King

by T. M. Frazier

  But it never came.

  After a moment I opened my eyes. King was staring down at me, his hand raised, but not in anger, he was rubbing his palm over his short hair. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

  I was bound in his bed with no way out and no way of knowing what was going to happen to me. It was a bad time for my foot-in-mouth syndrome to be acting up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I mean, I just—”

  “Shut up.” He said with a new calm control.

  “I don’t do drugs. I never have. I mean, not that I know of. You see, the thing is—”

  “Shut up.”

  My stomach growled again, it twisted so hard I saw stars in front of my eyes. I needed to eat. I needed to escape. I needed to be anywhere else, but in his bed. “I swear I didn’t take your money. It wasn’t me. That wasn’t the plan. I was just supposed to get a biker to—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” he roared, his explosive rage effectively silencing my scrambled monologue.

  My stomach twisted and turned again. This time I closed my eyes until the pain passed. I tried to wet my cracked lips with my tongue, but it was also dry and hung heavy in my mouth. King reached down and touched my cheek with the pad of his thumb. I was so involved in trying not to pass out that I barely registered that he was touching me. After a few moments with nothing but the sound of my heart beating in my ears, King abruptly stood up and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  I was his prisoner.

  I was either going to die of hunger, fear, or at the hands of King. But the how wasn’t important. It was the when I was waiting for, because I was certain I wasn’t ever going to leave that house again.

  At least not alive.

  Chapter Seven

  Doe

  I was drifting somewhere between awake and unconscious when the door opened and heavy footsteps approached the bed. Something metal was set on the nightstand, clanking and rattling as it settled. It was the smell that brought me back to the land of the living as abruptly as if smelling salts had been waved under my nose.

  Food.

  The metal of the cuffs bit into my wrist as I lunged for the tray that was set just beyond my reach. I let out a frustrated shrill-sounding scream.

  “Easy now, killer,” a voice said. I hadn’t noticed the guy leaning on the dresser at the foot of the bed, his arms and legs crossed in front of him. I recognized him from the party the night before. Only when his eyes traveled down to my bare breasts, I remembered that I was still nude from the waist up. I quickly covered myself by balling up as small as I could, huddling close to the metal headboard.

  He smiled and slowly approached me.

  “No!” I shouted when he got close enough to extend his hand out to me.

  “No?” he asked. “So you don’t want this?” He picked up the tray and set it on the bed in front of me.

  “No, no, I do. I do want it,” I assured him. I sat up again and winced when my injured ear accidentally rubbed against the metal headboard. If it was food he was offering, my modesty was going to have to wait until after my belly was full. I removed my arm from my breasts and reached out to slide the tray closer to me. When I saw what was on it, I paused.

  What the hell?

  There were two plates. One held a sandwich of some sort, wrapped in white paper, a sticker with the name of the deli held the wrapping together. The other plate was not really a plate but a mirror. On it, white powder, cut into three lines along with a rolled up dollar bill. Next to it was a plastic Ziploc bag containing a needle¸ spoon, lighter, and another smaller baggie filled with another type of darker looking powder.

  “What is all this?” I asked.

  “Breakfast,” he said straight-faced. “You get to choose one item from the tray and one only.” He sat down across from me on the bed.

  “Is this a joke?” Who the hell would choose drugs for breakfast?

  Nikki, I thought.

  “Choose wisely, girl.” He pointed to the tray.

  I grabbed the sandwich and tore off the wrapper before he could finish his sentence. I took a monster bite that contained both sandwich and paper.

  “Slow down,” he warned. I detected amusement in his warning. I ignored him, choking when I tried to swallow down half-chewed bites, but the feeling of chewing and swallowing was euphoric. I kept going until the sandwich was completely in my stomach.

  I didn’t need drugs. I was high on food.

  I wiped at the mess I made on my face and licked my fingers clean. He handed me a glass of water, and I downed it in three big gulps. I sat back on the bed and patted my bare stomach, no longer caring that I was practically naked in front of this stranger. I opened my mouth to speak when a sudden wave of nausea washed over me. I sat up and held a hand over my mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, as I frantically looked around for something I could throw up in. I didn’t see anything within arm’s reach, but it only took him a second to realize what it was I needed. He leapt up and grabbed a metal wastebasket from the corner of the room and ran back, just in time for me to empty the entire breakfast into the basket. Every little bit of barely-chewed, undigested sandwich came back up in waves until once again my stomach was completely empty.

  “I told you to slow the fuck down.” He walked to the far side of the room and opened the window, tossing the entire basket out. “I’ll hose that out later.”

  I never cried when I woke up in the hospital and couldn’t even recall my name. I didn’t cry when I was told I might never regain my memory. I didn’t cry when I was thrown into a group home full of perverts. I didn’t cry when I ran away and had to live on the streets. I didn’t cry when I came to the realization that using my body was the only way I was going to be able to survive. I didn’t cry when a bullet grazed my ear. I didn’t cry when I was handcuffed to a bed by a tattooed psychopath who I was certain was going to kill me.

  But losing the first full stomach I had in weeks?

  I cried.

  Not just a few little tears. I sobbed. Loud and long. Shoulder shaking. No end in sight.

  Ugly cry.

  Hope. It’s something I hadn’t yet given up, but right then and there, I was ready to throw in the towel. I didn’t care if I stayed attached to that bed until I died and the skin rotted away from my bones.

  I was done.

  I’d been dealt all I could handle, and I was more than fucking over it.

  Over being afraid. Over being hungry. Over redheaded hookers. Over being shot at.

  Over this sorry excuse for a life.

  I sat back on the bed and rested my head against my arm, which hung at an awkward angle. I let my body go limp. Looking out the window, I noticed the sun was out. I didn’t even know what time it was. I didn’t care.

  No one looked for me when I might have been someone, so no one would be looking for me now that I was absolutely no one.

  It’s ironic really. I’d been wishing for a bed and a roof over my head and in a really fucked up way, for however long they kept me alive, I had it.

  The guy whose name I didn’t know left the room but left the tray on the bed. How much of that stuff did I have to take for it to be lethal? Half? All of it? Maybe, King’s plan was to inject me with the drugs himself. Or maybe he was a coward and would order his friend to do his dirty work for him.

  Maybe, if I was lucky, my death would be quick. Just a nice bullet to the head.

  Either way, it didn’t matter how I was going to go. I just knew it was the end, and oddly enough, it was comforting to come to terms with it instead of spending my remaining hours fighting it.

  I was beyond exhausted.

  Maybe, King thought I would make things easy on him and off myself with the drugs. I huffed. I wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction. If he wanted me dead, he was going to man-up and do it himself. I used every ounce of strength I had and kicked the tray off the bed. The mirror bounced off the carpet. The coke billowed into the air in a white cloud of fine powder.
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  And I laughed.

  I laughed so hard my entire body shook and tears ran down my face. I laughed so hard that the sound of my laughter got caught in my throat. There I was. Half-naked. Handcuffed to a bed. Puke on my face. A tray of drugs scattered on the floor.

  Manically laughing like a schizophrenic who’d skipped out on her meds.

  The door opened again and in walked the same guy from earlier. I didn’t acknowledge him, just continued to stare out the window as the sun began to set.

  “Do you know how much that shit is worth?” he asked with his eyes wide.

  “Nope. And don’t know why you would bother bringing it to me since I already told your friend that I’m no fucking junkie.” I rolled onto my side, turning my back to him. “Why don’t you just kill me, and get it over with.”

  “It was a test,” he said, rounding the bed. He propped himself up next to me, his back against the headboard, a steaming ceramic bowl in his hands. “You passed.”

  “A what? What the hell does that mean?”

  “King. He wanted to know if you were telling the truth, so he tested you. A junkie would’ve said ‘fuck the food’ and dove nose-first into the dope.” He extended the bowl out to me. “Here. I’m Preppy, by the way.”

  Odd name for an odd guy. He looked like a cross between a thug, a teacher, and a surfer.

  I’d seen him briefly the night before, but I didn’t take the time to really look at him. Preppy was close to six feet tall. He wore light jeans and a short sleeved yellow collared shirt with a white bow tie. His sandy blonde hair was tied back into a wild ponytail on the top of his head, but beneath it his head was shaved clean on both sides above his ears, revealing intricate vine tattoos that started at his temples and circled around his head. His arms, hands, and knuckles were also covered with ink. He had a dark beard that didn’t match his hair color. At first glance, you’d think he was much older than he was, but it was his eyes that gave away his youth.

  “What is it?” I asked, staring into the steaming bowl.

  “Chicken broth. Drink it slowly so you can keep it down. How long has it been since you ate?” He crossed his legs at the ankles and rested his hands behind his head.

  “Not sure.” I don’t know why but saying the words out loud made me feel ashamed in a way I hadn’t thought about before. “Days, I think.”

  Hesitantly, I took the bowl from his hands. It was warm on my palms and instantly made the ache in my weak hands subside. I lifted it to my mouth slowly, relishing the feeling of the steam against my cheeks and the warmth of the liquid as it spread down my throat.

  “Why are you even bothering with feeding me?”

  “You say you’re not a junkie, but your fucking ribs are practically poking through your skin, and I could sharpen my knife on that collar bone of yours. King’s not the kind of guy who starves someone to death.”

  “So, he’s not going to kill me?” I asked, hopefully.

  “Didn’t say that. Just said he wouldn’t starve you to death. Bears crew has a lead on the redhead. If we catch up to her and we find out you weren’t in on it, he might let you go.”

  “Might?”

  “He’s not the most predictable guy, and he’s been away for a few years. Hasn’t been acting like himself, so there’s no telling what’s running through his head right now.”

  “Years?” That’s when I remembered that the party last night was supposed to be a coming home party. “Where was he?”

  “State.”

  “College?”

  “Prison.”

  Prison made much more sense than college.

  “What did he do?” I was pushing my luck by even asking. But I thought that maybe, if I knew more about King—knew what made him tick—I would have more of a chance of convincing him to let me go.

  “You sure ask a lot of questions, little girl. Why do you want to know?”

  I shrugged and sipped more of my broth. “Just curious, I guess.”

  “He killed someone, got caught,” he said casually. I swallowed a huge mouthful of broth in one tight gulp.

  “Who?” My curiosity made my mouth run faster than the speed of my usual word vomit.

  Preppy smiled. His dark brown eyes glistened with excitement. I knew then that there was a lot more to him than what I saw on the surface. Something sinister was lying just beneath the tattoos and bow tie.

  Something that made the hair on my arms stand on end.

  Preppy leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his folded hands.

  “His mom.”

  Chapter Eight

  Doe

  There was no doubt in my mind that King was capable of the kind of things most normal people couldn’t fathom, but what kind of person kills their own mother?

  Preppy asked me the same questions King had about who I was, and I told him my story. The difference between Preppy and King is that Preppy actually listened to me.

  I gave him the short version.

  No memory.

  Group home.

  Living on the streets.

  Nikki.

  Attempting to sell myself for protection and shelter.

  Also unlike King, Preppy seemed to actually believe me.

  I drank every last bit of broth, and Preppy changed the bandage on my ear. It was already starting to itch as it scabbed over.

  “Why don’t you let me go?” I asked, bunching the waistband of the sweatpants he’d given me to wear in my hand so they wouldn’t fall down. “You can just tell King that I escaped.”

  Preppy shook his head from side to side. “That’s not going to happen,” he scoffed, like there was something wrong with my question, not the fact that his friend had a girl handcuffed to his bed against her will.

  Preppy uncuffed me. Temporarily, he made sure to tell me, and led me to one of the doors in the room I’d assumed was a closet but turned out to be a small but clean bathroom.

  I hadn’t realized how bad I had to pee before then. I let the sweatpants fall to the floor and was about to push down my underwear when I noticed the door still stood open and Preppy watched my every move.

  “Can you please close the door?”

  “Sure.” Preppy took a step inside and shut the door behind him.

  “Not exactly what I meant.”

  “Sorry, kid. Boss-man told me not to let you out of my sight.”

  “Do you always do what he tells you to?” I asked, bitterly.

  “For the most part.” Unable to wait a second longer, I pushed down my underwear and sat on the toilet.

  Nothing came out.

  “Don’t have to go anymore?” He asked.

  “I do, but I can’t pee with you staring at me like that. Just turn around. It’s not like I’m going anywhere. This room doesn’t even have a window.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that your highness had stage fright,” Preppy said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

  He opened the bathroom door again and this time he turned his back to me. The second I knew he wasn’t looking, my body was able to relax and let go. The relief felt so amazing I moaned out loud.

  “I may appear nice, kid, but don’t get it twisted. King and I are cut from the same cloth.”

  “If he asked you to kill me, would you do it?” I asked, needing to know if he would be the one to possibly end my life.

  “Yes,” he answered. No hesitation.

  When I was done, Preppy led me back to the bed and secured my cuff around my wrist. This time, he connected it to a lower rung on the headboard so I wouldn’t have to sit with my arm raised above my head.

  “Prep,” King’s deep voice boomed from the doorway, startling me. He motioned to Preppy with a lift of his chin. Preppy tightened the cuff around my wrist and left the room. King glanced at me for a brief second, then followed Preppy out, closing the door behind them.

  Did they find Nikki? Did she tell them I didn’t have anything to do with stealing from him? Or maybe, she turned on me and tol
d them it was all my idea. Nikki was oddly overprotective of me when she was sober, but when she was high she was unpredictable, and if her life or her drugs were on the line, there was no doubt in my mind that she would throw me to the wolves.

  I heard a door slam, and then their muffled voices rose up to the window from outside. I strained my neck and peered out. King and Preppy were on the lawn, just beyond the deck. The sun was just setting; the sky glowed orange.

  I stretched out my leg and slid the window open a crack with my bare foot.

  “Found the redhead,” King said. He lit a cigarette.

  “Where?” Preppy asked.

  “Andrews’ place up the highway. That old motel with the pool in the parking lot.”

  “You get the cash?” Preppy asked. He leaned back against the railing and crossed his arms over his chest.

  King shook his head and blew out the smoke.

  “I think she’s telling the truth, man,” Preppy said, gesturing up to my window with his hands. I ducked in reaction although from that angle there was no way they could see me. “I think you know I’m pretty good at detecting a liar, and this girl doesn’t scream thief to me. What did the redhead say about her?”

  “She didn’t say shit.”

  “How come?”

  “Cause she’s fucking dead.”

  * * *

  Nikki was dead.

  I couldn’t catch my breath.

  My head spun.

  King had said that anyone who stole from him would have to pay a price, and Nikki had paid it.

  With her life.

  There was no doubt, that without King being able to ask Nikki about my involvement, that I was next.

  Thunderclouds clapped overhead. King and Preppy walked back toward the house, but I could no longer make out what they were saying. I closed the window and propped myself on the bed just as they’d left me.

  The first chance I got I was going to make a run for it. There was no time to wait and plan. This was going to have to be quick and on-the-fly.