by AJ Adams
There was nothing I could do to stop any of it from happening. I had learned that the hard way. I had tried to run away once, and He found me in a heartbeat. The punishment that followed still comes to me in dreams. I never tried it again.
All these thoughts were making me queasy, so I decided I wouldn’t think about it anymore. I’d just hope it would take Him days to send for me, rather than hours.
“Stop worrying.”
Kyle’s arms tightened around me, those heavy-duty muscles of his solid against my flesh. It was kind of reassuring, so I cuddled into him some more. We were both sweaty, but I didn’t care. He had a good, natural, earthy scent, and I liked the way he was stroking my hair.
Seeing he was feeling friendly, I thought I’d use the opportunity to find out a bit about him.
Always start with a compliment. “Kyle. I like that. It’s a good, strong name.”
“Hmmm.”
His tone told me he was a million miles away. I could tell he didn’t want to talk, so I shut up. No point in pissing him off. So we just lay there, silent in the evening sun.
Eventually he moved. He leaned over me, those stone grey eyes looking into mine. “You’re fixing dinner.”
I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t touched a stove since my eighteenth birthday. What if I’d forgotten? For a moment I wished I’d kept my mouth shut, and my stomach heaved.
He pushed me out of the recliner and stood up, towering over me. “I’ll show you where everything is. And none of that slave crap: you’ll cook for two and eat with me.”
As it turned out, cooking is like fucking. I looked at the gorgeous Messermeister knives and the Le Creuset pans, all of them brand new – he cooked everything in a cheap grill pan loaded with oil – and it all came back to me.
That night I cooked steak au poivre with glazed carrots and mashed potatoes infused with espresso on the side. I was nervous as hell when I plated it, but when Kyle growled with appreciation at the first bite, I relaxed. He’d opened a bottle of red, a rich, almost purple Cabernet Sauvignon that was absolutely smashing.
It was weird, sitting at a table, eating fancy food and drinking even fancier wine. I half felt that I ought to be on the floor, eating cat food from a Wedgwood plate, the way I used to. I must say I preferred the steak!
We didn’t talk at all during that dinner, and afterwards, when I’d done the dishes, we sat silently in the dark on the veranda and looked at the stars. It was the start of the six best days of my entire life.
Up until then I thought that having a brilliant time was sitting quietly in a bus and knowing I didn’t have a blessed thing to do over the three days it would take us to get to the next border. Or hanging out in a city, marking time because someone had fucked up the schedule. I’d always counted those days as my golden time. That’s when I’d sneak off to find a public library, or a bookshop. And I’d get in a bit of touristy stuff, too. I’m a sucker for temples.
Of course I never let on to Him. I let Him think that I’d spent my downtime sitting in some backpacker central, making a Coke last all morning, or sleeping. If He knew that I’m using the skills Wanee taught me to self-fund… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.
Between you and me, I’ve got a small sideline. You see, I don’t get huge wages or anything. I pose as a backpacker, so I’ve rarely got more than a few quid. When I’ve got some golden time, I straight away go rustle up some cash.
What happens is that I make straight for an expensive hotel filled with business travellers. I buy a Coke, accidentally-on-purpose spill it over some fat, balding, 50 year-old salesman, and by the time I’ve finished apologising, and making sure he gets an eyeful of my tits in a very low-cut tee, he’s mine.
We have a drink, or two, and then I get him out of there by pretending to want to go dancing or to try some really amazing street food. After brushing against him, we are ‘separated’ and I leg it with his wallet.
I don’t want trouble so I take the cash, double back, and drop everything else off with the concierge of his hotel. Then, if my mark complains, I can pretend total innocence, point out that thieves don’t return wallets, and blame the hotel staff for nicking the cash.
That’s the trick to getting away with it, you see. If you disappear, you’re guilty. Be very visible, and have a good story, and nine times out of ten, you’ll get away with it.
I’ve heisted dozens of wallets this way and so far not one of the marks has done a thing about it. They’re too embarrassed to let their friends know they were conned. Tania, she’s a mule like me, does it too, but she says she feels sorry for them. I don’t. The way I look at it, they got to talk to me for an hour, and they got to see my tits, too. Call it a professional fee.
Living with Kyle was like having golden time with bells on it. As long as I kept the place clean, cooked, and made him happy in bed (he calls it a rack, isn’t that weird?), he let me do whatever I liked. I had the free run of his books, mostly crime fiction with a few business guru management type titles, and after I promised not to contact Him, he let me use his laptop too. I decided I was in heaven.
Kyle’s not a talker, so I didn’t learn much about him. The only time he talked was when we were ‘racking out’ as he called it, and then it was all soft-soap, like angel, sweetheart, and beautiful in a half a dozen languages. I’m all for it! Better than slut, right? That’s what He calls me. Slut. The word gives me the creeps. It sends me straight back to my inner one percent; the crazy part that’s too scared to think.
So living with Kyle was heaven. I loved the way he didn’t have a routine; he just gets up when he wakes, sleeps when he’s tired, and eats when he’s hungry. The only habit I could discover was that he did work out regularly, but even that was never the same thing from day to day. He might do 300 press-ups or some Tai Chi type stretching, go for a swim in the river or hang a punching bag from a tree and work that.
For the first two days we were alone. After that, he started getting phone calls. At first I thought every single one was to say He’d sent for me. With every ring, my heart jumped straight out of my throat followed swiftly by my stomach. By the end of that first morning, I was so churned up that I couldn’t even keep down the cup of tea I’d made myself. Yes, I forgot to say that: Kyle doesn’t mind if I have a coke or a cup of tea. I don’t even have to ask. He’s very generous.
I’m good at hiding my feelings, but he must have heard me spew, because he was waiting for me when I tottered out of the loo.
“I told you I’d take care of things.”
His voice was calm, and he looked his usual rocklike self.
I’m usually very sensitive, partly because of my training and partly because of my courier skills, but at that point I was convinced Kyle didn’t have a temper. I mean, I’m an ace at picking up a disturbance in the force, but at this point I’d been with him three days, and I’d messed up half a dozen times, including giving him my coffee instead of his that very morning, and he hadn’t been pissed off in any shape or form. In fact, it only dawned on me that I’d fucked up with the coffee when he took a sip, shuddered and swapped cups. He has his ‘straight up as it comes’ – his words – while I pile three sugars into mine.
So when he loomed over me, those cool eyes examining me, I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to thrash me. Still, old habits die hard, so I danced up to his side, and gave him my sweetest smile, hoping he’d be nice to me.
I know. I’m pathetic.
He patted my shoulder. “The phone will be ringing all day, and it’s nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, Kyle.”
“Making yourself sick over nothing is a damn fool thing to do.”
“Yes, Kyle. Sorry, Kyle.”
“And stop crawling. You’re a human being, not a dog.”
“Yes, Kyle. Sorry, Kyle.” I wasn’t sure how he wanted me to look, so I put on my trusting face. Of course it didn’t fool him.
He sighed and sat me down on the edge of his bed. “Listen to me, pit
ufa. He knows where you are, he has done for three days, and he doesn’t give a shit.”
I couldn’t believe it. He’d never let me go. Not ever. It’s true that He didn’t lift a finger to help me when I got banged up in Lisbon and Battambang, but then again, I didn’t expect it. When I got myself out, there were tickets and papers waiting for me – and a beating. I didn’t want to go there, so I pushed the thought away. No, there was no way He’d just let me stay here – in paradise.
Kyle put an arm around me. “Chloe, he told you to go to the Holiday Inn, Zona Dorada, in Nuevo Laredo, right? Well, he fucked up. That hotel is in Reynosa.”
I stared at him. It couldn’t be true. In all the years I’ve known him, He’d never made a mistake. “I was in the wrong city?”
“We’ve got a Holiday Inn, but it’s the Express.”
“I’m glad!” It was all I could think of. He fucked up, and I got to go to heaven. Don’t get me wrong: I knew it wouldn’t last. He’d send for me soon enough. All I could think was, Please God, don’t make it today.
I tried to stop jumping when the phone rang, and I didn’t throw up again, but the connection between Kyle’s phone and my stomach remained. Every ring caused a flip-flop. I didn’t care one little bit when people started dropping by, though. I recognised some of them as part of the pack, but I knew that while I was in this house, nobody would touch me. I was right, too. They were all super respectful.
I kind of guessed that Kyle had been putting off some business, so on the fifth day, when he told me that he had to go out, I wasn’t really surprised. He told me the place was watched: not because he wanted to scare me, but because he didn’t want me to worry about anyone coming in. Like Him.
I was cool as a cucumber, waving goodbye at the kitchen door until the big bike was out of view. At first it was ok, being alone. I made a steak and mushroom pie, and then sat on the deck, reading a book. A thriller about a bloke who’s being haunted by a ghost. Maybe that was the mistake, because I was suddenly convinced that He was watching me.
At first I sat there, too frightened to move. I tried to tell myself that I was imagining it. I really, really tried, but gradually every single rustling leaf, every bird call, every cicada chirrup took its toll. I was convinced they were all signs of Him watching me, waiting to pounce.
I was totally frozen until I heard a cough. When I heard that, I was up and running. I ran through the living room, the kitchen, and then I hit the hall floor, sliding along it until I ended up under Kyle’s bed.
I have no idea how long I stayed there. I had my arms over my head, and I was praying as hard as I could, trying not to cry, as I heard a thousand footsteps and waited for the monster to grab me.
A million years later, he came for me. Kyle, I mean. Not Him. I was so scared that I hadn’t heard him come back. First thing I knew, he was lying on the floor, making tutting sounds and reaching for me.
“Come on, pitufa,” I must find out what that means, “come out from there.”
I’d been blubbing quietly, and the second I heard his voice, I started wailing for real. I was completely, totally pathetic. Kyle was too big to fit under the bed, so he just reached in, grabbed my tee and pulled me out. He wasn’t mad. He just sat on the floor with me, letting me soak his shirt with tears and snot and making a complete and utter eejit of myself.
As it turns out, the cough was from one of Kyle’s people. He’d seen me run, and it had puzzled him. The footsteps I’d heard were him and his pals checking that everything was all right. My being spooked had spooked them, as it were.
Kyle didn’t say anything more about it, but I was terribly ashamed. The next day when he had to go out again, I sat on the porch and forced myself to wait there till he got home. I jumped with every sound, and my imagination worked overtime, but I stayed put. The fact that I threw up the second I heard the rumble of that monster bike of his has nothing to do with anything. After that, I got a bit better.
I fell into a routine, cleaning the house and cooking by day and fucking Kyle at night. He was really easy to look after. He didn’t care what I cooked, and he liked it all. He was also extremely tidy. One day when I was putting away some laundry (boxers by the way), I found some little boxes in the back of his pants drawer. I’m dead curious, so I opened them up. They were medals. One with an eagle and a green and white ribbon, one with a blue and yellow ribbon that said “for distinguished service” and two with purple ribbons that said “for military merit”. The last two were heart shaped so I reckoned they were Purple Hearts, but I couldn’t figure out what the others were for. I didn’t ask, either, but it confirmed that Kyle was a soldier. And a brave one, too.
I was a bit freaked at first, because I kept expecting the Mr Nice Guy act to vanish. When he ditched the shorts and tee for his work clothes, black jeans and a black shirt, he looked pretty intimidating. Maybe it was the way he towered over me, or maybe it was the deadpan look, but at first I’d shiver every time he frowned. I just couldn’t help it. Then, when he never hurt me, not once, I began to relax. When I learned that I could make mistakes without getting even a cross word from him, I felt happy for the first time in my life. Every day I hoped more and more that He would give up on me. I wanted to stay with Kyle forever. Nobody had ever been so nice to me.
It was the tenth day when Kyle got a call that he answered in English. Up until then it had been mostly Spanish, and a few that were in other languages. I’m not sure what they were, but they sounded kind of gargley. I am a nosy cow, so I listened to every word while pretending to be absorbed in ironing some shirts.
“I dealt with it,” I heard him say. He paused, listening attentively. “Sure. I picked up some good Mescal the other day. I’ll bring you a couple of bottles.”
As he flicked his phone shut, I pretended to focus on ironing a particularly stubborn collar.
“I’m going out. I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
He picked up his keys, and was almost out of the door when he paused and looked at me. I could see he was thinking about something. Then he shrugged and came back in.
“It’s a barbeque at Arturo’s,” he said. “You can come along.”
I wasn’t at all sure if I wanted to go there. The last party I’d attended there hadn’t exactly been fun. But the way he stood there, I knew I had to go.
“It’s family,” he said. “Just food and booze. No entertainment.”
I still didn’t feel in the party mood, but I wasn’t about to cross Kyle. I might one day, but not over something small like going out to eat. Luckily all those bashes and bruises from the icebreaker party (did you notice the pun?) had vanished, so I didn’t look like a domestic abuse victim anymore. Small mercies, right?
When we roared up to Arturo’s, there were cars parked all over the place. The whole pack was there, and they’d all brought girlfriends, wives and kids. It confirmed that Kyle had told the truth. As I was unlikely to be entertainment, I breathed again.
I’ve seen family parties on TV, but this was the first time I’d been to one. The pack waved friendly beers at Kyle while the women greeted him with hugs and kisses. The big kids acted cool, but the little ones were all over him. It was weird to see Kyle smiling as he tossed them up in the air. I’d gotten glimpses of the cheeky, cheerful, grinning Kyle once or twice before, and now I could see that this was his private self, the one he showed his family.
Everyone ignored me. The pack looked and smirked knowingly, but the women clearly hadn’t heard how I’d met Kyle. I could see from the nasty way they looked at me, though, that they thought I was a hooker. It didn’t bother me. I’m not proud.
The garden had been transformed into a foodie’s paradise. There was a massive barbeque going, a giant table with salads, breads, cakes and other goodies, and enough booze and soft drinks for a battalion. The men were sitting at tables on one side of the spread; the women sat on the other. The kids were jumping in and out of the pool that lay behind it, and playing on the swings. I didn’
t look at those; just the sight of those metal bars brought back the memory of Ricardo’s screams.
I sat with the men, sitting next to Kyle, ready to fetch him drinks, keeping my back to the swings and hoping I’d get some of that barbeque.
Pretty soon I was having a blast. Kyle’s easy to look after, so I had very little to do, and when the steaks started coming, he told me to fix him a plate and to make sure I helped myself, too. When the food’s good I can really pack it away. I had a bit of everything, and then I had some more. It was a steak barbecue, but I was in hog heaven.
I should have known it was too good to last. I’d just scarfed a second helping of chocolate cake when Kyle told me to go inside and fetch a couple of bottles of Noble Rot from the kitchen fridge. Apparently it’s some sort of designer brew.
Anyway, I trotted off like a good girl, found the beer in a heartbeat and was just about to go back outside, when I heard someone humming, ‘One step more’ from ‘Madam Butterfly’. Only one person in the world hummed like that. I stood there, frozen with fear, as He walked in.
He was wearing a puce silk shirt, black chinos and Gucci loafers. I got a waft of CK One, his favourite aftershave. The smell made my stomach heave.
“You’ve been a bad girl.”
At the sound of his voice, cool, soft and menacing, I dropped the bottles of Noble Rot and fell to my knees.
“You will have to be punished, slut.”
I was crying. I wanted to run, but I was too frightened to move. I was begging for mercy, pleading that it wasn’t my fault, that I was sorry, that I wouldn’t do it again.
“Stand up.”
I didn’t want to. God knows I didn’t. But I was too scared to disobey. I got to my feet, shaking, quivering, my arms curled protectively around my head.
“Hands behind your back, slut.”
This was the start of the pain. He wouldn’t tie me up. He didn’t need to. I knew better than to defend myself. I’d just stand there, hands behind my back while He struck me on one cheek, before backhanding me on the other. He’d take his time, hitting me slowly and carefully. I’d bleed and cry, but it wouldn’t stop him. If I collapsed, he’d make me get up, and continue.
