His Broken Princess
Page 3
Matilda, our housekeeper, probably prepared the freaking meat dish that I hate just to teach me a lesson. I pinch my nose close and my eyes flutter open. My loud gasp fills the space and I scream loudly, scooting back and pressing myself into the wall.
The view in front of me reminds me nothing of our Hudson River mansion, rather an image straight from a horror movie, and instantly goose bumps break out on my skin, making all the hair on my body stand up.
The room is spacious, sort of like a living room along with the arched kitchen that has a radio on the counter. Everything comes like a loud cry. There is only one wide couch, along with a round table that holds several half-full bottles of beer, vodka, and whiskey. Chips and chocolate wrappers are scattered on the floor along with other snacks. I also notice pizza boxes all over the place, and decide that’s probably where all the smells are coming from.
The windows are covered with pitch-black curtains while only one light bulb brightens the place, giving it a dark gray gloom; it sends shivers down my spine, and fear slowly settles in the pit of my stomach. The floor doesn’t have carpets or anything else, just a cold surface with various cracks as if someone has hit it. I even notice bugs sneaking into some of the corners or lunching on the leftovers.
That’s not what makes me hold my breath and blink rapidly though, no.
It’s the weapons on the couch, which all have blood dripping from them, and the weird noises coming from the closed room, something akin to a saw.
And that’s when memories come back, bringing up the throbbing in my head, and I touch my forehead, detecting a slight bump there.
When the man dragged me inside, he hit me and then everything went blank.
Oh my God.
Have I been kidnapped? Are they after a ransom? Dad has always been afraid someone might do it, especially since he’s ventured into politics, but I’ve never listened to his warnings. After all, everyone who spends time in his company or has spied on him for just a day would know he doesn’t give a crap about me.
But then, I imagine only money matters to all these people. As long as they can get a ransom out of him, they’re happy.
I hear a rustling sound next to me, then something bumps my knees, and I would have screamed if the dirt-smeared hand didn’t cover my mouth.
“Shhh, don’t say anything or they might come back,” she says, removing sticky blonde hair from across her nose and displaying her makeup-covered face. She looks young, around eighteen, and my eyes travel lower to her cropped top, belly button piercing, and short skirt that barely reaches midthigh. She is barefoot, and her right leg has a big scar on it, but she waves her hands at me. “It’s nothing major.”
Blinking several times in shock at her calm voice, as if we are discussing the freaking weather, I ask, “Who are they? Did they kidnap you too?” Maybe they’ve already informed her family, and that’s why she’s so calm. Although based on statistics, families rarely get their loved ones back. Kidnappers don’t want to leave any witnesses alive; that way, there’s no opportunity for them to get caught.
Her hollow laughter snaps me out of my thoughts. “No. No one is looking for me.” She whispers, “They took me from the street when I was on my way to work. I wait tables at the local bar. They said they wanted to have fun.” She shivers slightly, probably remembering the experience.
“What?” I stammer, and she nods. Then she takes a deep breath and points at the room. “They hurt girls behind that door.”
“Hurt?” I repeat like a parrot, still processing the information and then almost slapping myself on the forehead. My naivety didn’t allow me to venture in dark thoughts, but it should have.
After all, men can take women for various reasons; their sick desires being one of them. “And they come out in the—”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, because that’s when the door opens, and harsh, bright light shines on us. I block it out with my arm, wincing.
“My, my, my. Our princess is awake,” one of them says, and I frown at the nickname, which reminds me so much of my high school days.
Princess, go out with me.
Princess, don’t be so rude.
Princess, want to sit on my lap?
I shake my head from the voices of the past, because they have no place here, and I focus my stare at the five men surrounding us. My eyes widen when I see their faces are hidden by clown masks, one more horrifying than the other, and all have a sinister smile on them. Their dark clothes have stains of different shades, and all wear latex gloves smeared in something red.
Blood?
One of them kneels in front of me, and I scoot away only to hit my back painfully since there’s nowhere to go. He laughs, the evilness of it spreading through me in spades, and then he leans closer, grabbing me roughly by my hair. His alcohol-infused breath fans my cheeks, and bile rises in my throat. “I’ve dreamed about you for so long, princess,” he murmurs, trailing his finger over my skin. I jerk to the side, hoping to evade his touch, but it’s useless. “Always so proud, so majestic. Acting like we are mortals beneath a goddess.” He then whistles to the other guys. “We will savor the princess, guys. No more trashy substitutes.”
Substitutes? As if it’s always been me they wanted?
“But before that, you need to know what awaits you. Anticipation is everything. So we’re gonna play with you now,” he addresses the girl and motions with his head to the men, who grab her by her elbows and drag her toward the room.
“No, don’t hurt her,” I scream, lunging after them, but he pushes me back, tugging on the metal chain on my foot that only now registers in my mind. It digs into my skin, pressing against my bone, and I cry out in pain.
“Wait for your turn, my love.” He trails his finger over my skin one last time and then gets up, while the girl screams for them to let her go and thrashes in their arms.
One of the men emerges from the room, holding a bulging garbage bag, and tells everyone, “I’ll join the fun once I throw away the trash.”
“Make sure to burn it right. I don’t need cops tailing us.”
The guy holding the bag shrugs and then chuckles. “Who’s gonna look for her?”
I cover my mouth with my hand, as fear washes over me and, for a second, freezes my entire system.
I have no clue who these people are and why they want me, or why my professor helped them get me.
One thing is obvious though.
I’ve just entered the gates of hell, and the only way out of here is in a black garbage bag.
* * *
New York, New York
Fall, 1980
* * *
Him
A young man emerges from the club, laughing in the night air as he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and appears to be reaching for a lighter but not finding it.
He murmurs, “Motherfucker,” and glances behind him to the club door, where he can hear the boom from the loud speakers, then shakes his head, clearly too lazy to go back. Instead, he looks up and down the road, searching for a passing cab, but there are none to find in this secluded area in New York.
He starts to hop from one leg to the other while breathing into his palms, as snowflakes cascade down on the road, creating an almost pure-like atmosphere in this place of sin and seduction.
Tugging my baseball cap down more, I drive around the corner and slowly pass him, and it spurs him into action once more. He waves at me frantically, calling, “Hey, dude!” And I stop, rolling down my window as he puts his thumbs on it and his fucking mouth spreads in a wide grin. “Pretty please drop me at Fifth Street?” He shows me a hundred-dollar bill and says with a wink, “Not bad for a fifteen-minute drive, right?”
I take a second to study his sandy-blond hair and green eyes that hold so much confidence. I wonder where this little shit gets it from, and then I finally notice his expensive designer clothes that emphasize his status in life.
A status that allows him to do a lot of vile things unnoticed.
People think serial killers spend their time hunting their victims on the streets with various clever scenarios.
And while in most cases it’s true, tonight, the victim falls into my lap easily. “Dude, you have a lighter?” he asks, leaning toward my seat. Instantly, his alcohol breath fans my cheeks, and my hands squeeze the steering wheel tighter.
Again, keeping silent, I pick a lighter up from the front console and flick it on. He grunts in thanks and lights it up while my mind is occupied by only one thing.
This is his last cigarette.
And I’ve never been happier than in this moment.
“Please, I’ll give you whatever you want. Just please let me go,” he begs as I strap him to the surgical table, securing leather belts around his middle and legs, leaving him no room to wiggle or lift a muscle. “You know my family name? We’re rich. Tell me what you want and it’s yours. I swear.”
A chuckle slips past my lips, because I should have expected something along these lines from him. Always the daddy’s boy ready to throw money at whoever to shut them up.
Too bad for him it won’t work this time.
Goose bumps pop up on his skin as I put on the latex gloves, snapping them against my wrists, the sound echoing through the space. “Please, I’ll do anything.” I catch his stare, and his eyes filled with terror, as sweat coats his forehead, sliding down his cheek while blood drips from his nose that I cracked a few minutes ago.
He manages to talk despite the pain though, but it doesn’t surprise me.
Humans, as I’ve discovered, have the tendency to survive a lot if they think they are going to make it. So-called hope that gives them determination. A useless emotion in most cases, because it’s built on the belief there is a higher power.
Too bad no one told him hope is not going to save his ass tonight.
“I’m tired,” I finally say, and his eyes widen at the sound of my voice. He squints his eyes as if trying to study me, but the bright light streaming on him from the ceiling right into his face blocks it. I had it specifically designed for that, even though no one gets out of here alive. I have no desire for them to know my real name.
Only because I don’t want it to be spoken by pieces of shit in this world.
“Shut up or it will be more painful.” But I know he won’t, and a familiar thrill rushes through my body, fueling my blood with euphoria at the prospect of bringing this human unbearable agony that will know no mercy.
Twirling the sharp-edged kitchen knife through my fingers, I sing to him, “Cry, cry, cry, my little angel. I’m going to listen to it while bringing you your life’s salvation.”
At once, his demeanor changes, recognition registers on his face, and he gasps, shaking his head wildly and almost moving the table. Of course, soon the beginning comes. “Please, it was a mistake. A mistake I won’t ever repeat.” For all their fancy education and money, they act so stupid. Do they think a man of my caliber who knows exactly what they do will ever believe that?
Once you’ve experienced the thrill of the chase, sunk into darkness, and wear it like your second skin, there is no going back.
“I don’t give second chances,” I inform him, right before I grab his dick and cut it off. His agonized screams fill the basement and bring me such needed joy.
But they are short lived, as her cries come back to haunt me, and it powers the monster living inside me.
He screams and screams, and then I ram his dick in his mouth. And while he chokes on it, I pick up the pliers to cut off his fingers one by one then proceed to slice him open while he is alive for the show.
In time, his screams stop, and so does his breathing.
But the monster in me still rages, because killing him fixes nothing.
Only deepens the madness that slowly consumes me.
After reaching the edge of the cliff, I throw the garbage bag into the river, where he lands with a loud splash, immediately going down while I grin, saluting him. “May you rest in hell and know no peace,” I say and go back to my car, thinking about all the things that need to be done today to secure a multimillion-dollar deal.
I turn on the radio just as the speaker’s dread-laced voice says, “The serial killer still wanders around the city. We advise everyone to be extremely careful, because—” My laughter bounces off the car’s interior as I shake my head at the stupidity of the authorities’ perception.
They’re searching for an antisocial guy who barely makes eye contact with anyone and lives in a basement, or that’s their description of me. They even warn everyone to avoid such people.
I’ve heard profilers on my case are searching for a white male above thirty years old who was abused as a child and probably works low-wage jobs.
They’ve explained envy is the only reason I kill all the rich guys, wanting to punish them for things I can never have. Because they don’t deserve them, or so says the profile.
If they only knew I’m an heir to the throne and own multiple businesses while people dream to be in my company, and antisocial is not even a word that exists in my vocabulary.
But who will search for a serial killer among the elite?
* * *
Lila
I place the plate with a steak cooked rare in front of Bill along with his glass of beer, and he winks at me. “Thank you, darling. You are a sight for sore eyes.” I roll my eyes at his lame-ass attempt at flirting and teasingly scold him. “Be careful, or Marcy will have my ass.” His wife of ten years loves him to pieces but watches his food religiously due to his diabetes.
And she can act crazy while on a mission, so I don’t freaking ever want to face her wrath.
The TV blasts loudly in the bar, and everyone glues their gaze to it while the anchor presents the latest news. “There was another body found in the river by a local fisherman today.” The report continues to show the fisherman and a covered body in the bag, with not many details since it’s broadcasted on TV, but nevertheless shivers run through me.
What a horrible way to die, but mostly how devastating for the family. I should have been familiar with all the shit going on in New York lately. Violence is exceptionally high this year, causing people to always look over their shoulder or stay home because it’s not safe. Gangs have become almost uncontrollable, and the government can’t do much to fix the situation except wait.
Meanwhile, the news reporter continues her monologue. “The body has been identified as Tim Morgan, the heir to Morgan Enterprises.” The tray in my hand falls to the floor, clanging loudly as glasses shatter into tiny little pieces, and the ringing in my ears comes back, almost knocking me to the ground.
Along with the memories I want to forget.
Instead though, they haunt me day and night, and there is no escape from them no matter what I do.
Cry, cry, cry, my little angel. I’m going to listen to it while bringing you your life’s salvation.
I cover my ears, whimpering, and shake my head, familiar panic swirling in the pit of my stomach and rising up, up, up until I feel the invisible rope around my neck that tightens and tightens, blocking the oxygen from entering my lungs.
And it lasts maybe for hours or seconds, until strong arms grab my shoulders and shake me so hard I snap out of my stupor, finally focusing my gaze as the ringing stops.
That’s when my mind registers that I’m gazing at rich, hazel eyes through heavy black glasses, and the familiar scent of cigarettes and expensive cologne washes over me. With that comes the feeling of protectiveness that I oddly only associate with him.
Eugene.
“Someone, get her water,” he orders with such authority that people who previously gaped at me—if their shocked expressions are anything to go by—jump into action.
Lucy, the other waitress who shares a shift with me, quickly b
rings me a glass of cold water, and I muster a weak smile for her. “Thank you.”
She pats my back but bites her lip worriedly, probably confused as hell at my behavior.
After all, I’m usually nothing but giggles and rainbows around here.
“Get out of the way, people.”
I sigh at Robert’s worried voice, because hell is about to unleash on me. The bar’s owner and the best boss in the whole damned universe pushes through the bodies and gets to me in record time.
“Lila, what’s going on? Are you hurt anywhere?”
I shake my head, my cheeks heating up, because the last thing I’ve ever wanted is for this mess to happen at work.
Although my therapist claimed traumatic flashbacks can come at any time, whenever something big triggers it, I’ve been lucky enough to mostly experience them during sleep or at night, because I couldn’t protect my mind then.
But Tim’s death….
Robert clicks his fingers in front of my face several times, bringing my attention back to him. “Girlie, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I croak through my dry throat and take a large sip of water, sighing in relief when the cold liquid travels through my system and brings pain to my teeth. In a way, it reminds me I’m still alive and I don’t live in a nightmare. At least not the one my mind so vividly remembers. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”
Robert waves his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Don’t apologize. Maybe you need to go home?” he offers.
With that, the overpowering fear sinks into me again, and I grab his arms hard, probably too hard, and beg, “No, please, can I stay?” Going home now would mean reliving it time and time again, and I can’t allow it.
Not to mention the tips on a Friday night are the best, and I need to go grocery shopping tomorrow. Plus buy some paint supplies. I can’t afford this incident to affect my life.
Work is my only saving grace at this point, because for a moment in time, it gives me reprieve.