Blood to Dust
We both flinch at the contact, and for very different reasons.
“Beat!” Her voice pitches high. I growl.
“Relax, I saw you were looking for the soap. Here.” I stick it in her palm, but use the opportunity to glare at her nipples again. They’re like sweet f*cking coins I’d like to toss between my thumb and finger. Her mouth pulls from displeased back to content as she continues humming, shutting the drape so I can’t see her. “You said you’d buy me what I need for my shower.”
“I never said it’d be today. I ain’t Amazon Prime.” I sniff, getting back to washing her dress. I’ve no idea why I said that. Actually I do. She was really f*cking sad and really f*cking vulnerable. “No fancy shit, God’s girl. You’ll only get the basics.”
“My name is Prescott.” She draws the curtain back sharply and pokes me in the shoulder.
“Shitty name,” I drawl again. I hate it when rich people give their kids pompous names. Prescott’s a last name. Not a first.
“Stop being mean just because you can’t stand the fact that you like me,” she says breezily.
I kind of like that she’s still keeping things light despite her situation. It’s badass. I watch the dirt and blood seep out of the fabric of her dress with fascination, swirling in circles of a black and red whirlpool down the sink. It’s better than watching her body, knowing I can’t destroy it.
“Pea.” Her voice carries from behind the curtain. “Call me Pea. It sounds like a nickname I can get behind. Country Club and Silver Spoon are plain annoying. And don’t ‘God’s girl’ me, either. I’m no more his girl than you are his soldier.”
She turns off the faucet and draws the curtain open. I pull my towel from the rack and hand it to her, looking the other way and hoping my soldier ain’t saluting in her direction.
Luckily she can’t see shit.
“Dry up. I’ll hang your dress in the backyard. Fair warning: If you try and pull any more stupid shit, you will not be fed for three days.”
I throw her dress over the clothesline and walk to my small bedroom—it’s half a room, actually, Irv took the master bedroom before I moved in—and readjust myself in my jeans.
Yeah, sergeant Vela definitely saluted to our new tenant.
I sift through my stuff. I don’t have many shirts and most of them are in poor condition. I pull out the newest one that I bought for my job interview with Mrs. H and walk back to the bathroom. Prescott awaits, silent, naked but dry. Her back is arched seductively, her ass round and her tits just the perfect size for my palm.
The minute I walk in, she parts those full lips into a shy smile. Every single move is deliberate. The little bitch is trying to seduce me, and it’s working. I really do want to strangle her.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Bye.” I throw the shirt into her hands and turn my back to her.
I catch her pulling my shirt over her head. It’s so big on her small, curvy body, she could probably use it as a f*cking blanket. I take her hand and guide her out of the bathroom. I’m eager to throw her in the basement so I can go back up and see if the smell of her spicy, sweet * stuck to my towel. Yeah, grinding my cock against a towel is just another low I might stoop to today.
“Beat, let’s do dinner tomorrow.”
“Pea, let’s not,” I snap.
“Please? Solitude is the kiss of death to the spirit.” She wiggles her words at me like they’re her curvy ass, and my cock jumps to attention again. Where’s that quote from?
“No.”
“We can exchange notes on Godfrey. I’m sure he screwed you over, too. That’s his trade, and that’s why you’re holding me against my will. . .and against yours.”
I don’t answer her, but I pull my shirt up to cover my face and take off the bandage covering her eyes. Tonight, her hands won’t be tied, either.
“Wait, Beat!”
“Bye, Felicia.” I kick her little ass into the basement and slam the door behind her.
Good f*cking riddance.
I see everything.
The basement must’ve leaked for years. Mold blooms on every corner of the ceiling, smeared on the walls like a horrific scream. The air is wet and smells of despair. Everything is bare. Gray bricks dotted with black filth. No amount of scraping and washing will bring this floor back to good condition.
Other than a small wooden table and some saggy carton boxes, there’s no furniture.
No electricity.
Not even a dangling bulb hanging by exposed wire for comfort.
No. Light.
A part of me is woeful that he didn’t leave the blindfold on. Then, at least, I could have convinced myself that this place was livable.
I see everything.
There’s a row of windows high up on the walls, boarded from the inside by rotting wood. I will try and peel it off the minute I get my hands on something sharp.
Shaking violently, I rub my arms and light jog in a patterned circle to raise my body temperature. The mold makes everything cold. I circle the room, wishing I had a stress ball, before I hear it.
Boom.
I strain my ears, somehow knowing that another one will follow.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
It’s steady, angry. I press one ear against the wall, squinting and pressing my lips together.