by Sam Mariano
“Hey, I need you to look into something for me,” I tell him, on a whim. “I know you already looked into Mia’s past, but I need you to look deeper. Talk to people. Find out if maybe her mom had any inappropriate boyfriends or family members, anyone who may have abused her before.”
Appearing completely bewildered, he asks, “Why?”
“I’m a curious man.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this information?”
“Bring it to me? Are these complicated orders, Adrian? Should I draw a picture in crayon for you?”
“Don’t be a fucking asshole.”
“Then don’t question my orders, just do it.”
“Am I supposed to kill this hypothetical slimeball, or bring him in for drinks so you can compare notes?”
I cock my head in consideration. “I’ll take care of him myself. Just find out if such an asshole exists and we’ll go from there.”
“You’re a confusing motherfucker,” he tells me. “I can’t look into this myself while you have me on her door, you realize, that, right? She’ll be dead by the time I look into it. This seems like a waste of my time.”
“Oh, come on, you love murdering rapists. It’ll be a treat.”
“You just said I don’t get to kill him.”
“Maybe I’ll let you hang him up on a meat hook and beat the shit out of him or something first. I’ll think it over, play around with some ideas to make it fun for everyone. Well, not him. Fun for us.”
He mutters about what a fucking psycho I am. I figured he’d like that idea, so I don’t know what’s up his ass today. Well, I guess I do. He’s really pissed I’m making him take part in this whole Mia thing. Perhaps he’ll feel better when we torture Mia’s former abuser since his hands are tied with her current one.
Assuming a former abuser exists. I’m getting ahead of myself.
“What if you’re wrong?” Adrian finally asks.
“What if she wasn’t abused? I don’t know. I’ll find some other unlucky pervert for you to take your aggressions out on.”
Sighing heavily, he says, “No. What if you’re wrong about her? What if she doesn’t talk?”
His question puts an instant damper on my good mood. I know it’s the end goal here, but I’m reluctant to think about the inevitable unpleasantness of that day before it comes. “She’ll talk,” I say, simply.
“But what if she doesn’t?” he asks, more assertively. “I’ve been thinking about it, and she’s already doing things that don’t make sense. She’s nice to me. Why is she nice to me? Why is she nice to any of us? Maria goes in there and she’s nice to Maria. I stand guard out here and she’s nice to me. That’s not normal. She should be pissed at every last one of us for helping you keep her. Where’s the appeal for help? Where’s the anger at the injustice of it all, even if she knows better than to ask? Even Vince—he was a total asshole to her, blaming her for putting herself in your path, and she just took it. I would’ve punched him in the face. Where is her fucking anger, Mateo? Everything I’ve seen makes me think there’s no vengeance in this girl.”
He’s not wrong, exactly. “It may not be vengeance, then. I assumed that before I knew her. Her motivation doesn’t matter, only the resulting action matters. She’ll talk.”
“She didn’t tell on me and Vince,” he points out.
“It wouldn’t have benefitted her to do so. She thinks she’s in love with Vince,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure she has some romantic idea about protecting him. I assure you, she has no such devotion to me. Even if she only talks as a means of self-defense to get away from me, she’ll talk.”
The line falls silent and I see him shake his head on the monitor. “I don’t like this. This isn’t fucking right. This isn’t a test, Mateo, it’s fucking entrapment. You’re not giving that girl a shot in hell.”
“Which is why she’ll talk,” I remark, with no small amount of patience.
“It’s bullshit. Why don’t you give her a real shot? Why don’t you stop what you’re doing to her and let her out of your room? That way she knows she doesn’t have to deal with you or Vince and she has a few days of safety to get her head straight first. I can put her in the room across from Francesca. At least stop abusing her before you send cops to talk to her.”
“Which is it, Adrian? You don’t think she’ll talk, or you’re worried she will to get away from me? You can’t believe both eventualities.”
“I don’t know what the fuck to believe,” he states, irritably. “I just know this isn’t right and I don’t like it. Let me take her out of your room.”
“No,” I say, immovably.
“Because you want her dead, or because you’re fucking enjoying yourself?”
I can hear how much he hates me right now—he usually keeps it toned down to gruff disapproval, but this Mia thing is pushing Adrian’s limits. He feels complicit in my crime, like he might as well be the one forcing his dick in her because he knows what he’s allowing me to do.
All it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing, after all.
On fairer grounds, Adrian can live with himself despite his complicity in my various shenanigans, but Mia isn’t an opponent. This isn’t a fair fight—it’s no fight at all, it’s just me mowing down a helpless target.
It’s cruel. I acknowledge that.
Initially, Adrian tried to stomach it with my promise that her suffering wouldn’t be drawn out, that I’d resolve the matter quickly and we’d put the poor girl out of her misery. Sure, I’m doing damage that could last a lifetime, but her lifetime expires within the next couple weeks; that’s not so long. He still thought it was inhumane. Kicking my food around before I kill it. It probably is. Can’t bring myself to regret it, though.
I might, when she’s dead and my cock is still rising at the thought of her. That’s going to be a bit disturbing. Maybe I should shop around for a girlfriend when all this is over. Perhaps Mia’s right; maybe I am a little lonely.
That’s a lot of work, though. I don’t know if I feel like doing that.
Switching the monitor, I focus back on my bedroom. Mia’s still in the bathroom. Faint annoyance moves through me at my inability to see her.
“Does she usually shower long? Maybe you should go check on her,” I suggest.
“What?”
“She asked for a razor. What if she wants to hurt herself? Go make sure she’s all right.”
Adrian pauses. I glance at the monitor again, then consult my watch to see how long she’s been in there. I didn’t check the time, though, so I look at my phone to see how long I’ve been on the phone with Adrian.
“You want me to bust in on the girl you’re planning to kill while she’s showering… to make sure she isn’t hurting herself? Wouldn’t that save us a whole lot of steps?”
“You can go check or I will. If I do, I’ll be staying for a while.”
Vaguely growling, Adrian hangs up on me.
I smirk, placing my phone on the desk and turning my attention to the monitor. Adrian heads into my room, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. It’s his tell. He always does it when he’s deeply uncomfortable. Poor guy. I’m probably taking years off his life.
He pushes the bathroom door open, but immediately hesitates and takes a step back into the bedroom. He takes another minute, then pushes the door open again and walks inside.
He comes back out a moment later, walking a little faster, rubbing at the back of his neck again. He glares up at the monitor and flashes me a sarcastically emphatic thumbs-up.
I chuckle to myself, pushing up out of the seat and retrieving my phone so I can leave the security room before I sit here and watch Mia all fucking day.
---
Mia gasps as I yank her head back by the hair, thrusting my cock inside her from behind. Her arms are pinned at the small of her back, secured there with one of my hands, but she doesn’t attempt to pull free. Her ass is up like a good girl, her perfect tits crushed and
chafing the mattress as her body moves with the force of my thrusts. I really like this position—it’s reminiscent of the first time I fucked her, but she knows it’s me this time—the only problem is I can’t see her face. I don’t think I’m hurting her but she’s trying hard to be silent, so without seeing her face I can’t be sure if that was a gasp of surprise, pleasure, or pain.
I need to watch her, so even though this will be the third position change (and I’d like to finish in this one), I pull out of her body and roll her over onto her back.
She isn’t fighting me tonight. She certainly didn’t initiate, but tonight when I climbed into bed beside her, she seemed less like she wanted to die than usual. When I began touching her, she didn’t even ask me to stop. That’s something, I suppose.
There’s no struggle as I push her knees apart so I can move between her legs. She has cooperated through each position change instead of uselessly trying to divert me tonight. I appreciate that. Struggling can be fun, but not every damn day. Now that I can look at her, Mia holds my gaze steadily, but still does nothing to participate. Her hands rest on the bed at her sides and never touch me. Her legs, while spread to accommodate me, do nothing to hold me there. Her pussy abandoned the team a while ago, though. Even though she tried not to respond to my touch beforehand, she was wet enough that I could ease inside without hurting her. I didn’t call her on it. It’s not her fault her body’s reacting. I could be a dick about it, it fits my mission right now, but blaming her for something that isn’t her fault goes against my personal principles. I don’t mind lying when it serves me, but the mere idea of uttering this lie makes me feel like Vince. Yuck.
I focus on her again and I can’t help smiling faintly. She narrows her eyes suspiciously in response but doesn’t speak. She seems to think if she does her best impression of a dead fish, I’ll lose interest. She’s wrong. At least as I slide my cock inside her now, she doesn’t bother looking like I’ve betrayed her. I have a hunch she’ll give a little more tonight if I push for it, so I tell her, “Hold onto me.”
She tentatively brings her arms around my body. I lean in to kiss her. She doesn’t fight me on that tonight, either. When I break the kiss to look at her, she keeps her eyes closed. Her grasp on my back tightens ever so slightly, strained breaths slipping out of her. I cock my head curiously, watching her face as I pump in and out of her body.
Is that pleasure? I think it is. A few experimental thrusts later, I can match her body’s reactions to the sensation of my cock inside her and my thought cements itself. Her mind may not want this, but her body’s into it.
I should make her come. I love watching her come and I’d really like to be the one responsible. Not sure I should pile on like that today, though. I already made her give me head and pleasure herself for my entertainment. If I give that final push, she might crack. Whatever flashes of pleasure her body is experiencing right now, her mind hasn’t caught up.
But could she? Maybe she could. I would’ve said no, that’s an unreasonable expectation after what I’ve done to her, but now I have the mental image of her tenderly pressing her soft lips to the scar on my thigh. Wanting to heal my hurts, even as I continue to hurt her. Maybe she is fucked up enough to care about me—or think she does, at least.
Given her youth, general inexperience, and natural inclinations, it would probably be pretty easy to control her with sex. I could train her to be a slave to my pleasure—and by extension, her own. If I own her pussy, I could own her heart.
A hostile takeover would be exceptionally easy to pull off with her.
Hm.
I don’t push her tonight with an orgasm she doesn’t want, though; I just use her body for my own pleasure and then yank her into my arms while I recover.
She doesn’t pout at me tonight. I generally pull her back against me, but tonight she’s facing me, curled up against my side. I love that she’s not bothering to wear clothing to bed already. Even physically sated for the moment, I draw pleasure from looking at her.
I’m thinking about her perfect breasts, but Mia seems to be thinking about something a bit deeper because she suddenly says, “Tell me something about you.”
I bring my gaze from her breasts to her eyes. They’re more intense and focused than is typical, like she’s on some kind of mission. Maybe I’ll indulge her. “Like what?”
Shrugging her shoulders, she says, “I don’t know, whatever you want to tell me. I just don’t know a lot about you. I want to know more.”
Smiling faintly, I inform her, “There’s a lot you don’t know, yes. Give me a more specific idea of what you’re looking for.”
“Anything,” she says. “We can start simple. Favorite color, your birthday, what’s your sign? I don’t know.”
Her gaze drops a little self-consciously, like those are all stupid suggestions. They’re not the stuff my psyche is made of, admittedly, but she’s 18 for Christ’s sake; I wasn’t expecting her to scrape my soul.
“My favorite color is gold, my birthday is February tenth, and accordingly I am an Aquarius.”
Brightening as she looks up at me, she says, “No kidding. My birthday’s in March—we’re pretty close together. Well, in months, at least. I’m an Aries.”
“Are you interested in astrology?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. It’s fun to read the horoscopes, though. They’re actually right sometimes.”
Because they make open, general predictions, but I don’t say that.
“Do you read your horoscope when you read your paper in the morning?”
“I do not. I don’t need someone else to predict how my day will go.”
“You’re kind of controlling, has anyone ever told you that?” she jokes.
“Never,” I deadpan.
A helpless grin steals across her face, but she bites it back after only a few seconds. “I think it’s cool how you still read a physical newspaper. Most people just use their phones now.”
“I like the routine,” I explain.
She nods. “I figured.”
We fall into a pleasant silence for a few minutes, then she gets up to go to the bathroom. I’m feeling better than I have in a while when she comes back in, flashing me a smile as she pulls back the blanket and climbs into bed.
“Oh, and mine is pink.”
I blink at her. “Excuse me?”
“My favorite color,” she specifies, pulling the blankets up around her. “You told me yours; I realized I forgot to tell you mine.”
“I could never have guessed; thank you.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but doesn’t seem too offended. After a couple of minutes, she turns her head and looks up at me again. “Tell me something else.”
Snaking an arm beneath her, I pull her back into my arms. “You’re getting bossy. Do you need me to remind you who’s in charge here?”
Rolling easily into my embrace, she cocks an eyebrow at me. “We literally just finished.”
“I finished. You didn’t.”
Her determined peacefulness falters at that. “I’m fine. Let’s talk instead. Please?”
I appreciate her attempt to figure out how to work me—she keeps defaulting to please, even though it hasn’t worked consistently. Nothing has worked consistently. Nothing will, either. She’s going to be so disappointed when she figures that out. I bet she found Vince’s buttons without much trouble.
Since I’m not answering but I keep watching her, she grows uneasy. Her fingers naturally fidget with the down comforter. Her gaze shifts away from me and toward the ceiling. I could tell her something insignificant and recharge her brightness, but I let her squirm for a few minutes instead.
“You have a daughter, right?” she asks rhetorically, since she already knows I have a daughter. “Vince said her mom isn’t around anymore, and you told my mom she abandoned you guys. What happened there?”
“She died,” I answer, simply. Before she can ask any additional questions about Beth, I remark, “You sa
iled right past small talk, didn’t you? From ‘what’s your favorite color?’ to ‘what happened to the mother of your child?’ Points for trying, but ease up.”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” she offers, looking over at me. “I’m just trying to get to know you better.”
“Why?”
Shrugging her shoulders uncertainly, she says, “I don’t know, it seems like I should. I don’t know exactly what’s going on here. I’m just trying to…”
Obviously feeling awkward about what she’s trying to express, she doesn’t finish this thought. I want her to, but I don’t say anything. Trying to make the best of a bad situation? Trying to stay alive? In all likelihood that’s the driving force here. I’ve told her on numerous occasions that her continued existence depends upon her proximity to my good side. I didn’t think she would be able to approach it that logically with what I’ve done to her, though. Knowing what she has to do in order to live is one thing, actually doing it is quite another.
Since I don’t help—but I also don’t stop her—she continues. “I have no idea where I stand or what’s going on anymore. I don’t know what this—” She gestures between us. “—is. I don’t understand what we’re doing here. This is unbelievably confusing, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or how I’m supposed to react to anything. When you’re here and I’m in your bubble, it seems… I mean, indescribable, but somehow almost normal. But then as soon as you’re not, reality drops on my head like an anvil in one of those old cartoons, and I don’t… I get overwhelmed.” She nods, apparently settling on that summary. “Overwhelmed. I’m overwhelmed.”
Already? I don’t say it, but I’m tempted to.
“I guess I’m just trying to figure out my place,” she finally says.
I think she’s found her place quite nicely, but I can see my continued silence is making her increasingly uncomfortable so I hold my tongue.
Her gaze darts to me uncertainly. “Doesn’t this seem weird to you?”
“Which part?”
Her eyebrows rise and her blue eyes widen slightly. “All of it. Three days ago I was in a relationship with someone else. Your cousin—someone who works for you and sits at your dinner table every night. Now I’m… I don’t even know what I am.”
