Okay, I take it back. A little scared now.
“You wanna play like that?” he grits out, his voice hoarse. I gulp as I scan his eyes for the very first time. Honey brown, almost greenish. . .and full. So full. Full of things I shouldn’t see. Of soul. Of pain. Of a story behind a man I mustn’t personify.
Breaking eye contact, I pick up my dress from the floor. So what? Hot killer guy has a soul. Big f*cking deal.
Big. Broken. Maybe even a little good, underneath all those calloused layers life wrapped him in. Indebted to Godfrey, and is filed under Must-Recruit-To-My-Side. Likes: Reading (he had a book in his back pocket), the color black and sarcasm. Dislikes: Ink, Godfrey, Seb. . .not me.
To him, I’m still a clean slate. Although that’s starting to change.
I’m waiting for a slap or a punch to arrive, every muscle in my body tensing, but he just stares at me through his mask with those eyes.
“What’s your name?” he growls, not unlike a beast.
“Prescott.”
“Stupid name.”
“Allow me not to take offense, considering the fact that you call yourself Beat.”
I’m sure he smiles behind this mask, though there’s no way I could tell. His body relaxes, which prompts me to breathe normally again.
“You need some ground rules, Country Club, so let me lay them out for you, before you do anything stupid that’d land your ass in trouble. One—if I find you looking for a weapon again, you lose all privileges. No showers. No peeing. No getting out of the basement. For all I care, you will sit in your own shit and piss until the Archers come and pick you up. Two—you disobey, you’ll be punished. Food will be scarce and in-between. Three—” his eyes close, and when they open again, there’s a flicker of something devious in them, “I’m not like them. I have no interest in making this unnecessarily painful for you. But don’t try anything that’d make me turn on you. I easily flip, and once I do. . .”
My nipples brush against the rough towel at his threat.
“I need shampoo, soap and tampons.” I try my luck. “And a stress ball. If you’re going to keep me here. . .” I trail off, thinking about the outside world I just caught a glimpse of. Squinting my eyes, shaking my head, letting the soft, wet strands of gold frame my face. “Just. . .please. It’s worse than prison.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he surprises me by saying. I nod curtly. The shampoo and tampons are luxuries I can live without. The stress ball, though. . .I’ve never gone out of the house without one. Not since a shrink I went to after the baby ordeal told me I should try and use one to release some of my anger. That’s what keeps me relatively sane. It’s what also keeps me a drug dealer, as opposed to a drug user.
“Thank you.”
He leads me back to my cellar, where he blindfolds me again. My hands are back to being tied. They want to keep me disorientated, and for a good reason. Godfrey told them I’m not who I appear to be. But whoever I am, I don’t want to be left with myself right now. With my thoughts, with my mind working overtime, trying to second-guess Camden and Godfrey’s next move.
“Please don’t leave.” I draw a sharp breath. As much as I hate to admit it, the anxiety in my tone is not only due to my plan to have him warm up to me in order to gain his trust, but also because I genuinely hate the idea of spending the next few hours alone.
He doesn’t respond, and I hear the door shutting and locking behind him.
I bang my head against the wall, letting the tears that’ve been threatening to escape loose. I’ve already been through so much, but I just have to pull through one more thing. I can take these guys down.
It’s only Stockton. I’m already so close to home.
Home.
I don’t have one, but I do have a place I can call my own. It’s called revenge, and I will seek it, find it and soak in it.
“Oopsie. Someone forgot to wipe down the windows.”
I’m on my knees, mopping pristine hardwood tiles. Looking up to the woman who had spoken to me, I throw the wet cloth I’m holding near an exotic plant she once told me was imported from Singapore and push to my feet.
“Yes, ma’am.” My acceptance holds more authority than her command. She knows it. What’s more—she f*cking loves it.
“Or. . .” Mrs. Hathaway presses her elbows on the grand piano in her living room, its keys still virginal, having never been touched. She angles forward, offering me a perfect view of her plastic tits as she lifts one foot in the air and twists from side-to-side in her white mini-dress.
All I can think about is that she’s leaving marks I’ll have to clean afterwards. “You can come upstairs and help me pack for Tahoe.”
Ignoring her suggestion, I brush past her heading toward the shed outside where she keeps my cleaning tools, the squeegee included. I can still see her face in my periphery. It’s painted with pricey makeup and displeasure—both unappealing to my taste—and by the time I get back to the foyer, Mrs. Hathaway’s already deep into her plan B. She’s sitting on her upholstered gray leather sofa in nothing but a tiny black bikini.
“Should I take this or the leopard one?” She waves the printed bikini that’s clutched between her pink fingernails.
“Ma’am, I’d make the worst f*cking stylist. I still wear the same pair of Dickies from when I was sixteen.” Fisting the squeegee, I walk straight to her floor-to-ceiling windows, dangling the wire of the bucket I’m holding. I’ve worked here since I was released from San Dimas, housekeeping and doing some light landscaping when Mrs. H’s gardener Eddie is out of town. Godfrey hooked me up with this minimum wage job. And even though it’s in Blackhawk—a good hour or so from Stockton—I can’t afford to pass on this opportunity. A felon with manslaughter on his record? I’m shit-lucky to have any kind of job, especially with a parole officer watching my every move.