Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1)
Page 13
Get a fucking hold of yourself, Lynn.
I hate myself for the fact that even the imaginary threat of him is enough to marshal my body into action. I crawl over to the wall and then use the surface of it for leverage to slowly climb upright. For a moment, I think I’ll lose my balance again, but my trembling knees hold up. I succeed in taking a step in the man’s direction, and he enters the hallway without a word.
It’s a slow, agonizing shuffle down the hall to enter what seems to be a small sitting room. I have to cling to the wall the entire way before choosing to crawl on my hands and knees to a couch, which I scramble onto.
“Here.” The man throws something at me while I settle on the uneven cushions. They’re upholstered in a faded material that seems to sport blue and white stripes. At some point, the colors must have been vibrant. Now they’re worn and gray in places. I picture the leather furniture that decorated the suite I’d called home for five years. Vinny certainly wouldn’t approve of this abode. The furniture is minimal. There’s an armchair matching the style of the couch a few feet away, resting against the wall. There’s a small television as well, and a plain coffee table sits in the center of the carefully assembled selection. Someone’s tried their best to make it homey, I think. But furniture and blue curtains can only go so far to displace the otherwise charged atmosphere. I feel like I’m in a pot, dangling above a pit of fire—while I may not be able to see the flames through the metal prison, I can still smell them. Their heat tickles my skin.
Lucifer’s eyes burn like that inferno. He nods to a wad of gray fabric that has appeared on the couch beside me. “Put it on,” he says. Each word is pronounced slowly and deliberately. It’s like he knows that my brain will take twice as long to process them.
Put it on? Oh, that’s right. I’m naked. My hand drifts out, and my fingers seize a handful of cotton. Another shirt, apparently. This one doesn’t smell like him, but I pull it onto my lap, fingering the hemmed edges. I glance up to find him watching, and then I set the shirt aside.
There’s no use in donning another garment that will wind up being torn off. I’m too exhausted. I’ll make it easy for these men. Lucifer frowns at the disobedience, but he says nothing. His eyes drift over me, lingering over the center of my torso, and I realize that he wants me covered for his own benefit. No man likes to be reminded of the power of another, but I’m too tired to humor his pride. His gaze can’t violate me any more than Vinny’s hands already have.
He blows out a harsh sound the way a penned bull does when it paws the earth, right before lunging for the bullfighter egging it on. Then he turns and approaches a refrigerator that is separated from the rest of the room by only a row of counters. He rummages through the cabinets and then turns to face me.
“What do you want?”
I stare blankly until he raises both of his hands, revealing what he holds in either one. The right contains a bag of bread. The left holds a colorful box sporting a grinning chipmunk in the process of shoving round bits of cereal into its mouth. Chunky Bites.
“What do you want to eat?” he demands again. His voice deepens when he’s losing his patience, I notice. It’s a chilling sound.
My mouth opens. Whatever you think is best. Those words are on the tip of my tongue...but I wrestle them back at the last moment. My hand rises from the couch and a trembling finger points toward the Chunky Bites.
He slams the box down onto the counter and then grabs a bowl from one of the cupboards. I watch his fingers move, almost studiously, as he tilts the box, allowing a pile of chunky bites to fall into it. Then he douses it all with milk from the fridge. My mouth waters. My greedy hands shake as he crosses the room and shoves the bowl toward me. I bring the rim of it to my mouth and sip at the strange concoction before I even notice the spoon he offers me next. It tastes like sugar, and my eyes drift shut as I swallow.
How long has it been since I’ve eaten cheap, commercial cereal? How long has it been since I’ve chosen for myself what to eat at all? Those two combined luxuries explode the moment I shove the first spoonful into my mouth and chew.
It’s good. I’m shoveling more into my mouth, quicker than I can get it down. It’s like I blink and the bowl is empty, and Lucifer is already snatching it away. Before disappointment can really descend, he returns. The bowl nearly overflows with more, and I take my time with the second helping—or at least I try to. I devour every last bit of chunky, sugary “bites” and then I down the milk so quickly that most of it winds up running down my chin. I’m greedy. My tongue shoots out, tasting the remains of sugar that coat the rim of the bowl.
I hold it out to Lucifer, licked clean, but he isn’t as gracious with the servings this time. “You’ll get sick if you eat any more,” he says while marching over to throw the bowl and spoon into the sink.
I think he’s right. Already my stomach is trying to adjust to painful emptiness, sudden fullness, and the poisonous effects of alcohol. I draw my knees up to my chin and bury my face between them, just in case, but it isn’t long before the nausea dissipates.
“Last night.” Lucifer uses the two words to draw my attention back to him. He stands behind the counter, bracing both of his hands on top of it. “You said that you had an idea to pay back Stacatto.”
He’s prompting me for something, but my memories are a tangled ball that hurts to unravel. I grimace. Last night...
Oh. I remember now. I’d claimed that I’d willingly sleep with a man, on camera no less, just to make Vinny seethe. God, I wish I’d been lying. Alcohol is a powerful truth serum, it seems.
“He won’t care,” I say haltingly, trying to justify the boast. “If...if I’m r-raped—” my teeth chatter over the words. “He’ll expect it. But if I was willing...”
Vinny’s perfect Lynn would never be so brazen. He’d be furious—more than that. For all my bravado, I can’t even imagine it. I rest my head on my knees instead and shut my eyes against that violent truth.
“He won’t negotiate otherwise.”
“Negotiate?” Lucifer’s voice is an almost amused drawl. “What makes you think that Ar...we want anything in return for you?”
I lift my shoulder in an artless shrug. So, it is true—these men only aim for revenge. How pathetic. It’s such...such a waste. Vinny will be able to make his Lynn a martyr, justifying more of his madness, and these men will just suffer a grisly end for their defiance.
It’s all enough to make me sigh, rustling the loose ends of my hair.
“You need a shower,” Lucifer declares, his tone wrought with disgust.
“Why?” My voice is a tired croak. My body prefers to wallow beneath a layer of misery and pain. It smells better on me than Vinny’s false perfume and cologne. I just want it over with. If these men want me, they’ll just have to contend with the blood.
“Why?” Lucifer doesn’t like being questioned. He turns each one of mine into a verbal missile that lands with an impact that makes me wince. “Because when you plead for your life, you might want to look like less of a used-up coke whore.”
A part of me stings beneath the harsh assessment. Then I register the rest of his words with a frown. Plead? I groan with the effort it takes to lift my head and meet his gaze. I intend to contradict him—hell, he could kill me himself, here and now. It wouldn’t matter.
But he’s ready for me. “You want your revenge against Stacatto? Then do what the fuck I say.” He cuts his gaze toward the hallway. “Clean yourself up.”
Gino would never talk to me like this. It’s such a stupid, senseless thought but there it is, shining on the edge of my periphery. Obeying anyone other than Vinny is a strange sensation. It’s almost like sleepwalking. A part of me wants to deny him, shut him out until the merciful end finally comes. But Lucifer knows his prey well, and he’s paired a carrot with the whacking stick. You want your revenge?
“W-What do you mean?” I ask, fumbling with my sore jaw and swollen lip.
He doesn’t answer. He crosses over t
o me instead, and I know that I can’t hide my fear when his hand shoots out. Giving me an odd look, he snatches up the shirt and then heads down the hallway. Even in the absence of a verbal command, his orders ring clear. Follow.
I linger for a few precious seconds, wavering on the sweet edge of surrender and curiosity. The latter one wins, and I find that Lucifer is waiting for me at the mouth of the bathroom when I stagger toward it.
The shower roars, already running. It’s only a matter of stripping what remains of my underwear and climbing into the tub.
Lucifer watches me, his gaze shameless. He’s easy to ignore once the water pelts my body, however. I gasp, the harsh sound catching at the back of my throat. The heat awakens old nerve endings that flare beneath a mixture of abuse and sharp pain. Gritting my teeth, I manage to stoop for a rag and bar of soap that already litter the basin of the tub.
Washing myself is a slow, mechanical dance. For a moment, I’m always far away from this apartment. From Lucifer. I’m safe inside my head, going through the motions. I wash my hair. I clean my skin with a rough bit of friction until I realize that most of the spots of “dirt” I’m rubbing at are really bruises. I still feel marginally better when I wring out the last bit of blood from the rag, though I school my face into a blank mask rather than let Lucifer suspect as much.
He watches me shut off the water. Then he tosses a towel at me and continues to stare as I dry myself off. I don’t know if it’s lust in his gaze or disgust. His expressions are nearly impossible to read. I try anyway, probing them mercilessly.
At some point, he must become bored by the scrutiny because he moves and approaches the sink. He washes his hands and then fishes his toothbrush from behind the counter. He brushes swiftly, but I’m not prepared for the moment he rinses it off and then offers it to me.
My hand shakes when I take it and stumble out of the tub to stand before the sink. There’s an almost compulsive need to erase the taste of alcohol, blood, and sugar from the inside of my mouth. I brush twice, scrubbing until the water I rinse with comes out tinged red.
I’m a skeletal figure who dominates the mirror when I finally glance up to observe my reflection. Lucifer stands behind me, his face a mocking contrast from my bruised, swollen one. I reach out, tracing my bottom lip with the pad of my thumb. It stings in protest. Vinny would scowl at the sight of me—he always made sure to never strike me on the face to ensure that his transgressions against my skin could always be covered up for the days he liked to pretend he still loved me.
It’s a bitter thought. My soul aches beneath the smarting sting, and I can’t hide it. My eyes are wide open and empty, spilling out emotion to circle the drain along with the mess I wash off the toothbrush.
“Here,” Lucifer says when I turn away from the mirror. He hands me the shirt again. My fingers tremble...but I take it and slip it on over my head.
His borrowed clothes work like armor when I gather up the nerve to face my reflection again. The roll of duct tape rests on the top of the toilet, and I bite off another square and replace the bandage over my ear. The ruined flesh stings, but already it’s starting to heal, scabbing over into a rust-colored, jagged edge.
I wet my fingers and use them like a comb to run through my ragged, tangled hair. I manage to claw most of it into submission. Then I wet another washcloth and carefully dab the traces of blood from around my mouth.
I must be decent enough because Lucifer finally pulls away from the counter with a sigh and heads back into the living room. I follow him, feeling naked beneath his shirt, which fits me much like a shapeless dress.
“Wait here,” he commands, before undoing the locks of what I assume to be the front door. Then he’s gone, slamming it behind him so fiercely that a piece of chipped paint breaks off and hits the floor.
“Ah...there he is. The big man.”
It’s barely 8 a.m. and Arno’s already drunk. His bloodshot eyes glare as I cross the bar. He has two bottles before him. One looks half-empty. He pours the other into a fresh shot glass and knocks it back, hissing at the taste. “You wanted to fuck her first, is that it?” he demands. “I would have let you have the first bite. You only need ask—”
“She has a plan.” The words seem ripped from my chest against my will. Frowning, I approach a barstool and sit. Two of Arno’s thugs linger around the edges of the room, pretending to play pool, but their suspicious gazes irritate the back of my neck. “The girl,” I grunt when Arno doesn’t react. “She has a plan of her own for getting back at Stacatto.”
Arno laughs and pours himself another shot. “Let me guess.” He props a finger beneath his chin and pretends to mull it over. “We send her back with a pat on the ass, and she’ll beg her fiancé to apologize for treating my sister like a fucking whore?”
“No,” I say, my gaze on the counter. Something that might be...fuck, admiration? swells in my chest before I can swallow it down. “One man. No chains. The camera. She says she’d do it willingly.” Even I had to admit that it was sadistic as fuck. No man would stomach watching his woman be raped by other men—but if she willingly sullied herself just to erase his touch? Screwed a stranger on camera for no reason other than to prove that despite wearing his ring, she owed him no loyalty?
That was the kind of shit that fucked with a man’s head. It set the fires of rage that couldn’t be easily smothered. It was the kind of twisted mind game that started a war.
“Bullshit,” Arno groused, but I had his attention—his hand stilled on the bottle of liquor, and he cocked his head, his emerald eyes mean and mistrustful. “You’ve been talking to her, eh Dante? Lapping up her fucking lies. I know you’re picky about your women, but Jesus Christ—”
“She’ll do it.” My voice resonates with conviction, though I’m not sure why. For all I know, the little bitch could be trying to merely prolong her own life but...ah, fuck. She wasn’t lying. I could see the desperation on her. “She’ll do it,” I repeat. “And when Stacatto wants her back, you use this as an opportunity to extort whatever you want from the fucker.”
Arno frowns down at his still-full shot glass. “What makes you so sure he’ll even want her back? If my girl fucked another—”
“He’ll want her back.” There was something inherently cruel about possession—that dark, brutal need that drove a man to draw his own name onto his victim’s skin. She could leave on his terms. Die with his say. Bleed at his hand.
But if she dared to make that choice on her own? Well...it wouldn’t matter what the hell Arno asked for. Stacatto would entertain paying it—if only for a second—to have his disobedient toy back. He’d make her suffer for daring to exert her own will.
“He’ll want her back...”
Arno’s thinking. He does so loudly, fumbling to lift his glass. He drops it, and liquor sloshes across the countertop. Some of it wets my fingertips, but I don’t attempt to wipe them. Her blood is on my fingers as well. Literally. Figuratively. She willingly put it there, and I fucking let her.
“You sure she’ll do it?” Arno asks finally.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Hell, even if she doesn’t, I’ll still let my men have a go at her anyway.” He chuckles darkly, relishing the idea of torture as an appetizing side dish to his liquid breakfast. “But...let’s say she does go through with it. Who will be the lucky man? You?” His gaze pierces me as if seeking out any ounce of lust I could be trying to hide.
“No.” I shake my head. “Maybe you or one of your men.” That would be an interesting sight, seeing them all fight over who gets to screw an easy lay.
“He’ll have to wear a mask, I guess,” Arno suspects, already arranging the details in his head. “Stacatto will make whoever the bastard is a target. And she’ll need something sexy to wear. None of that pathetic tee shirt shit.” He nods and then glances over at me, his smile gruesome. “Ask her to make a list of what she’ll need. And tell her to get specific—if she doesn’t ask for condoms, she won’t fucking get any.”
“Tonight,” he says. “Maybe. I need to fucking sleep.” He eyes the bottle as if it holds the answers to nights without memories of Parish. “I’ll probably need to move her too. Stacatto won’t find her here, but that bitch isn’t good for morale.” He sniffs the air as if tasting her scent along with that of his own stink. “I’m putting you in charge of this, Dante,” he adds while I head to the back of the pub. “Get our little movie-maker whatever she needs...”
The mocking request chases me up the stairs. The hallway is empty. There is no one there to see me barge into the apartment and face the woman still sitting on the couch. Her hazel eyes watch me cross the room, but she doesn’t react. Her head lolls against the back of the couch. She’s fighting to stay awake or maybe just conscious. Her skin is paler than the milk I left out on the counter. I reach out for the bottle and then march over to the fridge.
“Will you do it?” I ask without turning around. I shouldn’t have to fucking elaborate as to what.
“Yes.” I turn to find her watching me from the couch still. There’s no hesitation in her gaze. No questioning. “I’ll do it...but—”
“What?” I chuckle darkly, steeling myself for some silly, childish request. But the man has to treat me nice first. I need to be drugged. I need you to tell him that I didn’t really mean it...
“When it’s all over...you can barter whatever you want for me, but after that, you kill me. I go back to him dead. Promise me.”