by Lana Sky
He’s heavy, easily dragging me back. I feel that icy scrape again against my shoulder, biting deeper the more I struggle. A weapon.
Don’t look back, a part of me warns. Run!
I make myself deadweight, throwing my body against the floor, and his grip loosens enough for me to ram my elbow back, striking something solid. Then I’m stumbling to my feet, racing for the main entrance. I grab a handle and tug, but it doesn’t budge. Neither does the other. Shit! They’re both locked—only Gus has the key.
Don’t panic.
Move.
There!
The side entrance draws my notice again and I lurch toward it, desperate to ignore the shuffling sounds behind me. Air trickles in and out of my lungs as my few options flash across my mind. I’ll never outrun him.
So I let myself trip and go down hard. He rushes over, and I roll onto my back. I catch only a glimpse of an unfamiliar face beneath the shadow of a black hoodie. He’s tall. Young.
He doesn’t even see the kick coming, aimed squarely between his legs. Groaning, he doubles over, and I lunge to the door. It opens, depositing me into a narrow alley beside the office. Blindly, I race past an overflowing dumpster in a frantic race to the street. A lack of noise warns that there’s no one behind me.
Yet.
Surging traffic and the distant howling of sirens disguise most sounds, however. I won’t hear him until it’s too late. Lost in this sea of people, no one would ever notice me scream if he does catch up. They push past me, specters locked into their eternal routines, oblivious to me.
My shoulder throbs. My bottom lip is on fire, bitten in the scuffle. A limping gait carries me to the main street, but I keep going, right past the idling car. The driver is a shadow perched behind the steering wheel, waiting. Watching.
He could be Simon.
Hell, the man marching toward me carrying a briefcase could be Simon. Or the driver honking as he speeds by. Even the figure shoving me aside with an impatient shrug of his shoulder.
He’s everywhere.
Air seeps from my lungs, impossible to contain, but somehow, I keep walking. Staggering. Running.
I’ve never learned my lesson after all these years: I can’t escape him. The shadows converge on me as strangers stare. Their attention burns like spotlights, illuminating my path no matter where I go. How fast I run.
To where exactly? I don’t know. Not until I’m pounding on a set of glass doors while my hand paws at the silver button of an intercom. A voice laced with static says something from the speaker. Demands something. I should reply. Be collected. Be polite.
But I can’t seem to stop banging my fist on the door. A substance paints the glass with every blow. It’s dark, appearing almost purple until a passing car’s headlights ignite the color, revealing what it is: a bright-red liquid.
Bzzz! The door jolts against my palm, suddenly unlocked. No explanation comes from the speaker, and I don’t wait for one. I’m in the elevator before I know it, tracking something over the floor that glints like a morbid breadcrumb trail. The doors close, locking me inside, but I just stare at the buttons, unsure of which one to pick.
Tick. Tock.
Simon’s still watching. I can even hear him now, humming into my ear. Dada, da dum…
Ding! The elevator rises without me having struck a button. On the second floor, the doors open, revealing a trio of strange men who start inside before they notice me there. Shock alights their stern expressions, and one of them reaches for his breast pocket, his eyes narrowed.
“What in the hell?”
I lunge through the space between them and find myself in another hallway resembling the one above. This one branches into several rooms. The first I pass is narrow, darkened, empty. Light spills from another doorway up ahead. Voices drift out. Deep. Masculine. Accented.
“I’ve warned you,” a man says, his voice chillingly familiar. “Stay out of it. Understood?”
“Why?” Someone scoffs. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I don’t,” the first man replies. “You’re sloppy, Mateo, and I’d rather not see you in prison. Have patience. I will handle this.”
“You say that as though I enjoy having to beg you for help on my goddamn hands and knees. But you promised me retribution for Mathias. Remember him? Our brother—”
“Stop.” The warning isn’t directed at me though I freeze paces from the doorway. “It seems as though Julio needs more training.”
Damien stands in the center of a room decorated in muted shades. Black leather armchairs form a circle around an industrial-gray coffee table. Steel-gray walls and wooden floors feed the shadows gathered in the corners. Only the light cast from a hanging fixture combats the darkness.
But even it is no match for Damien. The blindfold reduces his expression to nothing more than a stern frown. Emotions seep from him regardless, painting the air like canvas. Alarm. Anger. Confusion?
“Juliana Thorne,” he says coldly. “What a surprise. I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this discussion short, Mateo.” He inclines his head to a man I only notice now.
Tall like he is, but with a thinner face and shorter hair. He eyes me coldly, his upper lip drawing back from his teeth.
“Gracías, brother,” he snarls. “I can see that you’ve handled this, all right.”
“Leave.” Damien’s tone may be level, but only a fool would challenge it.
His companion draws himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders. On his way out, he slams into me. Hard. I stagger against the wall and slide to the floor. The room blurs, becoming muted colors and harsh shadow. It’s a nightmarish painting dominated by one unmoving figure.
“Breathe!” he growls, his voice cutting deep.
I am, aren’t I? I can’t stop breathing. Gasping down air. Choking it back out. Faster. Faster.
Thwack! Stinging pain flares through my cheek and I flinch in shock as frayed nerves reset and register the sudden nearness of an imposing figure.
“I apologize.” He slowly withdraws his hand, his frown stern.
It’s almost funny how I feel his slap more than anything else. My fingers race to the throbbing skin, tracing the abuse.
“I don’t typically humor unannounced visitors.” An unsettling mixture of politeness and malice color Damien’s tone as expertly as the charcoal he shades his drawings with. “So what brings you here tonight, Juliana Thorne—”
“My birthday’s over.” The words fall flat. Broken. Then I’m laughing, forced to draw my knees to my chest as the sound racks me to my core.
He says nothing when I finally trail off, waiting. Expectant.
“It’s over. It should be over,” I blurt out in a rush. “But twenty years. Twenty years. I never missed a night before. Not one.”
“What should be over?”
I flinch. The sharp note of curiosity in his tone shouldn’t be there—and he’s too hard to read without a gaze to search. I’m the one rendered blind against him.
“Nothing,” I croak. Just a shadow. Just a nightmare. Just… “My birthday.”
If he’s confused by the conflicting statements, I can’t tell. And his silence only makes it worse.
“I…fell. At work,” I add. “The door was locked. It wasn’t supposed to be locked. I fell and…” I’m rambling.
He permits it, aptly listening to every word. Pretending to, anyway. No one ever listens. My therapist just reflects to me what I should feel. Daddy only ever hears what he wants. The world demands pretty, shiny words and adjectives to describe whatever petty bullshit they hope to sell. Darkness isn’t appealing. It can’t be wrapped with a bow and sold with a smile.
So I lied.
Until now.
Words spill from me like blood—ironic since I’m still bleeding. My shoulder throbs. Salt and copper itch my nostrils, but every truth ripped from my soul stings ten times worse. Maybe because none of it makes any damn sense. I’ve been playing the world’s oldest game of Simon Says for so long, I
don’t even know where to begin.
Eight-year-old Juliana did her best when rambling to the first responding officer. “He made us play…”
I’m less coherent now.
“Three days,” I croak. “I just have to play along for three days.”
I’m still laughing. Louder. Harsher. Tears mix in, thickening my voice. My chest heaves, but in this moment, I can’t smother my cries behind my trembling fingers or in the sleeves of my coat.
I’m sobbing.
And Damien observes it all in his own callous way.
“Don’t move.”
I jump when he takes a step, but I’m not his target. Without the aid of his cane, he enters the hall, but I remain hunched on the floor, watching the unfamiliar room from behind the border of my knees.
Little decoration obscures its intended use. There isn’t even a television or a stereo system. Just black leather furniture and a cold air of business that lingers long after any other inhabitant has left.
One fact is obvious: I interrupted something. How rude of me—but how strange of him to let it happen. There were times when even Daddy would send me away while he had company. The mayor’s time was expensive after all, what with campaign contributions to schmooze and donors to win over. He’d visit me in the morning, of course, usually with some small token of affection and a reminder to smile!
He would certainly never lower a crystal flute of wine before my nose and urge me to drink.
“Small sips,” Damien warns. “This is a vintage Romanée-Conti. Some consider it…overwhelming.”
“Th-thank you.” My cheeks heat as I accept the glass. The wine swirling inside might as well be liquid gold; I recognize the brand, a bottle of which sells for around thirty thousand dollars—and that’s for a recent run. Ironically, I taste nothing as I drain the glass in one sip.
If he’s irritated by the disobedience, he hides it well as I set the glass aside.
“Why are you here?”
“I…” I breathe in deeply and exhale. “I don’t know.”
I should’ve called Daddy. Or gone home and waited for another morbid reminder from Simon. Instead, I crawled to the lair of an artist whose soft hands disguise more than they should.
I ran to a madman. He stands tall, shrouded by shadow and light, holding his own glass of wine, which he has yet to sip from. Instead, he sets the glass on the coffee table with no difficulty. He must have the layout memorized.
“You’re bleeding.” His nostrils flare, his frown more pronounced.
“Oh…” I clutch at my arm. “It’s a scratch. I-I fell.” The lie rings hollow as I finally look at my shoulder.
A long gash slices through the fabric of my designer coat, revealing my torn blouse underneath and a swath of red. The bastard had a knife, I assume as tears flood my eyes. Simon’s favorite toy. At least the wound doesn’t feel too deep.
“Here.”
I blink and find a white strip of fabric dangling from an outstretched hand. Woodenly, I press it against the worst of the bleeding.
“I’m fine,” I lie again. The wine has put everything back into perspective, and a new fear blossoms in the spaces of my psyche Simon doesn’t infect. It’s too close in here. Too quiet with just me and him. I brace my free hand against the floor and start to stand.
“Since you are here, we might as well discuss your previous proposal, Ms. Thorne,” Damien announces while I use the wall as an anchor to climb to my feet.
“My…what?”
“Painting you,” he says as though art is the most natural topic in the world to move on to after blood. “We can discuss my methods and decide whether or not you agree to my terms. How does dinner sound?”
“You’re serious?” My eyebrows rise, my voice still hoarse.
It would help if he laughed. Something to prove he was taunting me outright. Anything other than his cool, unreadable persona.
“Yes,” he says. “Dinner. Somewhere public.”
“Dinner.” I’m a parrot, echoing him in a detached monotone. “Now?”
“Of course.” Unperturbed, he nods. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
Pain in my fingertips makes me glance down. I’ve been subconsciously wringing them together, scraping my nails against sore, raw flesh. “I…I don’t… I’m a mess.”
“There’s a bathroom down the hall,” he interjects. “First door to the left.”
I should scoff at the callous suggestion. Instead, I move on autopilot, following his instructions until I find myself locked inside a surprisingly spacious bathroom. The color scheme leaves little to be desired: dark tile flooring and more gray walls. His choice? Or perhaps the result of a lazy interior designer taking advantage of a blind client. Even before the thought finishes forming, I doubt it’s true. Damien is a man few could manipulate.
So the decoration is his choice, then. Perhaps he likes his guests to feel a sample of what he might. A disorienting lack of color. Dizzying monochrome. Little definition to speak of.
It requires me to close my eyes and feel to discern anything at all from the stark surroundings. Sleek fixtures and smooth surfaces. Harsh, violent water pressure that easily rinses the blood from my hands. Dim lighting allows me to look at myself in the mirror and not cringe at what I see. If I squint, I can almost find my old self looking back. Perfect Juliana. Forgiving shadows obscure what brighter light wouldn’t.
My breathing hitches as the taste of copper burns my tongue. The flesh of my throat aches with the memory of roughly ground fingers from an unknown assailant and the knife he placed there.
I feel, and there isn’t enough wine within reach to make it all better.
If Mr. Villa has a reservation to uphold, then I make him blow it. I linger, desperately trying to rebuild my shattered façade. Each time, I fail. Try again. Fail harder. Tears mix with cold sweat, coating my cheeks until I can’t discern one from the other.
With a sigh, I give up and slip into the hall.
“Ms. Thorne?” He’s still waiting for me in that small sitting room and inclines his head as I approach. “Change your mind?”
I finger the sleeves of my coat, sensing the heat his body throws off even from across the room. “It’s late. Most places are closed by now anyway.”
He shrugs. “It’s of no concern. I have a special agreement with the management of this particular establishment. Shall we?”
I can’t ignore the expertly concealed dare.
Are you brave enough, Juliana?
I’m not. Ignoring his hand, I step toward the door and clear my throat. “I should go.”
“By all means.” What sounds polite on the surface holds more depth than his art and I’m instantly on edge. A deaf man could discern the sarcasm in his voice.
I nearly laugh out loud. How could I be so stupid? “And let me guess, the paparazzi are already waiting outside, courtesy of an anonymous tip? Or are they waiting at this so-called restaurant?”
“I assure all of my guests complete discretion and privacy.” The statement could be interpreted in so many ways. Some harmless. Others not so much.
“Oh really?”
“You’re more than welcome to see for yourself.” He’s behind me now, his breath on my neck, his footsteps soft against the hard floor. Damn near imperceptible. “Shall we?”
He pushes past me with enviable grace and extends his cane before him. His arm is slightly cocked, perfect for slipping a hand through should I give a damn about propriety.
Spurring the gesture, I follow him to the elevators and through the opening doors. Locked inside with him, I hold my breath until we reach the first floor. He must have called a car when I was in the bathroom, because there is one waiting for us, idling alongside the curb.
I don’t know what I expect as we exit the building. Should I grab the door for him? My hand flutters toward the handle, but it’s already in his grip. I see that someone wiped away my blood at least.
“After you, Ms. Thorne.” He steps b
ack, letting me pass. Then he proceeds to lead the way to the car.
As we approach, the driver circles around to open the door to the back seat. I wait until the man beside me enters first and retracts his cane. It’s not too late to run and thumb my nose up at his offer. My body aches. I’m still bleeding.
I’m still terrified.
And he knows it. He leaves little space on the seat for me to claim, confident I’ll bolt. When I finally lower myself beside him, I can’t deny a sick satisfaction at the confused quirking of his jaw, but his heat creeping through my clothing quickly smothers the triumph.
“May I?” His palm extends toward me, facing upright. “Your arm,” he clarifies when I flinch.
My lips part, but in the end, I say nothing and shove his bloodied handkerchief into his hand. He touches my wrist, ghosting higher toward my shoulder. He doesn’t discover the wound right away, and he gently probes the flesh beneath his thumb until a hiss escapes my lips.
“You fell?” He sounds skeptical, but I grit my teeth against a retort. “Your coat, por favor,” he prompts, his voice tighter than I’ve heard it yet.
My first impulse is to resist as he peels my jacket back—but I am the idiot who got into the car with him in the first place, and I can’t be seen in public bleeding and broken.
My fingers shake as I tug at my collar, but he assists me, revealing the thin blouse I didn’t intend to be seen in when I threw it on this morning. Knowing he’s blind doesn’t ease my nerves one damn bit.
It’s too close in here. I’m painfully aware of every brush of his unnervingly soft fingertips grazing the rent edges of my blouse.
“Take your arm out of the sleeve.”
I turn to the window, disguising how my cheeks flush. At least he sounds more efficient than predatory.
“Fine.” I bite my lip and undo the first four buttons, providing enough slack for him to slide the damaged sleeve down my shoulder.
“It isn’t deep,” he says. How he can tell as much from touch alone? I don’t bother asking. “You shouldn’t need sutures. Though…”
