhand, can't forget that. That was a joy.” I know if I'm not careful, my smart mouth is going to get me in even deeper trouble, but I stopped caring an hour after being locked in the closet.

  “I didn't want to do those things.”

  “Of course not, but she expects you to. Right? Batshit crazy woman downstairs expects her drones to obey, and part of that is making sure your pet stays in line. Am I right? Am I getting close, Jameson?”

  My eyes are drawn to his mouth as his tongue darts out to lick his lips. I've always thought that was an insanely hot gesture on guys, especially guys built like Jameson, but it's not meant to be alluring. Paired with the head-shake and crossed arms, its obvious he's annoyed.

  “You may have me figured out, but that doesn't change your circumstances.”

  “My circumstances? And what are those exactly?”

  “That you're here,” he barks, louder than I expected, “and you're not going anywhere.”

  “Why?” I ask cautiously. “Because you won't let me?”

  He lets out an aggravated sigh and sits down in a huff at the foot of the bed.

  “No, because no one will let you.”

  I could say that he just voiced my deepest fears, but that's not entirely true. I had a hunch that I wasn't going to be set free anytime soon, so this news isn't surprising.

  I'm bullheaded, I know that, but I also know that I've never been in a situation I couldn't get myself out of. So, his warning, his threat, the words mean less than nothing to me.

  I'll be walking out that front door by the end of the week.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You and your queen can suck it. You can't keep me here against my will.”

  Am I being a cocky pain in the ass? Yes. Am I scared of Jameson hitting me again or throwing me back in the closet? A little. Am I going to fall in line and do everything he asks of me just because I'm a tiny bit scared? Not a chance in hell.

  “You do know your mouth is gonna get you into trouble around here, right?” Jameson is whispering now, and I'm not sure who he's trying to hide from.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  He must not like the volume of my voice because he reaches out and smacks his hand over

  my mouth, which I slap away. Growling in frustration, he stands and makes his way to the door. Opening it for a few seconds, he listens to outside noises before closing and locking it behind him.

  “You do know that the lock is on this side of the door, right? I could very easily unlock it and stroll down the hall.”

  “It's
not you strolling out that I'm worried about,” he says, taking a seat on the floor and propping his back against the wall. “It's other people strolling in.”

  Seeing him getting comfortable grates on my nerves and I think I've finally had enough. I don't see the point in sitting here all night chit-chatting about meaningless shit.

  “Jameson, what the hell am I doing here? And why can't I leave?”

  “Because.”

  Lamest. Answer. Ever.

  “Because....?”

  “Because you belong to me now.”

  He doesn't sound like he's too thrilled by that idea. In fact, he sounds bored.

  “And that means what, exactly? You're a fucking pro when it comes to evading my questions.”

  Propping his elbows up on his knees, he opens his hands, palms up, like he's at a complete loss and doesn't know how to answer me.

  “Fine.” Even though my muscles are still screaming at me from my rendezvous in the closet, I get down on my knees, and scoot back against the bed, mirroring his stance. “If I'm not going anywhere, at least tell me why I was thrown in the bed of a pickup and driven to some run-down ranch in the middle of nowhere and given to you. What are you guys? Some kind of cult?”

  Jameson presses his index finger to his lips, telling me to be quiet. “Don't use that word.”

  “Why?” I ask, attempting to keep my voice down. “Because cults don't like to be called cults?”

  “We're the Children of Neutrality. We're not a cult.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “A family,” he says without hesitation.

  “So, you're all related?”

  “By cause.”

  I've never heard that phrase in my life, so I shake my head, hoping he'll elaborate. After a long, drawn out sigh, I know he's about to.

  “Some families are related by blood, others by adoption or marriage or even just necessity. We are all related by cause.” He looks to me, but I'm still lost. “It means we came together with a purpose. We live together, we help each other, we all believe in and work to achieve a common goal.”

  “So... you're a cult.”

  “A family,” he repeats.

  “Right,” I laugh. “Just like the Manson family.”

  “They were monsters!” Jameson yells and my hand flies to my chest before I can stop myself. I know I've been pressing his buttons, but I didn't expect him to lash out. I won't say it scared me, but it sure as hell surprised me.

  “They killed people,” he continues at a normal volume. “We don't go looking for people to hurt.”

  “Oh yeah, of course not. You just kidnap people and hold them here against their will. Totally not the same thing.”

  “It's not.” His eyes have grown dark, and I know I should quit while I'm ahead or I'll be stuffed back in that closet.

  “Fine,” I say, “You're not a cult and you're not killers. Just perfectly respectable citizens who just happen to have humans as pets. Gotcha.”

  After a beat, Jameson shakes his head. “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Well, one of us needs to have a sense of humor.”

  “Most women who come here are scared to death. They beg for mercy, they cry, they try to bargain and bribe their way out the door. Why not you? Why aren't you begging me to release you?”

  “Well, for one, I know there's nothing I can say to you that will make you change your mind. I've pretty well established that you're a nut job.”

  He shoots me a warning glare which I choose to ignore.

  “And I don't have anything to use as a bargaining chip. I don't have a lot of money, I'm not related to anyone powerful, and there's nothing in my life that has any value, monetary or otherwise. Also, those other women were probably scared. I'm not. You think that's the first time I've been hit by a man? The first time someone's locked me in a closet? Please, my father had a much heavier hand than you.”

  I leave it at that. I don't want this psychotic stranger to feel sorry for me. That's not part of the plan.

  “You're taking all of this incredibly well,” he says. “Why is that?”

  “Because, Jameson,” I whisper, staring into his eyes, refusing to blink, “It doesn't matter what you do, what you say, or what anyone else here thinks... If I want to leave, I'll find a way to leave.”

  My teeth lock together so tightly my molars are aching. My words weren't lacking conviction, I've got that in spades, but the doubt I see in Jameson's eyes grinds my gears. Of course he doesn't believe me, he's my own personal warden.

  “Don't you want to know why you're here?”

  “Does it really matter? Your friend downstairs said I wasn't going to be killed, so I'm assuming you're not going to make a suit out of my skin.”

  “You assume correctly,” he says. “But it's a little baffling, you not demanding answers. You seem like a fairly demanding person.”

  The truth is, I do want to know why I was taken. But I refuse to let him hold anything over my head. As much as I want answers, I don't need them. Not right now anyway. My head is still firmly attached to my body for the time being and that's enough for me.

  “I guess you could call me demanding, but I pick my battles wisely.”

  “And answers aren't worth fighting for?”

  “Eh, it depends on the questions, I guess.”

  Jameson shakes his head and pushes off the floor, offering me his hand. I know I shouldn't trust him, but I don't have anything to lose, so I take it and he hoists me up before gesturing to the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  I haven't exactly felt safe in this room, but I don't know what awaits me on the other side of that door. He could be taking me to a torture chamber, or an overcrowded prison cell filled with other women, or a freaking gang-bang for all I know.

  “Relax,” he says, his eyes going soft and kind once he registers my panic. “We're just going down to the kitchen.”

  “What for?” I snap.

  He grumbles and I feel the overpowering urge to punch him in the mouth. My question isn't silly, not after all I've been through.

  “To get you something to eat. Your stomach has been growling the entire time we've been talking. I need to get some food in you before it drives me insane.”

  “Oh...”

  “Just one thing,” he says, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.

  “What?” My panic is nowhere to be found now that he's mentioned food. I'm starving. I would have no problem mowing him down right now just to get at a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  “You can't talk.”

  Yeah, that's not going to be easy...

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs. “If someone speaks to you, then you can answer. Otherwise, mouth closed.”

  “Do you really expect me to follow you around like a dog, heeding to your every command?”

  Looking over his shoulder, the sadness in his eyes is palpable.

  “If you don't want to be hit by someone who actually means you harm, then yes.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I try to get my bearings as we venture down the hallway in silence. At first, I thought this house was just a spacious ranch style home, but now I'm seeing that I was mistaken. Yes, I'm sure we're on some kind of ranch, but this isn't a house. It's laid out almost like a hotel or barracks.

  The top floor is nothing but four hallways lined with doors. In the center of each white metal door is a gold painted number. Ours is 117. I have no idea how many rooms there are, but it wouldn't surprise me if they started at 1. The uniformity of it all gives me chills.

  Downstairs is another story. I recognize the double doors that revealed Jameson to me. Aside from those, there are only archways leading to different rooms which seem cavernous in length.

  “What all's down here?” I whisper.

  Jameson grabs my hand and squeezes until my fingers tingle from halted blood flow.

  “Shh,” he breathes out the corner of his mouth.

  There's
no one around us, so I don't know why I have to be quiet. That is, until Jameson coughs and tilts his head upward just the tiniest bit. Looking up with him, I notice small black half-spheres planted in each corner.

  Cameras.

  Okay, those answers I told Jameson I didn't need, I'm pretty sure I need them now, because this place gets freakier with every step I take.

  As we wind our way into the center-most room in the building, a dull roar begins to grow. At first, I don't recognize it, but there's a memory in the back of my mind that tingles as if I should know that noise. Once again, I look to Jameson for answers, but he looks as nervous as I'm beginning to feel.

  Finally nearing the end of the corridor, I recognize the noise and why it seemed so familiar. It's a sound I've hated since my first day of high school. Forks scraping against plates, garbled voices of a large crowd as they gossip, the screeching of chairs as people come and go... It's a cafeteria.

  I stop short. “No.”

  “Aren't you hungry?”

  If I wasn't still so pissed and confused, I might enjoy the compassion in his voice, but as it is, I'm still those things as well as a host of other emotions I can't pinpoint. I had held onto my anger until now, even managing to mold it into indifference, but this has spiked memories in me that I'll never be able to overcome. I know I'll go into full panic mode the minute I cross that threshold and see dozens of eyes sizing me up.

  “No. I'm not hungry. Let's just go back upstairs.”

  Jameson shakes his head before pulling me after him. “You have to eat.”

  “Dammit, Jameson, please!”

  I try to dig my heels into the hardwood floor, but he continues to pull me after him, heading for the crowd.

  “I don't want to go in there.”

  “Is there a problem here?”

  Both Jameson and I freeze as the woman from our first meeting strolls beneath the archway. Her shoulder-length red hair swishes back and forth with each step and she looks less than pleased.

  “I said, is there a problem here, Jameson?”