"All right," she whispered, hardly able to get the word out.

"It's in my toolbox," Jack said, kicking the large, gray-metal container from under the table.

"Oh?" Monica answered with interest, studying the large container. Her eyebrows raised, and she felt her pulse race a little more. It was nearly three feet in length, one foot wide, one foot high, with two metal holders on either side. It was the sort of thing handymen carried with them all the time. Apparently, what was inside was far from what a repairman would normally tote about.

"Let's go downstairs. Less chance of her findin' us down there, in case she does come back early," Jack said, pushing back from the table and standing straight.

Monica felt herself drawn to this man, this animal who was bent on mastering her. There was time, still time for her to run from him. But something made her turn and move to the kitchen door, open it and begin descending to the basement. She gripped the rotting handrail, hearing Jack's boot-heavy tread behind her. There were all the familiar appliances around her – the washer, the dryer, the waterheater, the double sink for rinsing out clothes. There were all the things she had used so mundanely before. But now it was all changed by this stranger who had touched some forbidden chord in her soul only a few days ago.

"Oh!" she gasped.

Jack had dropped the toolbox with a heavy clatter on the concrete floor.

"Strip!"

The command was simple, direct. There was almost a military edge to it as Jack pulled off his dirty, white cotton t-shirt, exposing the hairy expanse of his developed chest.