by Kitty Thomas
The Game Maker
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2020 © Kitty Thomas
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or shared. If you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Respecting the hard work of this author makes new books possible.
Publisher’s Note:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Neither the publisher nor the author endorses any behavior carried out by any character in this work of fiction or any other.
Chapter One
The phone in my pocket has stopped ringing by the time I manage to unlock the door and stumble into my apartment, kicking the door shut behind me. In my arms are my last bags of groceries. I sit them on the floor and dig out my phone.
One new voicemail.
I recognize the number of the missed call. It's Carolyn, my landlady. A pile of eviction notices in an array of neon colors is stacked neatly on my kitchen countertop. I should have thrown them away, but I'm a masochist like that.
I press the speakerphone button and dial in to my voicemail where the robotic voice helpfully announces that I have one. new. message. I love how each word is its own sentence. I take a deep breath and press one to listen.
“Kate, I need you out of the apartment by the end of the week. I've already got someone who wants to move in. I'm very sorry about your situation, but you have to find other arrangements. I don't want to have you forcibly removed; please don't make me the bad guy here.”
I slide to the floor and break down and cry. How did this happen to me? I once heard that nobody ends up truly homeless unless they have a drug problem or a mental illness. Well, let me just say, that is a big fat lie. I have no addictions and am the most put-together person I know. And yet, here I am.
It's hard to explain how someone becomes this isolated. Especially in a city of millions. A few years ago, fresh out of college and mourning the death of my parents—car crash—I decided to move to the city and put my advertising degree to good use. I have a few friends back home, but they’re casual acquaintances—not the kind of people I can ask for help.
And here in the city? I'm a workaholic. I was working in an agency with far more men than women. What few friendships I have, again, are shallow and not a hey, can I crash at your place sort of situation. And I'm the best goddamned advertising exec in a sixty mile radius. I didn't lose my job because I was irresponsible or bad at it.
I lost my job because of Andrew, my boss. Because I made the mistake of dating him and then breaking up with him. The sex was fucking awful. I would rather be single for the rest of my life than suffer through shitty sex with a man who doesn't know which end of his dick does what. Or where my clit is.
You learn so many useless things in school, but where to find the clit is probably the most useful knowledge many men could gain for practical life use. Followed by how to stroke it, tease it, lick it. Alas, Andrew missed that nonexistent day of class at Shit-you'll-actually-use school.
When he fired me, I told him to go fuck himself, if he could figure out how, and flounced off in a huff. I thought it would be easy with my reputation to find a new job, but Andrew beat me to it. I'm pretty much blacklisted in this city. I thought, no problem, I can move. I have no attachments here. But the economy isn't the greatest, and I can't give Andrew as a reference, so all that hard work and reputation I built? Gone.
And now I'm out of time. Out of savings. I'm going to be out on the street in five days if I don't figure something out.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands and struggle to stand. I am not that girl—the one who crumples and cries at every little struggle—the one who needs other people to fix her problems. I will figure something out. But I've tried. I've tried jobs outside of my industry. I've tried jobs that are “beneath me”. Nobody is hiring, and the few places that are I'm overqualified for, or the pay is so low I'd still be homeless with the cost of living here.
I put the groceries away, get dressed up in a little black dress, and go out. Even though I only have five more days in this apartment I have to get out. Half an hour later, I find myself sitting at a bar. Such a stereotype. Except I'm sitting at the bar of an extremely nice restaurant. To be honest, I'm surprised they even let me in here. You have to have a reservation, but they do have a bar, and I guess I just looked like I knew where I was going, and nobody stopped me.
I'm not sure why I'm here. Is this some last ditch effort to somehow land a man who can keep me off the street? Is this the level of pathetic desperation I've reached?
I'm on my third gin and tonic when I spot a woman at the other end of the bar who I am nearly a hundred percent sure is an escort. I don't know why I'm so sure about this, but there's something about her that screams regularly paid for sex. Hey, I'm not judging.
An escort.
I roll that thought around in my mind for a moment. It's the one industry I haven't sought work in. But wouldn't it be better than homelessness? I can't get pregnant at least. When I first learned that at sixteen I was devastated. And maybe it's why I've thrown myself so much into my work because I knew children weren't in my future, so I'd better build something else to be proud of.
This escort thought continues to roll around in my mind. I'm not blind to my own attributes. I have long, wavy, naturally blonde-streaked hair. Women pay hundreds of dollars for highlights like these that I have naturally. Blue eyes. Long dancer legs. Pouty lips. Natural, not injections. Not sure about the boobs though. I mean I like them. I might be the only woman on the planet who likes her breasts just as they are. I'm a B-cup, which I've always thought was the perfect size. Outside of work, I almost never wear a bra, and they stay where they're supposed to. But lots of men like bigger. Probably most of the men paying for it.
And being an escort is likely to be far worse than being with Andrew because then instead of having bad sex with one person I'd be having it with hundreds. The reality of the fantasy I've just spent the past several minutes exploring loses its luster as quickly as it came on. It's like most fantasies that way. The vast majority of them I would never act out because I know the real thing isn't anything like what's in my head. When it's in my head, I'm the one in control, and my imaginary partners fuck like gods.
I scroll through the depressingly short contact list on my phone. Andrew is still in there. And maybe it's because I've had three pretty strong drinks, but I can't stop myself from pressing the call button.
“Hello,” he answers brusquely on the third ring. He has a posh British accent that fools people into thinking he has decency or class.
“Hey, it's me,” I say.
“What do you want?”
I don't know how I imagined this conversation would go down, and my head isn't clear enough to navigate it in any kind of intelligent way. I'm aware that I'm making an absolute fool of myself. I know how pathetic this is. There isn't enough alcohol in the world for me to not realize that.
I feel the tears coming, and I can't hold them back. I know I sound weak. I don't think I've ever appeared weak to my former boss, not once until now.
“I didn't have anyone else to call,” I say.
“Call about what?” His voice is guarded and threaded with more malice than I expected. Even after firing me and ruining my life, even after two months since the day I walked out of the agency, he's still angry.
“I'm being kicked out of my apartment this week. I can't p
ay rent. I need...” I trail off.
“I already filled your job,” he says.
“O-okay,” I whisper. I can't ask him to take me back. It's just not in me. I can't beg a man I can't stand to take me back. The thought of his hands on me makes the bile rise in my throat, even as I know if I could only get past my pride and beg, I might be sleeping in his extremely nice apartment with all my needs met indefinitely.
He saves me from this groveling.
“I don't have a job at the agency, but you could be my whore.”
The cruelty in his tone makes me want to lash out and spew a string of curses at him. But I bite my tongue just in time. Of course I can't be his girlfriend again. Only his whore. Fuck this guy. I want to slit his motherfucking throat so badly I can barely think straight.
“Kate? Are you still there? I will take care of you. I will shelter you and feed you and clothe you and take you out to nice places. And you will service me whenever and however I like in return. Deal?”
The tears are streaming down my face now, and people are starting to stare. I hate this man so much. It wasn't just that he was bad in bed. It's that he's a first-class asshole. He treated me like shit when I was his girlfriend. How much worse will he treat me now? But I truly see no other options, no other escape. My life has fallen apart so fast I have whiplash from it. I remind myself that I don't have to do this forever, just until I can find another way forward.
I glance over at the woman across the bar, contemplating once again trying to get a job as an escort. I mean, I'll be a whore anyway, so what difference does it make? Would it be easier with strangers or with a man I already know is a piece of shit?
The man she's supposed to go with has arrived. It's clear they've never met before, and he's taking her out of the bar and out of the restaurant. She's got large, perky fake tits, and his eyes are drawn right to them, reconfirming that I could never compete in that industry.
“Kate, tell me where you are, and I will come get you,” Andrew says on the other end of the phone.
Defeated, I give him the address and name of the restaurant I'm in.
“I'll be there in thirty minutes,” he says. He disconnects the call before I can change my mind.
I have a fourth drink because I'll need a fourth drink for this. Then I step outside into the crisp fall air to wait. But the fourth drink was a mistake. I feel woozy all of a sudden and go down like a pile of bricks.
Chapter Two
My head is pounding when I regain consciousness. I can't bring myself to open my eyes. I'm lying on a hard surface, which seems weird to me. At first I think I'm lying on the ground outside where I passed out, but there are no city noises. Instead, I hear classical music being piped in from a speaker above me.
And I smell... roses. One of those highly fragrant varieties. I must be at Andrew's place. But why the fuck did he leave me on the ground? It's at this point that I realize I'm naked. Also, Andrew doesn't listen to classical music.
Instinctively, I want to bolt upright and cover myself, but I don't have that kind of reaction time. And it’s a real struggle to open my eyes. When I do, I'm momentarily grateful to be in a dimly lit room.
“A-Andrew?” I croak out. I want to scream at him for dumping me on the ground in his apartment, but I can barely choke his name out. I wait for my eyes to adjust. Everything around me is dark gray, and there's no furniture in this room.
Cell, my mind hisses at me. I am in a cell.
I push myself off the ground into a sitting position and wait for my vision to go back to normal so I can get a sense of where I am. Did Andrew put me in here? He's a bigger bastard than I thought. This is when I finally realize I'm not alone.
There’s a large, dark figure sitting on the ground against the far wall.
“Andrew, you piece of shit. What are you doing?”
I probably shouldn't speak to the person who rescued me from homelessness this way, but I don't care. He needs to grow the fuck up. I expect him to yell at me or threaten to kick me out, but what I hear instead chills me.
“Who's Andrew?”
This is definitely not Andrew's voice. No accent. Plus it's deeper and more frightening. Suddenly the adrenaline hits me, and I have a sudden burst of speed. I back as far from him as I can until I meet the opposite wall. I shield my breasts from his gaze and shift to a sitting position where he can't see other private parts—even though I know he's already seen everything. And possibly done more. I was unconscious after all.
As my vision clears further, it seems that the light in the room gets a little brighter. He's wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, no shoes. His dark hair looks a bit disheveled. He's very attractive. Heart-stoppingly beautiful, actually. It's the kind of unearthly beauty that makes me feel relieved for a moment because I know I'm still passed out. This is a weird dream. I just know it is.
It's not a dream, whispers the same evil internal voice that decided to tell me I was in a cell.
It takes several minutes before my mind is willing to accept what has happened. I don't know if someone put something in my drink or if I was just that drunk. I don't know how long this man stalked me before he took me, but I know I’m looking at the man who kidnapped me.
And now the tears come. It takes every ounce of willpower not to break down into hysterical sobs. This reaction is making a lie out of everything I thought I knew about myself. The strength and control I thought I had in my life. Even up to very recently, I thought I was handling things.
But this is the last straw. It's the last tiny push I needed to find myself in a free fall.
Another dark thought pushes its way into my mind. No one is going to be looking for me. Does the man who took me know that? Andrew sure as shit won't look or file a police report.
My landlady might not realize why I didn't pack my things up first, but as nice as Carolyn is, she'll just be glad she doesn't have to have me forcibly removed. She isn't going to report my disappearance to the police. What disappearance? I've been evicted. I'm not supposed to be there.
There is no reality now but me and my captor. I'm trying desperately not to think about the reasons this man took me. To rape me? To kill me? To torture me? He sure as shit isn't going to let me go when he's done with whatever's on his nefarious agenda. I know you can't appeal to a sociopath, and nobody normal does something like this.
Still, I can't help begging. “P-please don't hurt me.”
“I won't,” he says.
Huh?
“You can let me go,” I say. “I won't say anything.”
“I can't let you go. I didn't put you in here.”
“What?” For a moment, my confusion overtakes my fear. What does he mean he didn't put me in here? Of course he did. Who the fuck can he blame? The invisible demon perched on his shoulder?
He shakes his head slowly. “I'm in the same boat as you, sweetheart.”
I glance back and forth between us. He has clothes on, and they don't look like he's worn them for days. Meanwhile, I'm naked. We are not in the same boat.
“I don't believe you,” I say. “You're playing with me somehow.”
He shrugs. “Believe what you want, but I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe with me.”
I know it's some kind of trick. He wants me to trust him so he can turn the tables on me. Sick bastard. But for the moment, he isn't lunging toward me; he isn't getting up from his spot on the ground.
So I take this time to get a better sense of where I am. It’s a plain gray cell, not really much to see. And actually there is one thing in here—a large mattress. It actually looks nice, like it recently came out of some upscale mattress warehouse. It isn't dirty or dingy, and it looks like it's comfortable. It's larger than a full-sized, but probably not a king. There are no pillows, sheets, or blankets, though.
The mattress is on the floor next to the guy, like he's guarding it. Behind him and to one side are heavy long chains bolted into the wall. I look behind me to find there are also heavy chain
s bolted into the wall behind me. I bite back the urge to scream or cry again. It won't do me any good. I have to try to keep it together.
There’s a slot in the wall that looks big enough to pass food through but not much else. And there’s a door that looks like it has a lot of security on it. But it's not the only door.
To my right, there’s another doorway. There’s no actual door on it but, instead, a bamboo beaded curtain that almost reaches the ground. Light streams out from it into the cell, and I realize suddenly that this other room is the only source of light.
“What's in there?” I ask, pointing in the direction of the mystery room.
“Bathroom,” he says.
I still don't believe this guy is another innocent victim. He seems way too large and in charge, and strong, to ever be in this kind of situation. But as long as he's going to pretend, I'll pretend with him.
“What's your name?” I ask.
He opens his mouth to speak, and suddenly the music shuts off and a dark, menacing voice enters the room through the speaker.
“No names!” he growls. “You will address him as Master.”
That's not Andrew, either.
The man's eyes widen at the same time mine do. He seems both shocked and disgusted by this suggestion from our mysterious captor of what I should call him. But neither of us addresses this. We sit uncomfortably, pretending these words weren't spoken.
But then my co-captive speaks. “Let us out of here, you sick son of a bitch! I will fucking kill you!”
The only response is a chuckle. “Yes, put on a brave show for the girl, but in the end, you will both dance for me, my little monkeys.”
There’s a part of me that wants to go to the other guy in the cell, as if he can protect me from all of this.
The voice crackles over the speaker again. “I will feed you when you've fucked her.”
