Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  "Get in bed," I say, aware of the annoyance in my voice. "I'll get the ice."

  I turn, not waiting to see if she obeys. Part of me, the sick part that wants to possess her, hopes she doesn't.

  Mei

  As he walks away, I watch the flex of each muscle, making his dark tattoo look like it's moving. What first looks like feathers, turns out to be wings made of sharp pointed blades.

  When he rounds the corner, I plop my ass on the edge of the bed and fist the comforter on each side of my body. Closing my eyes, the night comes back into mind, but in a fast-forward version. The pain in my face and exhaustion of the events crash over me.

  I'm in so much trouble, and I don't know how to get out of it. And the most fucked up part of it all: do I really want to escape?

  Lifting one hand, I tentatively touch my cheek, and wince.

  "Take these." He thrusts his palm out, offering me two large white pills.

  "What are they?" I ask on a whisper.

  "For the pain," he responds.

  Dropping my hand to my lap, I stare at the pills.

  "I'm not trying to drug you," he assures.

  "That's what they all say," I tease, but my words fall flat.

  Crouching down, his eyes find mine. Our gazes lock. Gripping my wrist, he turns my hand and places the medicine in it.

  "Take them," he orders, presenting a small glass of water.

  I toss the pills in my mouth, release the grip my left hand has on the blanket, take the glass, and chase the medicine down.

  Taking the glass from my hand, he stands and places it on the bedside table.

  I let my head drop, fist my hands in my lap, and close my eyes.

  "Can I go to my room now?" I know the answer, but I have to try.

  He's so dangerous and overwhelming. Everything he does strips away another layer of my carefully built illusion, and he does it with practiced ease. He doesn't make promises. No, he makes declarations of protection and safety, but what would he really do? If he knew the fucked-up evil, the rest of my dark tale, would he feel the same?

  Long, strong fingers clamp on my trembling chin, lifting my face to his. I open my eyes.

  Maybe I should just confess it all. He's already killed me. Why not return the favor and kill his intrigue? There's a very real chance he'll set me free then. Whether it's six feet deep or back on the streets, I'm not sure.

  I'm prepared for the no, braced for the no, so my body involuntarily jerks when he responds with, "That's not your room."

  His gaze is penetrating, conveying the finality of his words.

  He's so right. It's not my room. "My cage?"

  The right side of his mouth twitches with amusement.

  "Tell me your name.”

  I roll my eyes, continuing to evade his favorite question. "Dead girl."

  The grin slowly grows on his face, while his thumb glides along my bottom lip. A fuzzy sensation tingles across my skin, though I'm not sure whether it's his touch or the pills.

  "Sleep," he says, another command.

  Warmth crawls across my shoulders and up my neck. Everything from my eyelids to my limbs grows heavy.

  I try to ask, "What did you give me?" But it comes out garbled.

  I wake with a groan. My face throbs and my head and body ache.

  Rolling over, I find myself the sole occupant of Saint's bed, but the soft padding of feet on the thick carpet tell me I'm not alone.

  "You're finally awake." His deep, rich voice draws my eyes across the room.

  Saint stands at an open closet, slipping into an expensive suit jacket. I push myself up to sit, and wince. My head is really paying the price without the adrenalin coursing through my system.

  "Take the pills on the stand," he orders, turning to a floor length mirror to adjust his collar and tie.

  "Like I'll fall for that again," I say, but allow my eyes to slide a glance at the pills and water waiting.

  "Did you wake or feel any pain last night?" he asks, already knowing I didn't. "These aren't the same."

  Moving away from the mirror, he approaches the end of the thick, dark wood footboard. Last night, I'd been too distracted to take in the king-sized sleigh bed or overall largeness of the master bedroom.

  His bedroom.

  "I have business to take care of this morning, but I'll be back early," he says, coming around the bed.

  At my side, he picks up the pills and water and holds them out to me. Shifting my eyes between the pills and his face, then back, I take his offering. Like the night before, once I'm done, he takes the glass. But this time, he leans down, fists to the mattress, and levels a look at me.

  "You have free reign of the apartment…" he hesitates, allowing the words to sink in, "but don't attempt to leave. I assure you, it's pointless to try."

  Pushing up to his full height, he reaches inside his jacket and tosses a cell phone between my knees.

  "If you need me." He nods toward the device and begins to turn.

  I stare at the phone, afraid to touch it.

  "It won't bite you," he teases over his shoulder.

  "Should I call Joey to let him know I won't be back to work until my indefinite time as your captive has ended?" I ask sarcastically.

  At the mouth of the small hallway, he faces me. The smile he wears makes me nervous.

  "He's already been made aware you aren't returning," he states before disappearing around the corner.

  I'm not surprised by his admission, but I can't help but feel annoyed.

  "Motherfucker," I groan, falling back into the pillows.

  Rolling onto my side, I close my eyes and wait for the pills to kick in.

  Saint

  Stepping out of the elevator, I'm greeted by Vince and Russ.

  Glancing around the room, it's empty. The television is on, but the sound is turned down. Not a fan of television, I search for the remote to turn it off.

  Rounding the couch, I find the remote and Mei. Seeing her wrapped in one of my dress shirts and curled up on the sofa causes a sharp pang in my chest.

  Moving close, I trail my fingers from her ankle to where my socks stop just below her knee. Her thighs, on display, beg to be touched. So, I do, palming her knee and running it up her smooth skin. With my other hand, I brush the dark strands of hair from her face.

  Everything inside me tightens at the sight of her face. The redness and swelling are significant. Experience tells me the ugly purple and blue color will form soon. My anger seethes at the sight, knowing another man put his mark on her.

  "Ow," she cries, her voice filled with sleep.

  Her hand comes to the one I have on her thigh.

  Realizing I've tightened my grip, I jerk my hand away.

  Wary eyes meet mine.

  "I apologize." The word feels foreign, like I'm pronouncing it wrong.

  Propping up onto her forearms, she crawls backward until she's pressed against the couch cushion.

  "Dinner will be here soon," I tell her, unable to stop my eyes from raking over her in my clothing.

  She fists the unbuttoned part of the shirt, closing her cleavage from view.

  "I'll get dressed." She tries to climb onto the back of the couch and over it.

  Grabbing her by the arm, I pull her to me instead. Lifting her wrist, I finger a brown stain.

  "This shirt costs three hundred dollars," I tell her just to see her reaction.

  She doesn't disappoint. Shock flashes in her eyes before she rebelliously lifts her chin and says, "Well, next time I'll walk around in my underwear."

  Slipping an arm around her waist, I haul her into my chest.

  "If you walk around in your underwear, I'll bend you over every piece of furniture in this apartment and fuck you in front of my men," I warn.

  Her lips thin and nostrils flare. She blinks a couple times before challenging me once more.

  "Wouldn't be the first time someone watched us. Now would it?" she says, referring to Felix back at the club.
/>   Bringing my face closer to hers, I growl, "But I didn't kill him afterward."

  Mei's lips part on a small gasp, telling me she got my meaning.

  Like I'd let them watch us fuck and live to tell about it. Her dirty little dark girl is mine alone.

  Seated at the head of the table, I glance over the Chinese take-out containers.

  My eyes drift to Sketch, finding him staring at Mei.

  "Is there a problem?" Mei throws the question like a punch.

  "Who the fuck are you?" he grounds out.

  Pushing away from the table, he pulls his gun from behind and aims it at her.

  Mei's eyes widen, but not in fear. The flare of her nostrils reveals the dangerous high of her darker side coming to life. She's fucking beautiful.

  "I'm sick of this shit," he shouts.

  Settling back in my chair, I bring the paper takeout box with me. With a bored tone, I instruct, "Put the gun away." Then I fork low mien noodles into my mouth.

  "Fuck you," he yells. "You won't deal with this, so I will!"

  Curling one side of my mouth, I drop the container onto the table.

  "Holster your fucking gun," I demand.

  "Fuck—" My knife landing in his hand changes his tune. "Shit!"

  The gun lands in a container of rice.

  "Fucking hell, Saint," Sketch growls. Yanking the blade from his hand, he drops it next to the gun. He swipes a cloth napkin from the table, wraps it round his hand, and ties it off.

  As a professional deliverer of pain, I don't miss how little it registers on his face. Interesting. His tolerance wasn't that high years ago.

  "You should probably get that looked at," Mei offers, a taunting grin on her face. "It could get infected," she says in a sickening sweet voice.

  Sketch reaches for his gun, his intention clear.

  "Enough," I shout, tired of the bickering.

  Redirecting the conversation, I turn my gaze on Mei.

  "Tell me about the doll," I demand, motioning to Sketch with my hand.

  His chair scuffs against the hardwood floors as he stands.

  Gripping the arms of her chair, her eyes follow his every movement until he disappears from the room.

  "Look at me," I command.

  She takes a deep breath and turns back to me, her eyes raging like an angry sea.

  "What's the significance of the doll, Mei?"

  "I just don't like dolls.” She shrugs, then stares out the large window across from her, eyes glazing over. Lost in her own mind, her mask slips a bit more.

  "Then why would someone be sending them to you? And why old used dolls?"

  Placing my forearms on the table, I shove the containers away and lean forward.

  Eyes still on the window, she lifts one shoulder, and says, "You tell me."

  Sketch drops a shoebox on the table, and Mei practically jumps out of her chair. The stuffed legs of the rag doll flop over one side while the red yarn on its head sticks up from a different corner.

  "I don't believe you," I say, keeping my voice low.

  Trying to keep up her charade, she reaches out with one pale, shaking hand. Her fingertips graze the worn checkered dress as Sketch drops a second box.

  "Fuck!" she screams. "Quit doing that, asshole!"

  Manic grin on his face, Sketch presses his palms to the table and leans down. Instead of speaking, he uses one long thin finger to flip open a new box.

  This time, she does climb out of her chair. Hand over her mouth, she stares down at the special delivery.

  The doll rests in pink tissue paper, creating a stark contrast between it and the dark curls and ceramic skin.

  "Sarah." Her whisper brings me out of my chair. Shaking her head, she backs away from the box like it's going to explode.

  "Where?" she rasps.

  "Tell me," I demand.

  "Where?" her voice raises.

  Rounding the table, I growl, "Who's sending the dolls?"

  The soft body of the glass doll in my hand, I shove it at her.

  Retreating two more steps, she asks, "Where was it?"

  "It was sent to the club," I share. "Now, fucking tell me who sent them to you and why you—?"

  "A dead man," she shouts. "A fucking dead man sent them!"

  She spins, her dark hair swirling around her head, and rushes from the room.

  As Sketch moves, I reach out with my free hand and grab his arm. My eyes stay on the archway she fled through as his eyes bore into me. I give a small shake of my head, and he stills.

  The sound of her feet against the stairs is followed by the slam of a door.

  "Did you find anything?" I ask, examining the doll in my hand again.

  The light pink silk of the dress is faded in spots and frayed in others. A single half inch crack stretches from its hairline toward the tiny nose. One bright blue eye is scuffed, while the other tells of a better time.

  "Person said they were a courier service, but none of the ones in town had a delivery to the club," Sketch answers. "They brought it to the rear delivery door. The camera there sucks and the person had a ball cap on, but I'm still trying to get something from it."

  “Male or Female?” I ask, dropping the doll back into the box.

  "Male. I think."

  "You think?" I growl, annoyed with the lack of fucking answers where she is concerned.

  "The security camera is shit," he defends. "And it's all I have to work with for fucks sake."

  She almost had me believing it's the dolls she's afraid of, but it's not fear I see flash in her round eyes. It's absolute terror. The feeling so deep, she looks ready to snap, to fall into madness.

  "Get me something," I demand.

  "How about I get you one of your favorite toys and you go carve the goddamn information out of her like you normally do," he growls, throwing himself into the chair near his laptop.

  Snapping my head in his direction, I clench my jaw and wait for him to backpedal, but he doesn't.

  "What the fuck, Saint? If you won't put a fucking knife to her throat, then maybe I should place a gun to it. I bet we’d get all the fucking answers then."

  Narrowing my eyes on him, I lower my voice. "Maurizio, if you touch her, I'll kill you."

  I don't miss the way he cringes at his real name, but it's quickly replaced with emotions ranging from defiance to anger. Out the corner of my eye, I catch the way his hand twitches, surely tempted to pull the gun on me right now.

  Sketch doesn't say anything else as I finish my drink, grab the doll, and walk from the room. He doesn't quite get that my little dead girl is twisted and dark on the inside.

  Just. Like. Me.

  Knowing she didn't go to my room, I enter the second floor bedroom and find her in front of an open window, head drooped and hands pressed to the ledge. She lifts her head, but doesn't turn to look at me.

  "Tell me about the dolls," I demand, tossing the item she fears at her feet.

  "Tell me about the other girls," she retorts, her words harsher than expected.

  When I don't respond, she pushes up from the ledge and faces me.

  "Not so eager to talk now, are you?" She crosses her arms over her chest.

  "What other—?"

  "Don't," she exclaims, "pretend you don't know," her voice drops.

  Lifting one brow, I can't help but smirk. Her glare is like a reward for the inner demon. He wants her to fight us, to resist.

  "They aren't your concern," I continue to evade, hoping to rouse her dark side out to play.

  "At least you aren't denying it," she mumbles.

  Dropping her arms, she turns back to the window.

  Her lack of challenge, tampering of her emotions, sends red hot rage through my limbs.

  Taking four long strides, I press my chest to her back. Her body tenses, but she doesn't pull away. Bringing my arms up, I reach around her and grip the bottom frame of the window.

  Mouth to her ear, I request again, "Who sends the dolls?"

  "Why s
hould I tell a strange psychopath any—"

  I slam the window shut, cutting her off and making her jump. Still, she doesn't pull away from me.

  "Anything?" she finishes.

  Fisting the hair at the back of her head, I jerk it to the side.

  "Because you're less afraid of this strange psychopath than the one sending the dolls," I rasp into her ear before running my nose down the side of her neck.

  The scent of dark vanilla assaults my senses. I close my eyes, savoring it, and wrap my arms around her body.

  Arms pinned to her sides, she struggles against me, and my cock hardens further. "If you tell me their name they'll no longer be a problem for you."

  "You going to save me, Saint?" she snorts, still struggling.

  "No." She stills at my confession.

  "You have it all wrong," I say, turning her in my arms.

  I flex my fingers into the hinges of her jaw, and her head lifts to mine, eyes wild with anticipation and fear. With my other hand, I withdraw a card from my back pocket and hold it up.

  Her eyes move to the notecard and widen.

  Soon...

  Lashing out, she grips my wrist with both hands, the rough calloused pads of her fingers digging into my flesh. A squeeze of my hand stills her attempts.

  "Please," she begs in a whisper, and I bring my face inches from hers.

  "He wants what's mine, and that won't be fucking happening," I growl.

  "I'm not yours," she argues. "And I don't need you to save me," she retorts.

  One side of my mouth curls. "I'm not saving you. I've condemned you."

  Her nostrils flare and the muscles in her jaw tense beneath my fingers.

  "Get ready for bed," I instruct before crushing my mouth to hers in a quick, hard kiss. Pulling back, I release her face. Chin raised and her eyes not leaving my face, she walks to where her bags used to be.

  "Where are my things?" she asks, looking down at the empty spot.

  "Upstairs." At my admission, she spins around, unspoken questions in her eyes. "I told you last night this isn't your room."

  "I'll sleep in this," she says like it's a threat, standing immobile as I approach her. When I pull my knife out from behind my back, her body gives a slight jerk, but she doesn't move.