by Jette Harris
All summer, Z would sneak out of his mom’s duplex and climb the magnolia tree hanging over Old Tex’s roof. When his mother pulled all-night shifts at Waffle House, Heather would steal over to his place. They didn’t go on dates or hang out with friends. They would have sex, listen to music, and talk. Z helped her forget why she woke up crying, and why she was living in a house she was only supposed to visit on weekends and holidays.
School had been in session for a week. Having to wake up early reduced the amount of time Z and Heather spent together. She didn’t want to admit she missed him; That would introduce more complicated emotions. But Z didn’t have any other feelings competing for his attention. It was early on a Friday evening when he surprised her by tapping on her window in broad daylight.
“We should go out sometime,” he said as she opened the window. He sounded so backwards, asking his lover for a first date. He tried to keep his tone casual, but his heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t know how to tell her what he was starting to feel about her.
“Uhh—” Heather stepped back so he could climb inside. She didn’t know how to respond, or even if she wanted to. Considering the possibility made her stomach squirm and her chest hurt. “Why?” She didn’t know what else to say.
“Because—Because…” He couldn’t collect his thoughts into words as he looked into her eyes. The answers running through his mind were absurd. Instead of replying, he pulled her in for a kiss.
That’s when the door squeaked open. Her grandfather walked in.
“What the Hell?” Tex had expected to walk in to find Heather doing homework, not fraternizing with a strange boy. Z and Heather sprang apart, turning to the startled man.
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” he roared, surprisingly fierce for a man of his years.
Z could not help but smirk. Squeezing Heather’s hand one last time, he jumped out the window, slid across the roof, and dropped to the ground.
43
May, 2006
“Who wants a treat?”
Half-conscious, Heather wondered if she was in the second grade again, and their teacher was bribing the class with Hershey’s kisses. She couldn’t remember why her head hurt. Her brain felt fuzzy. Her body was stiff and aching.
“I do.” Her voice was hoarse. Before the words left her mouth, she remembered where she was and who was speaking. When Rhodes referred to “treats,” there was no telling if he was intending something especially sadistic or a piece of chocolate or fruit. Both scenarios were of equal standing in his mind, like the surprise roast rabbit.
“So soon?” He opened her door.
Seeing him upside-down made her head spin. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. Whatever he had done to her, she couldn’t even remember. She was grateful; He might be able to beat the memory out of her every time. Or permanently. Or kill her.
“Sure.” She pushed herself up on her elbows. As she rose unsteadily to her feet, the world spun, making her stomach lurch. She had to pause in a crouch. After a few deep breaths, she straightened up.
He studied her condition with his head tilted. “Walking isn’t the best idea for you right now.”
She expected him to shut the door and choose one of the others. Instead he leaned down, hooked his arm under her legs, and lifted her up. With a yelp, Heather wrapped her arms around his neck. When the world stopped spinning, she recoiled. He laughed at this contradictory behavior as he carried her out the door. She expected for him to carry her into the Bedroom, but he passed it and descended the stairs.
“Where are you taking me?”
“I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“Please,” she replied flatly.
“The dining room, of course!”
He lowered her to her feet so he could unlock the door. She waited to see if the room would spin, then turned to look through the glass. She could see the front door across the great room. She wondered if he could have forgotten to lock it, and if she could, in her state, race to get it open before he caught her. Rhodes noticed her tense up. He laced his fingers into the hair on the back of her head. Disappointed, she closed her eyes and pursed her lips.
“It’s so easy to read you sometimes.” He opened the doors. “I wonder if you enjoy being hurt.”
“That is the only possible explanation.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“Don’t get smart with me,” he warned. “You got smart with me yesterday, remember?”
“I don’t, actually.” She ran her fingers over the edge of the claw-footed dining table.
Rhodes spun her around and slammed her down on the tabletop. He pinned her with a hand on the back of her head.
“I wasn’t being smart!” She flailed to push him off, scratching his wrists.
Grinning, he drew his free hand up the back of her thigh and under her robe. She slammed her fist against the table. Laughing, Rhodes shoved her aside, into one of the chairs. It almost toppled backward, but she managed to catch the edge of the table. The chair thumped to the floor. Teeth bared, she met his gaze. He wore a mischievous, I’m-just-fucking-with-you grin. She had to fight the urge to lunge out of the chair and punch him.
“You should lighten up.” He glanced at the mirror and smoothed down his bed-head. “You might actually enjoy some of the things I do. I am, after all, dreadfully good…” He shrugged. “Not that you would know what ‘good’ feels like, if Z is your only basis of comparison.”
“He got the job done.”
“You’re implying I don’t. Maybe not yet.” He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “You shouldn’t think such things: they’re very hurtful. I just might take them as a challenge.” He snapped his teeth toward her face. “I can make it hurt in ways you won’t enjoy.”
Heather squeezed her eyes shut to avoid rolling them. Rhodes misread this as surrender. Passing behind her, he disappeared into what must be the kitchen. Before she could dart out the door, he returned with a dinner plate in each hand.
“You were serious?” She gaped as he placed one of the plates in front of her. After countless days of nothing but a bowl of oatmeal, the food was both tantalizing and stomach-turning: chicken breast, scalloped potatoes, and seasoned broccoli. The chicken was already cut into cubes, to prevent her from needing a knife.
“Serious about what?” He placed his own plate at the head of the table.
“About the ‘treat.’” She made quotation marks with her fingers.
Rhodes snorted. “Why would you volunteer if you thought I wasn’t being serious?”
Shrugging, Heather looked down at her food and hoped he would not press the question.
“Ah, I see,” he said quietly. “Taking one for the team.”
Sniffing, Heather shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rhodes paused a moment, looking thoughtful. Then he reached out and smacked her up the backside of the head. She reeled, clutching the edges of her chair.
“None of the others like being smacked around as much as you do.” He went back into the kitchen, then reappeared a second later. “Well… Z does, but nowhere near as much as you do.”
He placed a knife and fork by his plate. Turning to her, he held up a camping spork. “If you attempt to stab me with this,” he warned, “or use it to escape in any way, not only will I be very amused and laugh at you, but I will use it to gouge out your eyes while I do. Do you understand?”
She wanted to snort. She wanted to roll her eyes. Instead, she nodded. “Yessir,” she murmured.
He smirked, not expecting this grave response. He placed the utensil on the table by her plate. “Bon appetit.”
Despite her stomach twisting with hunger, Heather forced herself to eat slowly. After a few bites, Rhodes leaned back in his chair and watched her with interest.
“Are you one of those guys who gets off watching women eat?” she asked, tearing into a piece of chicken.
Rhodes took a deep breath before he replied. “I’m not reall
y watching you eat.” He nodded at her plate.
Heather dropped the spork on the table. “Are you poisoning me?” Alarmed, she stared at the food. It tasted fine…
“No, I’m not poisoning you, you idiot!” he groaned. “Look at your plate—you don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
When she saw what he meant, her face burned. She had divided her food in half and was only eating from one side. She bit her lip, praying he would not be able to divine why.
“Why?”
Her heart sank. “I…” She racked her brain for the safest way to phrase her answer. “I was going to ask you if I could take some up to Monica.”
He stared at her, knowing she was lying, but unable to find fault in her answer. This was a good sign: it meant he had no idea she had been able to get out of her closet. He began to laugh.
“You really are stupid! Poison you… fucking hilarious.” He leaned the chair back on two legs.
“Why is that funny?” She was glad to distract him from her lie. “You’ve made it very clear that you were going to kill us all.”
He continued to chuckle. “Yes, but I really am having the time of my life.” He gestured over her. “Especially if you carry on like this, you could get…” He counted to himself. “Fuck, I don’t even know what day it is. Let’s say… it’s about the thirteenth. You have, at most, eighteen days left. Eighteen days: The time of my life.”
Heather stared at him, growing pale as he casually calculated the remainder of her life. Their lives.
“What?” His smile implied it was a rhetorical question.
“Eighteen days?” Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe.
“Yes,” he continued, his smile widening, “eighteen days—at most. And if today is the thirteenth. It could be… fuck, it could be anything. It might be the fourteenth. That would make it seventeen days… But I think it’s eighteen days. Don’t hold me to that, especially if you keep pissing me off.” He looked at her, relishing her distress. “Keep rolling your eyes at me, or talking to me like I’m an idiot, and it could be… significantly shorter. It’s highly unlikely that all four of you will make it that long, but stranger things… actually, no… no, I take that back. No group has ever lasted the entire month.”
Heather closed her eyes and slid out of the chair. She put her hands on top her head, making it easier to breathe. Eighteen days. Eighteen days. The words pounded in her head like a heart-beat.
It’ll be OK, she thought in the same voice she used when soothing Monica. It’s going to be OK. You can come up with a plan; Eighteen days is more than enough to put together a good plan. Throwing her head back and taking a deep breath, she made sure she didn’t look like she was about to cry when she sat back down.
“You assimilated that information quickly.” He sounded impressed.
“I get that a lot.” She picked the spork up and pushed her food around. “May I take this to the others?” Her voice was so calm—almost cheerful—it was alarming.
“Something tells me you’re not going to shoot for all eighteen days.”
“I couldn’t tell if that was a yes or a no.”
Rhodes leaned forward. His chair clapping down on all fours, making her jump. He considered her for a moment, then scrutinized the table under his elbows. Sliding his plate to the side, he stood up, tapping his fingers on the tabletop.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to fuck someone on this table.” He gripped the corner in both hands and shook it to see how sturdy the table was. The muscles rippled under his skin from the effort. The table barely moved. He shot her a vicious smile.
“No.”
“Yes,” he told her, “you will: conscious, with your eyes open… looking into mine.”
Heather shook her head, dropping the spork on the table with a clatter. “Nevermind.”
“Then not one of you will eat for a week,” he said. “That will be easier for you to digest.”
“You can’t do that,” she spat.
“Can’t?” he repeated. “Can’t I?”
“I didn’t mean that,” she murmured. “I mean… You shouldn’t take…” She chewed her lip as she considered her words. Rhodes stood tall and raised his eyebrows, waiting. Her composure faded as she realized the hopelessness of rationalizing with him. Her lies had backfired horribly. She choked back the tears threatening to fill her eyes. Standing, she pushed past him, walked to a window and looked out. It was obnoxious how the sun shone so brightly, and the clouds wandered so lazily, while they were inside that house, suffering. She took a deep breath to cover a sob.
Once she had recovered her composure, she returned to the table. Rhodes, recognizing her surrender, smiled down at her. She tried several times to meet his gaze, but each time lost her composure. Losing his patience, he grabbed her arm. He pulled her in front of him and lifted her onto the edge of the table. She swallowed her fear, sickness, and pride, and stared into his black eyes.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, unbuttoning his jeans.
Heather clenched her jaw. He grinned at her irritation and ran his hands up her thighs. Flinching at his touch, she broke her gaze. She forced herself to meet his eyes again.
Rhodes hocked into his hand. “Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered as he rubbed the spit over his penis.
Requesting such an affectionate gesture was too much. Heather rolled her eyes. She lulled her entire head. Rhodes slapped her with his spit-and-whatever-else-covered hand. She would have reeled were it not for his fist clutching her arm. She raised her hand to wipe her face with her sleeve. He prevented this by taking her wrists and pulling them over his shoulders. He forced her hips to his as he licked the red welt rising on her face. Heather gagged. He chuckled and lifted her face to lick the fluid from her chin.
She was only able to hold his gaze for a few minutes before turning her face up to the ceiling. Tears streamed from her eyes. He licked them off and forced her gaze on him again.
“Look at me,” he growled.
But she couldn’t anymore. She kept turning her head away. Grinning, he grabbed her hair and forced her gaze down. He gave her a clear view of their bodies grinding together. Heather’s stomach twisted. Jerking back, she tried to pull away. Rhodes followed. Climbing onto the table, he pinned her down. She clutched the edge until he was finished.
“There!” He slapped the table next to her face. “This is one sturdy fucking table… Fucking table,” he repeated, chuckling. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” He wiped tears from her face. Heather didn’t reply. She fixed her eyes on the wall. He slipped off the table and pulled up his jeans. She wrapped her robe close around her.
“Not very comfortable, though, is it?” he asked. “And cold at first, I’m sure.”
It had been cold and her back was stiff. She could feel friction burns, blood making the silk stick to her skin. But she didn’t speak.
“If you want to feed your friends, follow me.”
Slipping off the table, she took her plate and followed him into the kitchen. It was enormous, the largest room in the house. Fascinated, she explored all of the gadgets, not even able to guess what some of them were. She searched for anything within reach she could use as a weapon. Rhodes crossed to the oven. She heard the oven door open and some dishes being placed on the counter. When she turned to him, his eyes were bright, lips pursed, and his shoulders shuddered with suppressed laughter. There were three baking dishes on the counter: one containing four chicken breasts, another with four scalloped potatoes, and the other was full of broccoli. He had made enough for everyone, and left-overs. They had been keeping warm in the oven.
Heather’s plate slipped out of her hand and shattered on the floor.
“Son of a bitch.” Her voice came out strangled. Rhodes bent double, bursting with laughter. She pulled back her fist. She didn’t see the plate in his hand until he swung it into her head.
Heather hit the floor, pieces of porcelain raining around her. B
linking, she watched drops of red drip onto the white tile floor. She stared at it before piecing together it was blood—her blood. Pressing a hand to her forehead, she pulled a small shard out from under the skin.
A hand on her shoulder pulled her to her feet. The kitchen spun around her. Rhodes’s hands made it still again. His mouth moved, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She held up the bloody shard of porcelain to him, offering it like a gift. Rhodes took her wrist and pulled her hand to his mouth, taking the shard from her fingers as if it were a piece of candy. It left a streak of blood on his bottom lip. Heather wiped it away with her thumb.
“That’s definitely a concussion.” He spit out the shard and patted her cheek. “Focus! You hate me, remember?”
“Yes…” she murmured. Knitting her brow, she took a deep breath. Her face filled with rage.
“There you are!”
Without a word, she pulled back her fist again. This time, he was not prepared.
****
Rhodes dragged Heather by the collar out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the White Room. Every threshold, every stair sent a jarring pain through her body, but she managed to suppress most her screams. He paused to dab the blood from his busted lip, then tossed her into her closet and kicked in her legs.
As soon as the door closed, she began to laugh. “Hey, hey, Z.”
Heather could hear the incredulity in their silence. They knew Rhodes was still in the room, listening. Her laughter turned into whimpers as bolts of pain shot through her ribs.
“Yeah?” Z whispered.
She started laughing again, making it hard to speak. “What’s the difference—between—a cat and—and a comma?”
Z snorted. “I dunno. What?”
Heather gasped in pain. She had to get her breath under control before answering. “One has claws at the end of her paws, and the other is a pause at the end of a clause.”
She heard Z fighting to suppress laughter.
“What?” Monica squeaked.
Racked with pain, Heather burst into hysterics. Her ribs threatened to break. “Ow, ow, ow…” As her laughter faded, she could still hear Rhodes, sitting by the door, snickering along with them.
