by Bera, Ilia
“You look better with a few scars on your face,” I say, and I mean it.
“Oh yeah?” His eyes drift down to my chest.
“Yeah. You look less girly.”
He releases the rest of his residual laughter. “It’s too bad you’re a human,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I try to wiggle my torso, but the weight of his body leaves me immobile.
“You’re spunky. And you’re kinda hot.”
“And you’re a pig,” I say.
I can feel his bulge move; I hope it’s just in my head.
“I’m a pig, and you’re a bitch,” he says. He stares down at me. For once, with all of his cuts and bruises, he looks like a glimmer of a man, and not just like a Gucci model.
“Just undo the handcuffs.”
“Sorry, darlin’,” he says, rolling off of me and leaving me tied to the bedframe. “Can’t risk it.”
“What?”
“I’m goin’ to sleep for a few. Can’t have ya sneakin’ out on me.”
I give the loosened cuffs a swift tug. My hands nearly fit through the metal rings—nearly, but no dice. After a few more tugs, I say, “I won’t sneak out.” I wouldn’t trust me, either. But I’m desperate enough to beg.
“Just try n’ relax, get some sleep. If you’re tellin’ the truth about the pawnie, then we’ll let ya go in the mornin’.”
I tug the cuffs so hard; the rings break the skin on my palm. “Ouch.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he says with a smirk, receding into the bathroom. “Try to get some sleep,” he says again.
I surrender, letting my arms fall limp behind my head. I stare up at the ceiling. Sleep? Not tonight. With Freddie now whistling in the bathroom, I’ve lost count of the reasons sleep is out of the question.
“Did you brush your teeth?” he asks from the bathroom. He laughs to himself, as if he can hear me loathing him. The plumbing rattles and coughs as he turns on the shower. His whistling turns to singing and he begins to undress.
The bathroom door is open, though he’s oblivious to the fact I can see a sliver of the bathroom through the room’s full-length mirror. At least, he’s acting as though he’s oblivious as he removes his shirt. Bruises cover his body in varying shades of yellows, browns, and reds. None of the wounds seem to bother him, but that could be part of his act. He steps into the center of my sliver of visibility and reaches down for the waistband of his pants.
I sink as low as I can into my bed, turning my head away, but keeping my narrowed eyes on the mirror, ready to dart away at any moment. He shimmies his pants down an inch and then stops, reaching into the shower to adjust the water’s temperature. I can’t see the water, but I can see the steam filling the bathroom, billowing out into the hallway.
Before he drops his pants, he takes a half step forward, across my line of sight. Straining, I can see the back of his head, the muscles of his back, and the cusp of his naked, toned butt.
He glances over his shoulder, towards the hallway mirror. I look away before his eyes land on me. He keeps on whistling as he steps into the shower.
I give my fluttering heart a moment to calm down before casually glancing back at the mirror. Freddie is behind the glass now, still whistling, the glass becoming glazed by steam.
He spins, lathering his body in soap. Dried blood rehydrates and runs down his body, down his muscles, across his tattoos. His arms flex as he scrubs his shoulders, the muscles in his back flex as he reaches down for his legs, his abdomen, and his crotch.
He may be an asshole, a cheat, and a hog, but he’s got a nice looking package. With one hand, he lifts it up, lathering it with the other. There’s something strangely mesmerizing about the way he handles himself, the way he runs the suds down length of his shaft, under his sac, and then back up the shaft—the way it swings as he turns into the stream, and the soap flows down and trickles off the tip.
His hands move up, over his pubic bone, his abs, his pecs, his neck—
Freddie is looking at the mirror, looking at me, smirking. He winks as my heart skips a beat. I swing my head away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WAITING FOR MORNING
Freddie finally emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a white Holiday Inn bathrobe. Humming casually, he glances over at the television.
“Whatcha watchin’?”
I don’t bother telling him the answer he already knows. The channel still hasn’t been changed, still looping the same five infomercials, the same limited-time offer on a waffle iron that doubles as a deep fryer. Or maybe he was suggesting I’d been watching him. Either way, I don’t want to play his games.
“You just gonna sleep in your shoes like that?”
I hope my mother was wrong when she said, ‘If you keep making that face, it will stay like that forever.’ My feet are killing me, and my toes are cold and numb. My jeans are uncomfortable, my belt is digging into my hip, and my bra-strap is chafing my shoulders. I would kill for a white bathrobe.
Freddie laughs, my silence amusing him. “I see how it is,” he says.
I bite the inside of my cheek, already hating myself for the question I’m about to ask. “Can you take them off?”
“Huh?”
“My shoes, can you take them off for me? I can’t do it without my hands.” I could feel a blister on the heel of my foot from an hour spent trying to shimmy my shoe off. I was unsuccessful, and I scuffed up a good pair of shoes in the process.
Freddie laughs and begins surfing through TV channels. “I like background noise while I sleep. Hope ya don’t mind.”
“Great,” I say under my breath. The hallway mirror begins to clear up as the steam from Freddie’s shower dissipates. When was the last time I took a shower? Two, three days ago? More?
Something grabs my foot and I kick it away instinctively. It’s Freddie.
“Whoa,” he says. “Ya almost took my eye out. Ya want these things off, or no?”
Like a feral cat, I’m wide-eyed and tense, pushed back against the head of the bed, staring at Freddie in silence. I don’t trust him. Why should I? He motions for my foot, and, after a few seconds, I give it to him and he removes my shoe. The relief is instant, satisfying.
“Your shoes are too small for your feet,” he says.
“They’re a six. I’m a six.”
“If these are sixes, then you’re an eight.” He shimmies off my other shoe, dropping it carelessly onto the floor.
I scrunch my cold toes. Blood is once again flowing into my feet. “Thanks,” I say, ignoring his jab. I’m a six. Six and a half at most.
“Don’t mention it.” He stands up and turns back to the television. “Your feet stink.” Really? No kidding. My kidnapper hasn’t let me take a shower in days.
His jabs have stopped fazing me; I’m growing numb to his snide comments and rude remarks. I swallow my pride and bite my tongue in order to say, “Can you loosen my belt?”
He swings his head back at me. I can feel his beaming grin, but shame doesn’t allow me to make eye-contact. Instead, I keep my gaze down at my recently freed toes.
“What?” He wants to bask in my request one more time.
“My belt is digging into my side. Can you loosen it? I can’t reach it.”
He shakes his head and scoffs but before he can open his mouth, I say, “Get over yourself. I just want it loosened.”
He sits down on the bed, lifts my shirt over my waist, and undoes my belt. “How’s that?” It’s better, but still hurts.
I lift my hips off the bed. “Can you just pull it off? Just the belt.” Surprisingly, he does—just the belt.
“Anythin’ else?” he asks.
I consider asking him to undo my bra-strap, but I think he’s had enough satisfaction for one night. But the chafing against my shoulders makes it difficult to say no.
“Well?”
“No.” I’ll live.
“What is it?”
“What is what?” I ask.
<
br /> “Why’d ya take so long to answer? What do ya want? Just say it. Say it, or live with it for the next few hours.”
I hate how easily he reads me, how he manipulates me with his mind games. Before meeting Freddie, I was unreadable. I’m supposed to be the manipulator—that’s my thing, not his. I’ve conned gangsters, lied my way out of being arrested, ripped off wealthy businessmen.
“Well?”
I strain to swallow the remainder of my pride. “Can you undo my bra strap?” I can barely hear my coy voice.
My words are slow to reach Freddie’s ears. When they do, his grin stretches wide, reaching out towards his ears. He keeps his teeth clenched.
Ugh—not worth it. “Never mind,” I say, regretting saying anything in the first place. His satisfaction is too much to handle. One night in a chafing bra-strap won’t kill me.
“Lean forward,” he says.
“I said, never mind.” I turn my head away, seeing my flushed face and rosy cheeks in the reflection of the cheap hotel art’s glass frame.
“Just lean forward,” he says, stepping over me and sinking down to his knees.
“Seriously—”
“—Just do it.” He rolls his eyes.
Fine. I lean forward as much as the cuffs will allow. What are you doing, Olivia? Why are you letting him touch you? He leans into me and his warm hands slide up the back of my shirt. That grin—I can’t look.
I keep my head turned to the motel painting, watching him fumble away at my bra’s clip in the reflection. He seems to be struggling. Freddie struggling with a bra? Yeah right. It’s just another part of his game.
“It’s really not a big deal. Just don’t worry about it,” I say.
My bra snaps loose and the chafing pain vanishes along with the tension in my muscles. The relief is worth the kick to my pride.
“Better?” he asks.
“So much better. Thank you.” I turn to him and he kisses me.
I freeze, relax, and kiss back. His lips are soft, warm. I push away as reality slams into me. Why did I just do that? What was I thinking? I don’t know. My mind is swirling around, broken into tiny fragments. Maybe I’m still drunk.
I try to speak, but can’t. I try to turn my head away but his fingers stop me. He kisses me again, and I kiss him back. Why? I must be drunk—or having a nightmare. My mind flutters, trying to find an answer, but if there is an answer, it’s only drifting further away, the longer the kiss lasts. And the kiss is still going.
My body sinks into the mattress, and his body sinks into mine. He’s warm. I try to wrap my arms around him, but my handcuffs stop me. Damn—all I want is to wrap my arms around him. I squirm, fighting off the torment of my restraints, the torment of not being able to feel his body with my hands while he feels mine with his.
His head starts to pull back. No—I’m not finished. I’m not ready for it to end. I don’t let it end, gently grabbing his lip with my teeth. It works, his head sinks back down. I must be drunk—I must be hammered.
He bites my lip and pulls it back. He adjusts his body over mine, covering me in his warmth. His robe parts and I can feel his bare, warm member against my thigh. It’s growing. I can feel it throbbing, pumping, hardening. I want to reach down and grab it. I want to hold it in my hands and feel it swell and bulge.
I pull my hands again, forgetting about the restraints around my wrists. He glances up and laughs. His snickering should piss me off—I should have the urge to knee him in the crotch, but I don’t. Maybe I’ve been drugged again. Maybe Freddie’s manipulated me with one of his mind games.
Or maybe I’m just falling for him.
I shake my head and push the thought away. It’s impossible. There’s nothing to fall for, nothing but a dumb grin and a big package. They make blow-up dolls with more to fall for.
Freddie’s lips are at my neck now, along with my pushed-up shirt, and bra. His hands are around my tits. When did he push up my shirt? How did his hands slip over my bare tits without me noticing? More importantly, why am I not pissed off about it? I can hear my breathing, but it’s no longer in my control. My breaths are deep, long, and heavy, rising and crashing like waves in an approaching storm.
He’s hard—his cock is hard, along with every muscle in his body. As he drifts lower down my body, my body sinks deeper.
Deeper, and deeper.
His fingers fondle the waistline of my pants. My blood is pumping. He glances up at me and, with my eyes I tell him, enough build up—fuck the foreplay. His acknowledges with a grin. I can’t take it any longer. I need him inside of me.
Knock! Knock!
We both swing our heads to the door and freeze, like a couple of deer fucking in the headlights.
“Freddie?” It’s Mel’s voice.
Freddie is slow to respond. He mutters, “Fuck,” under his breath before calling out, “Yeah?”
“Come out here. I need to talk to you.” No, no, no. Not now. Can’t this way five minutes?
“Fucking shit,” Freddie says under his breath. “Just a second.” He hops to his feet and tightens his bathrobe. “Coming!”
The heavy door closes behind him. “What is it?” I hear Freddie say. I can barely make out what they’re saying.
“I need to go,” says Mel.
“Go? Go where?”
“Pesconi got Nicky.”
“What? How?”
“I’m not sure. I just got off the phone with Mert. We haven’t been able to get in touch with him for three days now. Mert was hoping he’d show up before the big move, but he’s still M-I-A.” I scan my brain. Who’s Nicky?
“So where’re ya goin’?” Freddie asks.
“I’m going to fill his post until he shows up—or until they send a proper replacement. I’m taking the car.”
“Hold on,” Freddie says. “I know where she took the territs but I need your help gettin’ ‘em. C’mon.”
“I need to leave now.”
“It’ll take ten minutes. It’s close by.”
Their footsteps fade away down the hall and the room becomes silent, save for the looping infomercials on the television, and what’s left of my heavy breathing.
Twenty minutes pass. An hour passes. I start to wonder if he’s coming back. After two hours, it’s starting to seem unlikely. Maybe they got themselves arrested trying to knock over the No Hold Gold. Maybe the security guard gunned them down. Or, maybe Pesconi found them and dealt with them. In eight hours, the hotel staff will come knock on the door, and I’ll be free. Eight hours is a long time to wait, cuffed to a bedframe.
I fall asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FALSE HOPE
I wake up surrounded by unfamiliar faces—three of them, all with particularly unfriendly grimaces. They aren’t gypsies and they aren’t hotel staff. Though I don’t recognize their faces, I do recognize their long black coats, their pale complexions, and when one of them says, “Good mornin’,” I recognize their thick New Yorker accents. They’re Carmine Pesconi’s men.
I try to run, but my cuffed wrists stop me. The men take a moment to laugh at my expense. Shit. How did they find me? How did they get into the room?
“Put the gag on her,” says one man with a long, thin face and pointed chin.
Another follows the command, stuffing a gag into my mouth. The gag is damp, sour, as if it had been in someone else’s mouth that same morning. It’s disgusting, and my gag reflex agrees.
“Let’s get her out of here.”
“Don’t try to fight us, sweetheart. You’re only makin’ it harder on yourself.”
Despite his warning, I try to squirm free. One man grabs my ankles to hold me still. His strength is impressive, holding me stationary as another man tinkers with my cuffs.
“Did he give you the key?” asks the man at my wrists.
“No. They didn’t say nothing about no cuffs.”
“Fucking gypsy bastards.” Gypsy bastards? I don’t believe it. I told them where the territs were
and they sold me out.
“Give me a hand, will ya? Hold her wrists.” As one man takes my wrists, the other begins to slam the solid oak frame with his elbow. With three swift knocks, he breaks through the frame. Wooden splinters rain down on my face. Impossible. Solid oak doesn’t just splinter after a few knocks from an elbow. With a blunt jerk, I’m pulled up to my feet.
They lead me out of the room, down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the lobby. A fourth man waits in the lobby. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses and holding a long switchblade. Next to him is the young night auditor, quivering and blindfolded behind the desk. His cheeks are wet with tears.
