by K. Webster
My calculations fizzle into the air and I blink at her. “What?”
“Are you going to hurt me?” Her hands tremble but when my gaze falls to them, she forces them to stop.
I frown. “I hope not.”
A healthy mix of fear and hope flashes in her eyes and my stomach flops. I feel pity for the poor woman. Here she is thinking she scored some gentleman who saved her from an evil, dirty world. She probably thinks I can save her from it—prays for that very concept.
Problem is, I can’t even save myself.
Every day, it maddens me. To the point of contemplating taking my own life.
The germs are everywhere. The chance of things going wrong poke at me every second of every day. Images of endless possibilities of my death, torturous thoughts of infection infiltrating my life at every turn, and painful, awful ideas of how others could die inadvertently at my hands flit through my mind continuously on one bloody, disgusting loop. The loneliness threatens to devour my soul with its cruel flames and leave my ashy remains behind.
I bought her in hopes that she’d save me.
“Baylee,” I say in a gruff tone, “my world is not one you’re used to. My world is awful—it threatens my life with every passing second. It’s empty and dull and devoid of anything joyful. You’re about to enter that world, filled with fear, hate, darkness, and disgust.”
She narrows her teary eyes at me. “I’ll listen to you. I promise. Just please don’t hurt me. That other man, Edgar Finn, he said he’d…he’d…” she trails off and sniffles. “He wanted to kill me.”
I sigh and shake my head, forcing thoughts of her bloody death out of my head before I begin obsessing over that too. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I vow. “Listen, I’ve never tried this before. If it doesn’t work out, that’s it for me. I’m at the end of my rope. You hold all of the cards now.”
And she does.
All fifty-two of them.
All the blackness of the clubs and spades.
All the blood of the hearts and diamonds.
All the sneers of the wicked jokers.
She is to be my reprieve from the darkness that ebbs and flows inside me—always threatening to swallow me up.
She stares at me with a clouded gaze, her eyes going distant—a mixture of relief, determination, and a slight lingering fear.
“You can’t ever leave, Baylee,” I say through a rush of exhaled breath. Her wariness of me blooms again and her eyes widen. “Look, I’m sorry but I need you for my own survival. Promise me that you won’t ever try to escape, and I vow I’ll never intentionally harm one hair out of the one hundred fifty thousand that exist on your head. Well, aside from the dead ones that keep dropping from your skull at a rate of two point oh six per hour. They’re dead anyway so it doesn’t matter. Edison will remove them from the car though. It’s not your fault. Your body just sheds them. And—”
“I promise,” she interrupts with a choked breath. Concern flashes in her eyes—reminding me of my mother when I was just a boy—and it punches me in the gut.
“Thank you.”
Edison buzzes from the front and his voice comes over the speaker. “Warren, it would appear that we’re encountering an accident on the expressway. The digital sign said that delays could be as much as two hours. I’m so sorry.”
Two hours.
All I can think about is her hair.
Falling and falling and falling.
Two hours added to the hour and a quarter means five point four three hairs at the very least. A familiar crawl begins to agitate my flesh as the Town Car draws to a halt. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, bright blue eyes devouring me. It’s clear that she’s curious about me. She won’t find answers. I should know, I’ve been looking for them for over a decade now.
I blink one, two, three, four times before answering her. “Not really, no.”
She leans her head to the side and peers out the window. The frown traces over her features before she forces her eyebrows up. Those eyes seem to dance with a smile and I’m drawn to them. Well, as drawn as someone like me can be to someone like her.
“Those news people always dramatize everything. There aren’t many cars. I bet we’ll be out of here in no time,” she tells me in a shaky yet assuring tone. The corners of her eyes crinkle with what I hope is a smile. “Can you tell me anything about yourself? I’m really freaked out here and I know you said you won’t hurt me but I’m still afraid. You’re not a serial killer, or anything, are you?”
The itch blazes across my flesh and I crave to yank my suit jacket off to claw away at it. But with her in the car—without having been decontaminated—there’s a chance some particle or germ from her could fly onto me. The parasite would burrow its way into my flesh and hatch eggs beneath my skin. And what if it entered my blood stream? Fucking chaos would ensue, that’s what!
“War?” she whispers. “Tell me how old you are or where you live. What do you do for a living that allows you to pay five million dollars for a girl?” she asks, although her gaze is fixed on my forearm which I am nervously scratching.
I jerk my fingers away and gape at her. Her shining blue eyes calm my cracking spirit and I take a deep breath.
“I’m twenty-eight. My dad owns a multi-national conglomerate called MPE or McPherson Enterprises. It’s a technology corporation. I guess you could say I’m the brains of his operation. He makes sure we make money. Not much to it.”
She nods but her brows furrow with unspoken questions. “Sounds like there’s a lot to it if you operate all over the world. What do you like to do for fun? Or have I been sold to a psycho whose idea of a good time is preying on little girls?”
Fun. Fun. Fun.
I blink at her three times more as the word bounces around in my head. As a child—before my world caved in on me—I used to have fun. I’d play video games and ride my bike. As a teen I’d surf and go to the movies. A shudder ripples through me as I recall how many times I’d fallen and skinned my knees while riding my bike or how much ocean water I’d ingest sometimes while surfing. Thankfully that was before.
“Don’t be silly, I don’t prey on anyone.”
She lets out a small laugh and the melodic sound slides around my heart, gripping it to the point of pain. How is such a sound so decadent? I want her to do it again. Over and over. To put it on a loop and drag it out for eternity. It distracts me from the dark—draws me into the light.
“I run for fun.” Her blue eyes darken and her gaze falls to her lap for a moment. “Well, I used to run.”
My stomach flops. The despondency in her voice nauseates me. I prefer when she laughs or when her words carry that lightness in her tone. My life is depressing enough without my tainting the others around me. In an effort to draw her back to a better place, I blurt out my words. “I like to play chess.”
She lifts her chin and her eyes twinkle once again with curiosity. “Is that like checkers?”
I scoff. “Hardly. Chess is played on a square board, comprised of sixty-four smaller squares, with eight squares on each side. Each player begins with sixteen pieces: eight pawns, two knights, two bishops, two rooks, one queen and one king. The goal of the game is for each player to try and checkmate the king of the opponent. Checkmate is a threat to the opposing king which no move can stop. It ends the game.”
“Sounds technical. Will you teach me?”
The vision of her fingering my ivory pieces damn near sends me into a panic attack. But the thought of her in my environment with me, sharing the space, talking to me, laughing in my presence is enough to calm the fury of the storm waging in my head.
“If you promise to wash your hands and be gentle with my pieces. My dad had the set custom made for me. It was created by an Indonesian man who carves them by hand from ivory. Dad sent him careful instructions and the man adhered to the rules. They’re perfect and pure.”
She blinks one, two, three times before speaking.
“I see. Sounds wonderful.”
I smile.
I fucking smile.
My heart begins to thump in my chest.
“Oh look,” she breathes out as she stares out the window, “things are moving again.”
About that time, Edison puts the car into drive.
My mind reels with memories of her laughter, smiles behind the cloth, twinkling eyes. It was easy for her. A thought plagues me—is she a master manipulator or simply content that I, a mad recluse, bought her? She’s too calm. Too at ease with the situation. “Did you distract me on purpose or did you really want to know about me?” The bite in my voice startles her and she turns to stare at me with kind eyes again. They seem so natural on her face.
“You seemed upset so I was trying to distract you I suppose.” Her words are a betrayal to the trust I gave to her so easily. “But…”
I search for deception in her young eyes but only find sincerity.
“But, I honestly wanted to know more about you. I wanted to know what I was about to dive into. Gabe had prepared me for the worst. I was expecting”—she sighs and waves her hands in the air—“I don’t know. Abuse. Sex. Humiliation. Murder.”
My eyes rapidly begin blinking at her. Her words confound me. Why would such an innocent person expect something so horrible? I must worry her with my silence because she reaches for me. And just like that, the world I try to forget forces the reminder into my face.
“Don’t touch me!” I roar and glare at her hand as if it has invisible poison dripping from it, burning holes into the leather of the seat between us. For all I know, it does.
She jerks her hand back and tears well in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I was just—”
“Well don’t. You are never allowed to touch me. Ever. Are we clear?”
Her body hunches and she nods. An apology is on the tip of my tongue but I swallow it down. I don’t even know how to explain myself to her.
“Why did you buy me then? If you bought me and you don’t plan to hurt or sleep with me, then what exactly do you want me for?” She’s trying to put on a brave front but the fear in her words betrays her effort.
“Exactly as the auction stated. I bought a companion.”
She scoffs and shakes her head. “You don’t really believe that do you? That it was an auction to buy a companion?”
But I do.
I spent hours on the website that I’d found on one of Dad’s wealthiest client’s server. It intrigued me and I studied it for weeks. They were to have an elite fundraiser of sorts and men could choose companions—a glorified, expensive dating site if you will. It was themed and what drew me in was the allure of the pureness of the innocent flower.
Pure means uncontaminated, unpolluted, untainted, wholesome, and clean.
Clean.
“That’s exactly what it was. I’m a lonely man because of my…because of my…” I trail off, letting the horrors that define me die in my throat, “and you’re going to entertain me.”
She laughs again but this time it is almost cruel. “Entertain you? How? Dance on the damn table in my underwear? And for how long? Forever?”
I glare at her. Never in a million fucking years will her feet ever touch my table. “Fuck no! Talk to me. Sing to me. Eat with me,” I snarl. “And yes, for-fucking-ever.”
She flinches at my tone and leans as far from me as she can get as if I might strike her. Not happening. Not even with my black leather gloves to protect me.
“Sir,” she tries again in a small voice, “you bought me for five million dollars. Those people are running a sex ring which you signed up for, not an expensive dating site.”
Sex ring?
I glower at her. “Impossible.”
But is it?
“Tell me.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Did you think I was going to receive any of that money for my services—the five million? Did you think I had in any way complied with this?”
Doubt creeps into my veins. “The website said—”
“The website was wrong,” she argues, emotion thick in her throat. “Please just let me go. My parents are searching for me, I’m sure of it.”
What did I think was going to happen?
That she’d want to marry my sorry ass?
That she’d want to adhere to all my weird-ass fucking bullshit?
That this was a legitimate transaction between willing parties?
“I didn’t…I didn’t know…” My words are garbled and messy. Confusion scrambles my brain—thoughts darting every which way.
Her pleading words cut through my jumbled haze. “I’m only seventeen.”
Everything about her seems young. Wide, doe eyes. Soft, unsure voice. Shit!
The pressure in my brain surges and grows until my head feels as if it is going to explode. What have I done? This is against the law.
“We aren’t going to have sex,” I assure her through clenched teeth, trying desperately to keep my maddening migraine at bay. “I don’t want you to even fucking touch me. Just stay with me. That’s all. Stay. Money? Cars? Diamonds? Houses? I’ll give you whatever the hell you want.”
Money talks. I’ll bribe her with anything it takes to get her to stay. It’s not illegal if I don’t sleep with her. Right? My mind whirs with article after article I’ve read over the years. None of the news stories ever mentioned anything about a willing underage companion. Sure, there were lots of articles about kidnapped teenagers sold into sexual slavery, young women victimized by older men, and other horrible things. Things I would never do to her—to anyone for that matter. But never anything about a willing companion.
She’s not willing, War.
I’ll convince her though. I’m sure of it.
Can I convince her?
My purchasing of this girl, illegal or not, has shone a glimmer of light into the darkness which is my world. One tiny ray of hope. And I cling to it desperately.
She’s my hope.
I absolutely must convince her to stay.
I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. The pain is becoming unbearable. With a huff, I bore my gaze right through her. If I could crack open this fucking skull of mine, I would. Then, she could peer into the nasty shit that is my head. She could see the black, molded parts of who I am. The disease of my mind would be evident as it crawls through my blood.
“I’m scared to stay with you.” Her black-gloved fingers grab onto the respirator and she tugs it down to her neck.
For once, I’m not overwhelmed by fear. My brain isn’t exploding with a million rampant what-ifs. This time, it stills.
Her pink, pouty lips are parted revealing pearly white teeth. She has a pert nose that flares with each frantic breath she takes. And her high cheekbones are streaked with tears, a trail of mascara in their wake.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“P-P-Put it back on.” My words are a thick sludge in my mouth, refusing to pour out easily. I’m in a battle with myself. Part of me wants to force that respirator back over her perfect lips so her contaminated breaths can stop infecting my air. But an old part of me—a part of myself I remember as a teen—fights.
He wants to pull down my own respirator.
He wants me to lean forward and inhale her.
He wants me to kiss her without a worry of the death her kiss would bring me.
One last look at those lips and I know. This woman will kill me. She’ll steal my heart and chop it to fucking chunks. It’ll be a slaughterhouse of what’s left of the old me.
“Okay,” she says in a wobbly voice through her tears. “I’m sorry.”
I clench my eyes closed but I’ve already memorized her perfect face. Flash, flash, flash. Her image flips over and over again inside my darkened mind, lighting every surface. Inside my head, I’m safe and I can reach for her. I can stroke her pink cheeks and run my thumb over her swollen lips. Inside my head, I can pretend. I can kiss her and touch her.
Popping my eyes back open, I frow
n as I prepare to tell her the truth. A truth that will make her hate me. A truth that defines my very sickness.
“I’m never going to be able to let you go,” I explain with an apologetic sigh. “Ever. I won’t be capable. And for that, I am truly sorry.”
Her sobs aren’t as pretty as her laugh, but I close my eyes and drink them into my soul anyhow. In my fantasies, I can dream of a better time. One day maybe she’ll laugh with me. Until that time, I’ll dance with her in my head to the melody only she can create.
I’VE BEEN BOUGHT by a lunatic.
A crazy, freaking madman.
This is all Gabe’s fault.
The fire that has begun to flicker inside of me flares to life. When I escape, I will make him pay. I will get the FBI involved if I have to and bring down every asshole associated with that sex ring. Including War.
I’ve long since quit crying but he still hasn’t opened his eyes back up. I would almost think he’s sleeping but I can hear him muttering words, numbers maybe, under his breath. He’s a villain dead set on keeping me trapped away in some tower.
Yet…
My stomach clenches with nausea. He doesn’t seem all that villainous in comparison. Gabe and Edgar are monsters. But War acts like the very air we breathe is noxious and evil. We’ve only dabbled a little in psychology at school, but I’ve learned enough to know something is seriously wrong with him.
He’s sick. Inside of his handsome head.
I say handsome, but I haven’t even seen his face properly. From his position on the bench seat, I can tell he’s tall and firm. His biceps stretch the jacket of his suit to the point if he flexes, it might rip. I glance down at his slacks and quickly admire how they hug his sculpted thighs showcasing his fit frame.
Clearly he’s got a thing with germs. That much is evident. Whether it is based on some sort of obsession or a health condition is yet to be seen.
But there’s more. I know it. His navy-colored eyes brew with a storm that assaults him from the inside. With every word he speaks, a thousand more fight for escape. They never make their escape though and join back in the whirlwind of lunacy that he clearly deals with on a minute by minute basis. It’s sad, really. For him.
