Escaping Exile Read online

  A NineStar Press Publication

  Published by NineStar Press

  P.O. Box 91792,

  Albuquerque, New Mexico, 87199 USA.

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Escaping Exile

  Copyright © 2018 by Sara Dobie Bauer

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow Copyright © 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at the physical or web addresses above or at [email protected].

  Printed in the USA

  First Edition

  August, 2018

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-949340-43-3

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers.

  Escaping Exile

  The Escape Trilogy, Book One

  Sara Dobie Bauer

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  To all the Johnlock and Charmie shippers who inspire me every day.

  And to Chris, my nasty boy.

  Chapter One

  THE CRACK AS the hull breaks echoes across the beach, into the woods, and inside my head as I try to sleep. I was just beginning to dream of New Orleans. I almost smelled whiskey and muddy streets—almost. Instead, I jolt awake, still surrounded by the fresh flowery scent of this blasted tropical island in the middle of… Well, I don’t know really. That’s the point of exile.

  I pull on a worn linen shirt. For the first few months here, I slept with my clothes on in case the cannibals came knocking. They never did. I think they knew this strange white man would make a disgusting meal. As if they could smell death on me. I wonder if eating my flesh could actually kill them. Wouldn’t mind offering a bite if only for some entertainment. I haven’t watched a human die in ages, but now, here we go: a shipwreck. There’s bound to be death in abundance tonight.

  It’s not raining when I step outside my house. Yes, I have a small house on a tropical island in the middle of the ocean, overrun with cannibals and all manner of man-eating beasts. Michelle wasn’t that cruel when she sent me here. She did provide me with a home. Congratulations, you heartless bitch, you gave me a house in which to spend eternity alone.

  I didn’t even mean to kill that last human back home in Louisiana.

  Or maybe I did.

  A leathery leaf to the face brings me back to the present as I stomp in tall boots through thick foliage. Despite the lack of rain now falling on my island, a flash of lightning illuminates the beach ahead long enough for me to see them—the natives who’ve managed to steal so many meals from me.

  The irony would make me crack a smile if not for my ever-growing bitterness. I once considered capturing a cannibal, but then, they might come hunting me and I’m not half as strong as I once was. And I don’t think Michelle means to leave me here forever. I must wait out her overblown sense of justice.

  From where I stand, sheltered behind a fence of palms, I see remnants of a great ship washing to shore. Thunder cracks as a man screams. My focus darts toward the dancing orange light of the native’s torches, and I see but outlines of their naked bodies as they tug and pull on a creature wrapped in white fabric. I squint and identify a man in his sleeping clothes. Dinner is served.

  My gaze skims the beach, but it’s mostly detritus and dead men. Dead men are no good to me as their blood is most certainly not part of my unique diet. Oh, but then, there’s a scent on the wind. There is something alive nearby, and it’s bleeding. The smell of blood mixes with the salt of the sea and bitter stress-sweat.

  I hone my senses to find the source of blood, but it’s been so long. Once a master, my hunting skills are now out of practice. I take a step back into the jungle and move to my right, away from the dancing torches and the man’s screams, and almost trip over a body. Out of practice is apparently a gross understatement as he was near me this whole time.

  Unlike his soon to be devoured compatriot, this man is fully clothed in a coat and trousers. His hair is dark, and he wears black gloves. He’s but a shadow on the sand as I lift him and carry him farther into the woods.

  Finally, a meal they won’t steal from me.

  SAFELY INSIDE MY little house, I lay the man on the floor and poke at the fire until it roars like the thunder outside. Now, it rains. The ocean storm falls heavy, rocks on the roof, and an animal howls nearby, woken wet from its slumber.

  I peel off his soaked clothes as the wound on his head continues to bleed. Unconscious, it’s a wonder he wasn’t pulled away by the current to die in the arms of some mythical mermaid. As I look at him in the firelight, I realize he is indeed a wonder. Perhaps it’s been too long since I’ve felt another man’s skin, but perhaps not. This injured sailor might be beautiful.

  Looking at his hairless face, I would have guessed him barely a man. The thick muscles of his chest, arms, and legs dictate otherwise, as do the calluses on his hands. Not only is he a full-grown man, but he’s also a man who works hard. He is lean with hair the color of the ocean on a moonless night—and if I don’t stop his head bleeding, my curse of nothing but dead flesh could continue.

  “Don’t die,” I say to him. It’s the first I’ve spoken to a human in ages.

  I move him, naked and dry, to my bed and cover him in blankets before wetting a cloth and wiping his wound. It’s a sizeable gash high on his forehead. The dark creature inside me wrestles at the sight of his blood, but I woo it with promises of later, later.

  I hold the rag to his head and realize I have no bandages. It’s not as though I need them. I’ll just have to sit here then. I perch on the side of my bed, and my thumb touches his bottom lip. Like a sunrise, this man is becoming more beautiful by the minute. I want to ravage him. I push the blankets away enough to run my hand over his chest. An angry scrape mars the pale skin, and I bet my guest will be covered in bruises by morning. The sea is not a gentle mistress. I know. I’ve tried to escape my exile by swimming out into white waves to no avail. The crushing currents always bring me back.

  A log pops in the fire as the rain continues. My house now smells of smoke, mud, and him. I climb farther into the bed and recline at his side. I still hold the cloth to his head as I wrap him in my arms and run my nose up the side of his neck.

  I think Michelle would be angry to see how happy I am.

  Chapter Two

  HE HASN’T MOVED come morning, but he’s not dead. His heart beats beneath the palm of my hand. He would smell different, too, if he’d died in the night, like meat gone sour. Outside, the sun tries to escape the clouds to no avail, although it doesn’t rain anymore. The jungle is quiet, resting after the storm.

  I take care to further clean his wound, now that the bleeding has stopped. The day warms quickly. Through my open windows, humid air rides breezes that should be a relief and are instead suffocating with wetness. I pull his blankets down and run my fingers over his shoulders and arms. My sai
lor is such a lovely thing—but I was right. His torso is painted in shades of purple already. He’ll be sore when he wakes up. If he wakes up. He has to wake up.

  Before I know it, I’ve been staring at him for hours with my hand on his flat stomach, and I feel a desperate need to know the color of his eyes. I want to hear his voice. I want to make him come. All of these sudden, frantic yearnings wash over me, all because it’s been too long. A man like me should not be alone for so long, not when I so enjoy the company of others—but I am being punished. Maybe I deserve punishment. Maybe I really did mean to kill that whore in New Orleans.

  I should scour the beach for remnants. Boats carry so many supplies, and I need…who knows what for my guest? I can’t leave him, though, not unconscious. Unmoving in my bed, he can’t fight back. He couldn’t even call for help. If the cannibals found out I had a healthy young man in my house, they would never leave us in peace.

  In the sunlight, my sailor is a contradiction. He’s not a privileged weakling with clean fingernails, but he’s not a roughened brute either. He’s nothing but muscle and skin, but he’s got the face of a man I might see wearing a woman’s frock in some back den off Bourbon Street. He is elegant, and if only he’d wake up so I could taste his tongue.

  I barely notice the falling of night, but here we are in the dark again. My fingers have mapped almost every inch of him by now as his bruises continue to spread. I’ve about resigned myself to never hearing him sigh when he gasps awake.

  He sits up and sucks air into his lungs as if he’s spent the past two days drowning. I keep my hands on his shoulders and see that his eyes are light—some shade of gray or bright blue like the sea.

  “You’re all right,” I say.

  “Bollocks,” he gasps. Then he chokes, and I hurry to get him water from the large rain bucket outside. He gulps down a cup before wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and staring up at me. “Where…” His eyes glaze over. “The ship!” He tosses the blankets back and stands with no concern for his nudity. I’m there to catch him when he almost falls over.

  “You need to sit.” I push him back onto the edge of my bed and sit in the chair nearby.

  He winces and bends forward. “Christ, I hurt everywhere. I…” He squeezes his eyes shut.

  I now know not only the color of those eyes but also the sound of his voice: velvet with a touch of smoke. I want to hear that voice calling my name. Also, he’s English, which truly does make me wonder where the hell Michelle found this ridiculous island for my exile. Where in God’s name are we? My sailor will probably be just as confused as I when he realizes I’m American, but he seems too confused by other things at the moment to care.

  “Where am I?”

  I want to laugh but don’t. “Your ship crashed on the reef last night. I found you on the beach.”

  “I was on deck,” he says without looking at me. “Mapping the stars.” His tongue pokes out to lick his lips. “There was a noise, and then… My head, I think…” He reaches for his forehead, but I grab his wrist to stop him.

  “Don’t. You have an open wound.”

  “Oh. That explains the hammering in my skull. The rest of the crew?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t find anyone else.”

  He covers his face with his hands and says with vehemence, “Fuck.”

  The word from his mouth makes me smile. I’ve always found the British to be a charming, self-deprecating people, but of their propriety, I have been less than enthused. My sailor seems on the more colorful spectrum. And his comfort with nudity is a welcome relief. If I had my way, the man would never wear clothes.

  He lifts his head. “We must go to the beach.”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not? I might be able to find—” He shrugs. “—anything.”

  “I fear the natives might be too fond of you.”

  He groans. “Not cannibals again!”

  I chuckle, surprised.

  “Considering their brutality,” he rants, “it’s amazing these creatures survive. I once saw one take a bite out of the other during an argument. And they were friends! Suppose you don’t like your neighbor? Well, show up and eat their children!”

  I laugh, and it’s akin to floating on a warm tide.

  “Oh, my head.”

  I lean forward in my chair as his face crumples in pain. “Why don’t you lie down?”

  He collapses onto the pillow. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Andrew.”

  “Andrew,” he says, and his voice shakes. “Thank you.”

  Before he dozes off again, I push coils of black curl behind his ear. “And you? What do I call you?”

  “Edmund,” he whispers as he slips away, and I sit by his side as he wrestles through dreams.

  Chapter Three

  BY THE NEXT morning, I’m considering not killing him, no matter what the dark creature might say, no matter how it begs. Fact is, I believe Michelle is due for a visit sometime soon. She comes to see me—I think annually—to gloat and remind me why I’m here.

  Yes, yes, the killing—yes, I recall. How could I forget?

  I hadn’t touched a human in ages until Edmund washed up on my beach. Now, he’s here in my bed, and I’d like him to remain if only to hear more of his ravings. He’s fearless, I think, and just a bit callous. How else can I explain the lack of empathy for his dead comrades? He’s a man of the sea, accustomed to losses big and small. If I were to kill him, he might not even struggle—although I like that part, the struggling—and Edmund looks strong. At least, he will be once he’s healed. I will keep him alive to heal. I hope to see his body without all the bruises, but maybe I can also show Michelle how good I am, how I’ve kept a human without hurting it. Maybe she’ll let me go back.

  Even with the sun up, Edmund still sleeps. During the night, his quiet whimpers and sighs acted as a beacon to my long neglected cock. Several times, I talked myself out of rolling him over and taking what I wanted. Several more times, I touched myself instead of touching him because that’s what I really want: the freedom to touch and turn his quiet dream whimpers into stuttering shouts.

  I am guilty of killing humans, but not before overwhelming them with pleasure.

  Once again, I’m tempted to leave as he sleeps to find food since I require so little, but I’m scared to leave him alone. Now that I know his name, I would be shattered if the cannibals took Edmund. I would attempt to kill them all, my weakened state be damned. So I wait, but it’s not long before his eyes blink open. I pretend I haven’t been staring.

  “Oh, God, it wasn’t a dream,” he says.

  “No.”

  He rests his forearm across his eyes. “Mum always said I’d die at sea.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “They’ll think I did, though.” The trim muscles in his abdomen shift as he leans up on his elbows. “Did your ship crash as well?”

  I nod. “In a way.”

  “How long have you been here?” He eyes the surrounding area: a sparse living space, washbasin, some books and clothes. “Long enough to build a house apparently.”

  I want to tell him it doesn’t matter how long I’ve been on this damn island. It doesn’t matter because he’s here with me now, and I want to fuck him until we’re dumb with it. I want to have this beautiful creature until my crazed brain hallucinates the whole of Mardi Gras. I almost believe his skin could take me home.

  “I forget your name.”

  I look up to see him watching me. “Andrew.”

  “Andrew. How long?”

  “I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

  “Have other ships crashed?”

  I nod. “A few.”

  “But no survivors.”

  I stare at him to see if he’s as smart as his proper enunciation makes him sound.

  “Ah,” he says. “Cannibals.”

  “You were halfway up the beach when I found you. You must have dragged yourself from the wate
r.”

  “I don’t remember that.” He runs his hand through his hair, oily with sweat and saltwater. He hisses when one of his fingers touches his wound, and I leap from my seat.

  I pull his hand away. “Don’t hurt yourself, Edmund. I must find you a bandage.”

  “We must go to the beach,” he says. “Please.”

  BEFORE WE GO outside, I give him some of my clothes. Although mine are too big, Edmund’s are still wet. They’ll never dry in this sweltering wet hell of a furnace. He’s not a little man by any means, my sailor, but I’ve met few brutes that rival my size. I think it’s a symptom of these modern times. When I was born, men were expected to not only survive the wilderness but protect their families too. Men now are so soft in their fancy waistcoats, working behind desks while their women sit at home and sew. Not that I’m complaining. Modern men are much easier to seduce.

  I wonder how Edmund will respond once he figures out what I am, what I want. He is friendly, and I believe he trusts me already, but will he struggle against my advances? Will he try to make me stop?

  Ahead of me on the path, he freezes. Ah, the ocean has come into view. Emerald water surrounds white beaches as far as the eye can see. All signs of a storm are long since gone, replaced by the heat of tropical sun. I hear the waves and his breath, and despite the nearby flowers, I smell only him. Edmund is quickly invading all areas of my brain. Already, he has replaced the overpowering scent of the sea. His are the only eyes I remember—alert and gray—and his bruised flesh is the only skin I’ve ever touched.

  The boy in New Orleans is barely a memory. A young prostitute, he seduced me with soft kisses. I killed him because I wanted to know what a sweet soul tasted like, but I don’t think I’ll kill Edmund. I must show him to Michelle.

  I trust the coast is clear, because Edmund steps free of the foliage and out into the sun. The makeshift bandage I cut from the bottom of a shirt resembles a turban on his head as he walks toward the water.