In the Shackles of Love by Patrick S. (books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📖

silver tumbling across his vision. He crawled up the stairs, expecting Renae to try and lock him inside. If that happened, there would be no reasoning with her, for he had installed no other means of escape in the basement.

Surprisingly, she was gone. The shed door was still quivering. She must have run into his yard.

Pain began to pound inside his head.

This was his fault. He had not explained himself well enough, and Renae probably thought him a creep and a rapist, the lowliest scum. Communication was one of the foundations of a relationship, after all, and he hadn’t communicated his wishes and intents to the one person with whom he should

have been honest.

He must find her before she escaped. In her frantic state of mind, mistakenly believing she was a prisoner, she could get herself hurt in a dozen ways within minutes.

Eliot burst into his gilded backyard, looking for any sign of Renae.

No movement. He could hear nothing but an annoying whine in his ears, and for a moment had to steady himself against the shed as dizziness spun the world.

A flash of something brought him to attention. He looked in time to see a darting blue shape running from a bush to the front of his house.

His house doors were not locked. Nor was the garage door. The pickup keys were in the ignition. He had no reason to expect violence--something he might regret if Renae had the wherewithal to act with haste.

She had not been to his house, therefore was ignorant to its layout. The advantage was his for the moment.

Holding his head, pleased to feel no blood, Eliot splashed through puddles to his back door.

He was in the dining room. A hallway led right, to the bathroom and basement door, and the kitchen lay through the opening in front. He listened, heard no movements, and decided that Renae was most likely to search aboveground for a weapon first.

He moved through to the kitchen.

A floorboard squeaked somewhere ahead and to the right. The staircase was the only explanation; she was climbing it in order to search his bedrooms for any gun--something he did not own. He hated guns.

Unless...

Perhaps he had misinterpreted her actions. She could have been surprised when she hit him with the board, but then realized her mistake and now sought to lure him to his bedroom, where she could apologize with both her words and her body. She would know he’d follow her. She was a levelheaded woman, after all, and loved him.

He wanted desperately to believe it, but could not take the risk of being foolhardy. He knew enough about love to see that sometimes women, while in their monthly cycle, could be particularly irrational. The man in the relationship must protect her from everything, often times from herself. Thus, he would act with the belief that she was trying to escape--though she wasn’t a prisoner to begin with--and hold out hope for the other, more pleasant alternative.

From a drawer, he extracted a butter knife before crossing into the foyer and starting up the stairs.

On the second floor, he paused to see if there were any open doors or footprints. None. She must have removed her shoes, because they would otherwise have been tracking mud across the beige carpeting.

Three rooms on the right, two on the left, with one of those being the attic. It was unlikely she would go there: it was a dead end. In her mind, she wanted escape, and the attic would be the end of the line.

So, the other rooms.

He started in systematic order, silently opening each door and searching for any sign of his beloved.

He considered calling to her, trying to coax her into his arms, but each time his voice withered before he could speak. She had most likely worked herself into such a state that even if Jesus himself appeared, she would kick him in the crotch.

Renae. In pain. Scared for her life.

His

fault.

Love was a more complicated affair than even books and movies let on. He was beginning to wonder if he was destined to love at all--doubtful, if this was how it manifested.

Next room, next, across the hall, search, next room, under the bed, nothing, on to the next, in the closet, under the bed, behind the dressers, nothing, nothing, nothing.

The idea that he had fallen in love with a ghost was taking forefront in his mind. He had but one more room to search.

His own master bedroom. He pushed the door open and looked everywhere, from under his lush bedsheets to the private bathroom. Nothing.

Then, he heard something crash to the floor downstairs. He froze, unsure of what the sound meant.

She had tricked him. The creak on the stairs had been meant to lure him to the second floor when really she had remained downstairs

.

“Renae, you tricky woman,” he whispered.

Down the steps three at a time, into the living room: Eliot saw one of his lamps toppled onto the hardwood floor, shattered. A cursory search revealed nothing to indicate Renae’s presence.

Okay. Think. She would have continued through this room. What lay beyond? His study, a half-bath, and the garage entrance.

“Damn,” he said, sprinting to the garage door. It was open.

He entered with caution, holding the butter knife at his side. The garage, unlike the rest of his house, was sparsely furnished with only a single workbench, a few crates of miscellaneous tools, and his pickup and car. He circled the perimeter before realizing Renae must be crouched inside either vehicle.

“Renae?” he called out. “Renae, please, let me explain. This is my fault. I should have known you were different. You could understand my reasons. Please, come out and let’s talk.”

He peered through the window of his car and saw no body curled in the seats.

“I know you’re feeling confused, but baby you have to believe that I’m doing this for us. For our love.”

Something in the truck shifted. He jerked, waving the knife, and saw Renae peeking out from inside the bed. Their eyes locked, and she held up both hands.

“Please...don’t hurt me.”

“What? No, no, I’m not going to hurt you.” He threw the knife away. “I just had that because...I don’t know. Renae, come out from there.”

“Eliot, why...why are you doing this? I thought we were happy.”

“We are. I’m only trying to protect you. Now that we love each other, and we’re an official couple, it’s my duty to keep you from harm. I know it’s hard for you to understand, because you’re not as in tune with love and relationships as I am. But if you’d just let me explain...!”

He started inching toward her, arms imploring, not daring to break eye contact.

“I made a mistake earlier,” he said. “You didn’t need to be in the basement. You’re better than that. I was just...just excited, is all, because I’ve never had anyone to love before. Not like you, at least. Just let me explain. I swear I’m not going to hurt you. It’s still me, Renae. It’s always been me.”

She was as pitiful and scared as a rabbit in a cage, but she allowed him to help her out of the pickup, and when he hugged her, she stiffened but did not resist.

Baby steps. Relationships were like houses, built brick-by-brick.

“Come with me,” he said. “Let’s go to the living room. I’ll fix us some tea. I know Earl Grey is your favorite.”

Her hand was so sweaty that his grip almost faltered several times as they went into the living room. They sat on the couch.

Renae’s face, though tear-stained, was still the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Her trembling body aroused him even more now that she was safe inside his house.

“You could use a shower,” he said, intending to lighten the mood.

She glanced at him but said nothing.

“Okay. You’re right. It’s a bit too soon for banter.” Eliot reached over and tucked her hair behind her ears. As before, his touch left goosebumps.

“Please let me go,” she whispered.

“I will. In time. But you have to understand first. Please, Renae, would you just let me...let me...”

“What?”

“Kiss you.”

Her hand squeezed his, and he was adept enough at reading women to know that sometimes nonverbal cues were more telling than words.

He leaned in and kissed her. He could feel her lips quivering, but after a second returned his kiss. His attempts to ignite that passion they’d shared in the pickup were in vain: her mouth was on some kind of autopilot, repeating the same motion without the subtle liveliness that had always before marked Renae’s kisses.

Even so, something surged inside him as they touched. To feel her body, no matter how stiff and reticent, was exhilarating. He scooted closer, gently pushing them down on the couch, his hands running across her stomach, her chest, her hips. She did not respond with her own touches, but made no effort to resist.

Brick-by-brick. He would not have sex with her yet, because she had not fully come to understand his actions. No, for now he would just show her that his love hadn’t changed--that, if anything, it had grown stronger.

She was so irresistible lying underneath him. He kissed her harder, trying to get her body as alight with passion as his was. A nibble on her lower lip caused an involuntary moan of pleasure, and his questing hands brought forth another.

He broke their kiss to whisper, “I love you.”

She surprised him by grabbing his head--which made him wince as her hands touched the welt--and pulling him down once again.

Brick-by-brick.

He had just begun to think that their love might unfurl here on the couch when sirens trailed through the silence of the house.

He pulled away, stood, listening to the undulating rhythms. They were growing closer.

“What did you do?” he asked.

She slid off the couch and backed away to the hallway entrance, where she could easily bolt into the garage. No doubt by now she realized the keys were in both vehicles’ ignitions.

“You called the police

?”

He was in shock. While he searched upstairs, she must have phoned the authorities and told them her twisted version of the truth. She had allowed his kiss simply to keep him occupied until they arrived.

The cops wouldn’t listen to reason. They were closed-minded, and were part of the world from which he had been trying to protect Renae.

Suddenly, he understood.

He understood

. And it was caustic to his heart.

She had tricked him. It was the only explanation. She had used him for a few physical flings, free dinners, and company. In the pickup, when she expressed her love, it had been a ploy to see how he would respond. He had read about women like that, but had never expected sweet-tempered Renae to be one of the manipulators.

He had been betrayed, used, discarded like some Kleenex used to wipe away snot. His good nature had been twisted against him. Worse, he had believed everything she said. That was also a shortcoming of men he’d read about in novels, but he’d never considered that he would be one of them.

Tears fell