Jim Miller Jim Miller
Recommendations: 29

"I didn't think, I didn't feel, I just walked." should be "I didn't think; I didn't feel; I just walked", or "I didn't think. I didn't feel. I just walked."

Jim Miller Jim Miller
Recommendations: 29

Is this a flashback to her time with her tormenter? I'm not sure about this. Can you make it more obvious? Maybe use italics, or something?

Jim Miller Jim Miller
Recommendations: 29

But I have never read sappy romance novels. And who is Nicholas Sparks? Make sure your analogies are in sync with your audience.

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Chelsie Motley Chelsie Motley
Recommendations: 1

Escaping Bad Love (Part 1)


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Escaping Bad Love (Part 2)

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Under the Double Star - Chapter One

This writing contains explicit content and is only for adults. You have been warned.

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                                                                              PROLOGUE:


I knew what I'd done the moment I closed the door.


The chill of December snow began to gnaw at my bare arms and already cold hands; the same cold hands that weren't smart enough to pick up my jacket when I hurried out of the motel suite. I considered bursting back through the door, grabbing my jacket, maybe even flipping him the bird while I'm at it, but figured it wouldn't help my current situation.


But then again, at least I'd have a jacket.


But then again, he has a gun.


Okay, so no jacket. I checked my watch. 1:48 A.M. The keys to my car were inside too, and no bus would ever consider coming this way, even if it wasn't near two AM.


So I decided to walk.


Well, I didn't actually decide to walk. It just sort of happened. Something strange happens to you when you've reached your lowest point. When you begin to seriously worry if you'll make it another day, you begin to loose sight of who you are or used to be. When you're bone tired from fighting, when you're stomach aches so much from hunger it goes numb, when the cold becomes so unbearable it feels warm.


When the open cuts and the bruises sting so much, you start to enjoy their pain.


When you reach this point, you don't own your body anymore; your body begins to own you. You don't take care of your body, it takes care of you. Your mind, the thing that makes you you, and let's you make your own choices, is put to the side, and your brain takes control instead. You feel like an animal, letting your natural instincts become the critical part of your survival. And they're always right.


So when my body told me to start walking, I didn't argue, I just walked. I walked in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. I didn't think. I didn't feel. I just walked. 1 comment


And because I just walked, I didn't see the lights behind me


Because I just walked, I didn't hear the horns blaring at me.


Because I just walked, I didn't feel the truck hit me.


But it did.


I knew what I'd done the moment I closed the door. The minute I left that bastard, I decided I was done living.


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                                                                      CHAPTER 1

Except, death doesn't come.


"Oh my God, oh my God, ma'am!" A car door opens and slams shut, then another. "Ma'am, are you alright?! Oh my.. shit! Shit, are you dead?!"


The deep, smoke-stained voice of a man pokes at my haziness. His hands are touching me, and his mouth is too close to my face, but I don't care, I'm finally so close. So close to not feeling, to not being anymore....


A hard slap across my face brings me jolting awake again.


The voice belongs to a rather fat, ugly man who, at the sudden sight of my large green eyes, jumps back and sprawls on his very large ass.


"What the fuck did you slap me for?!" I'm screaming. I'm also laying on my back. I try to sit up, but get as far as my elbows before I tire out. The sting of his hand begins to register with more time. And the more it register, the angrier I feel.


"You looked dead!"


"Of course I looked dead, you basically ran me over! I should be dead you moron!"


"Well, you're not!" The fat man begins to, unsuccessfully, pull himself onto his short, plump legs, all the while never breaking eye contact. He has small, beady eyes, that, even from a distance, I can tell are an intense, bright blue. "So rather than yelling at me, maybe you should be thanking me for waking you up!" He was on his feet now, and quite out of breath.


"And what if I wanted to die?"


The man looks at me silently, and I use this time to view him in more detail. He's still fat and ugly, but something about his facial structure and abnormally protruding belly suggests that he wasn't always like this. He seems like someone who would have been strong, handsome and happy in his younger days, but was grounded and shaken permanently by the storm of life.


The man is still staring at me.


"Fine, stay here. By the look of all that blood, you won't have to wait too long to get what you want."


The voice didn't belong to the man. My head instinctively shoots to the left, where the words came from, and a sharp, deafening pain sends me back to the hard pavement.


Everything goes black.


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As I gain consciousness again, I feel the blood around my head the other voice was talking about. There's a large, clump of something (a T-shirt, maybe) matted around my head and soaked with my thick DNA. I hadn't even registered that there was another man standing there. I suddenly feel weak and defenseless. I could have handled myself with one man, but two?


The two men are arguing now.


"Jason! Stop talking like that. We are not going to leave her." the fat man's voice is stern.


"Dad, you heard her! She wants to die, so let her. It's not our fault she got hit, if anyone's its hers! Who in their right mind walks in the middle of the street at fucking two AM?"


"I'm not asking anymore! Just shut up, and put this lady in the fucking tr..."


"Leave me." My brain says for me. It always knows best.


The two men pause for a moment in their arguing. Shocked, I guess, that I was awake again.


"I agree. It's too damn cold, and it's starting to rain. I'm getting back in the truck." I hear Jason stomping back to the vehicle. Was it raining? I can't feel anything but the pain in my head and the warm blood surrounding it.


"How about this then?" The older man says calmly. He just wouldn't give up. I turn my head towards the older of the two, and open my eyes all the way. "We leave her, its considered murder. That's bad. We take her to the hospital and drop her off there, we're good samaritans, heroes even. I already slapped her, so they got my fingerprints and shit to run tests by. So you'll either help me put her in the truck, or we can wait around and see how long it takes one of those fancy new police cars to ride by, and arrest us."


Jason is hesitant. I can feel it in the silence.


"Fuck.." Jason swears under his breath, but he slams the door to the truck and starts making long, powerful strides over to my limp body.  Suddenly, his arms are around my legs, then my neck. I consider fighting him back, or getting up and running away, but my body is weak, and if I was being honest, I wanted nothing more than to feel the strength and warmth of someone else at this point.


All my bravery from 1:48 AM is gone. So I let Jason pick me up.


"Ouch!" I hiss, and retaliate as he hits a sore spot on my neck.


"What, where does it hurt?" I look up at him. There was almost compassion in his expression.


Almost.


"My neck, its really fucked up. Just, try around the shoulders," I croak. He grunts, but complies. As we walk back to their truck, I hear him mutter something nasty under his breath about me being "overly-sensitive," like I'd just been hit by a truck or something. His breath reaks of booze, and his shirt is coated with sweat, which also smells like booze. I find the sweating particularly strange, considering it's late January and freezing outside. I wonder how he isn't uncomfortable. The scent of liquor mixed with my large loss of blood is enough to make me nauseous. I'm more than relieved when we get to the car.


"Put her down gently, now," the older man cautions, as he opens the door for Jason to lay me across the leather seats.


Leather. The simple sight sends a wave of painful memories crashing through my head. I'm so familiar with everything about the material: the smell, the texture, the feel as it breaks against my bare skin. I've lived with leather for a year and a half, and it still makes me sick and tingly every time I'm near it.


My head begins to feel thick and heavy, and soon I'm not in Jason's large arms anymore; I'm back in Motel 6, at 1:35 AM. 1 comment


"Who am I? Say it, you whore, or I'll make you."


I refused to say it. I would never say it. He'd already taken so much from me. My love, my hope, my sanity, my life. He would never have this.


"TELL ME WHO THE FUCK I AM!" The leather whip cracked as the last of his words boomed from his chest. A streak of fire raced across my back, and I arched away from it. Blood dripped from where I bit my lip, and fell down my chin to my raw and open breasts. My bare back and swollen ass were already covered in welts and lines of blood, yet it still hadn't come.


Be patient Emily, just wait for the pleasure...


The sensation bubbled slowly in my core, taunting me. I knew it was coming, but when it broke free and flooded the rest of my loose, aching body, it still sent my head swimming like always. I cried out, and yanked uselessly against the restraints holding up my arms. It seemed like a lifetime had passed before I came down from my orgasm.


And the moment I did, I cursed myself to hell. Again.


I was crying now. Mercilessly sobbing to the air. It was my fault. I wanted this. It was my fault. It was always my fault.


Mid-sob, a large hand spread itself around my neck, and forced me to look at the face of the one who pleasured me so terribly. His dark brown eyes captured me, and his dark skin made him a mere silhouette in the dim lighting.


He whispered to me, deep and strong. "Who. Am. I?"


I breathed, and finally said "Master," feeling weak, pity, and degraded.


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                                                                      CHAPTER 2

The light is too bright.


The light is too God damn bright, and I have no idea where it was coming from or how to turn it off. I look to my right to escape the intensity, and would have closed my eyes if another pair hadn't been staring at me. I jump, and the room fills with rapid beeping.


"I'd keep calm, if I were you." It was Jason. "Any more beeping and those nice people in white will be in here in, well, a heartbeat," he flashes a crooked grin, and I want nothing more than to smack it off his face.


I spit at him.


He giggles. "Well now, the kitty's got sharper claws than I thought."


"You tried to leave me to die last night."


He shrugs. "You asked us to."


"Oh please, you saw me, you saw my condition, I obviously wasn't in the most stable state of mind." I tried to mimic his taunting tone of voice as best as I could with needles sticking in my everywhere. The twitch of his boyish grin told me I'd failed miserably. He leaned in closer to whisper to me, and I instinctivly leaned away.


"We. Saved. You," he articulates. "More technically, I saved you, considering my Dad's old days of football and heavy lifting are long gone. I'm trying to apologize for what I said last night in the process of saving you. It was late, I was tired, and a little drunk.


"A little?" I ask, skeptically.


"Okay I was pretty drunk. And I'd like to start over, this time with a proper introduction, maybe a 'nice to meet you.'" He was flashing that crooked smile again, and it was making me sick. Drunk or not, my life was at risk last night because of him, and it's a bit unnerving to think that with one more shot of whiskey I could still be bleeding in the street.


He was staring at me now.


"Fine, fine you can start over." I say, quite sarcastically, ignoring the little voice telling me to spit at him again. He doesn't notice, though, and his crooked grin expands into a full blown crescent moon.


"Hi, I'm Jason. Jason Lee." He extends his hand, and I glare at him. He keeps his hand extended, though, and his smile stays plastered on his face, but as I continue to refuse his gesture, his eyebrows knit together in slight confusion.


"One: I'm lying in a hopital bed the morning after being hit by a car..."


"Truck." he corrects me.


"Even worse. Either way, I'm not shaking your hand. Two: You are very not Asian, why is your last name Lee?" My tone is bitter, and now oozing with sarcasm. He recoils, and his eyebrows raise in mock surprise, the crescent moon falling, and his sly grin slowing creeping back into place.


"You just won't let up, will you."


"I don't tend to forgive people who try and leave me for de..."


"Okay will you shut up, with what happened last night? I said I'm sorry, and I'm trying to show you, okay? I'm trying." His change in tone is sudden and sharp; one second he is lit with light humor, teetering on the boarderline of flirting, and the next it's like I'm back at Motel 6 looking into the eyes of...


No, Emily, don't.


I look away for a second, and close my eyes tightly, grounding myself back in the current day. When I open them again, Jason's expression had changed. Again. He looks at me briefly with apologetic eyes, and a pained expression, like he's starting to regret the words he's said and the anger they came with. Mental Note #1 of Jason Lee: he is quite moody.


He sighs. "Look, I'm sorry. Again. It's been a long night, I'm still a little hungover, and I'm saying things I don't mean to. I'll just, just shut up. Deal?" This time, not only do I get that sly, crooked grin, but he throws in a flirtatous wink for good measure. I very obviously gag. He chuckles in response, and steps closer to my bed. His hands are shoved into his pant pockets. "You look tired too. You should get some rest. Maybe, if you want, I can come back by tomorrow, maybe bring some non-hospital foo..."


"Goodbye Jason," I cut him off instantly. I've read enough sappy romance novels to know when someone's attempting (emphasis on ATTEMPTING) to flirt with you, and I wasn't having it. I'm not that girl, and this is not going to be a Nicholas Sparks novel remake, not when our story started with me bleeding in the street and him nearly refusing to save me. 1 comment


But he didn't flinch, and he didn't move, he was still looking at me. His face was stone, and his eyes had turned somber. At some point he had stood up, and was now looking down on me. I didn't mean to, but I started to look at him closer. He wasn't extraordinarily good looking, nor was he displeasing to the eye. He was somewhere in the middle, leaning more towards the extraordinary side. He reminded me of the man his father may have been when he was younger: tall and strong, with dark hair, and an intensly angular facial structure. His eyes were an intense blue, just like his father's, but they lacked the youth and happiness of a man his age. Whatever his age was. He looked like he was mid-30s, much older than my 21 years, but I wasn't sure.


A slight knock on the door startled both of us. A young, thin nurse dressed in all white very politely informed Jason that visiting hours were over, and that the doctor would be in soon to check on my condition. She was in and out of the room in less than 1 minute, but Jason never took his eyes off of me.


"What is your name?" He said suddenly, no trace of emotion in his voice. I should have commented on his literal 6th mood change in our 20 minute conversation, but something else caught my attention. Had I not mentioned my name yet? I could feel my eyes widen slightly, as realization began to sette in.


"Goodbye Jason."


"I will leave, when I know your name. So I can give it to the nurse."


"So you can visit me tomorrow." I spat back at him. Our eyes remained locked. Have I really not given him my name?


"I will leave, when you give me your name. And yes, I will be back tomorrow. Nearly leaving someone to die in your drunken and angry state tends to make you feel a tad bit guilty, and I have every intention to return and make it up until my conscious is clear. Don't take it personally, sweetheart."


"Charming." I respond, rolling my eyes. Even this gesture takes effort, though, with my thoughts racing as they are.


"What is your name?" he demanded again.


I can't believe I haven't given him my name. This could be my chance.


Silence.


"What. Is. Your. Name?"


No way. This is my chance. I won't give him my name, not my real name. If he know's my name, he'll tell the nurse. And if my name is out there again, then He will find me. But right now, he can't. I'm gone, dead. I can be free. This is my chance.


"WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"


I know my name, I do, it's Emily Daines. But in my potential impending freedom, I can not think of a fake name fast enough. But suddenly, I speak.


"Jenny. Jenny Rhoades," I respond.


The brain always knows just what to do.


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