Blood to Dust(8)

“Come on, Country Club. I’ll see you to your room.”

Just when I think I have a real shot at forming some sort of a dialogue with this bizarre man, he throws me in his basement—laced with a dingy scent and moldy temperature. The deadbolt snaps from the outside.

“No.” A small voice escapes my paper-dry throat. “No, no, no!” I’m throwing my bound fists against the door, begging.

Tied, blindfolded and in desperate need to pee, I start pacing in a pattern, trying to figure out how big the room is and what’s inside. I’m hungry and dirty from my own blood and having been touched by Sebastian and Godfrey. And it kills me, knowing that it should have been the other way around. I was supposed to target them, not them me. If things had gone according to my plan, I would have killed Godfrey and Sebastian by the end of August. By September, I would have been on a plane to Iowa, sipping overpriced Coke and munching on peanuts on my way to a new, better life. A life where it wouldn’t matter that my parents disowned me, that my lover ruined me, that my brother is still missing and that I became a savage who uses bold tricks to see the next day.

You just couldn’t let it slide. Yet again, you had to let your ego override your welfare.

But even as guilt brews within me, I know that I stayed here all this time not only because I wanted to slaughter Godfrey, Camden and Sebastian like wild beasts. I stayed in NorCal hoping I’d find my brother, Preston. MIA for the past four years, since right before my father’s political empire collapsed. I was twenty-one at the time, and he was only eighteen. I wanted to stick around, let him know there was still a place he could call home in case he came back.

That place was me.

Mom. . .she paid infrequent visits in our lives, rolling in and out with her Louis Vuitton suitcase. He and Dad never got along. My father was too proud and too stupid to accept his gay spawn. Preston was deemed unworthy as a human being and unwanted as a son. I guess he decided to take off and leave the place where he wasn’t welcome.

But Preston hasn’t shown up tonight. Beat and Ink did.

Knowing I’ll be stuck in this place for at least a few days, I need to keep tabs on the time and date. Camden arrives in a month, and no matter what—he won’t get to me alive, well and willing.

I bite the tip of my index finger. The skin cracks and when I feel the thick, warm blood dripping down, I smear a long streak on the nearest wall.

The countdown begins.





Some hours later, the door whines and my head flies up. I’m sitting in the corner of the room, my knees drawn and my chin resting upon them. My fingernails are bent and broken, a bitter reminder of my futile attempt to break free. Shrinking into myself, breathing as quietly as possible, I wait.

I think I hear Beat’s footsteps. They’re slower in pace, wider in stride. He’s very tall. Very calm, too. Peaceful. My lungs wheeze and I loll my head back. It’d take me weeks to get all the dried blood cleaned up.

“Food.” He kicks the sole of my boot. So it is him. Somehow, it makes me feel a little less scared. He didn’t want me here, and didn’t slap me across the face. Unfortunately, in my world, this qualifies him as some sort of a black knight.

I hear the clank of a plastic plate being thrown in my direction on the floor, but don’t make a move for it.

“You deaf?” he asks.

“You stupid?” I smart off. “I’m blindfolded and tied. How the hell am I supposed to get to this food? The power of telepathy?”

He offers me another grunt, and I immediately regret snapping at him. I feel his fingers working the black cloth that’s tying my hands together, that peachy breath on my face again.

Once I’m free, he bends down, his warmth engulfing me, and places the plate in my hands.

“What’s for dinner?” I lick my injured lips.

“Whiskey-glazed steak with a side of wine-tossed asparagus.” He lets out a sniffle before adding flatly, “Wait, my bad. It’s just a peanut butter sandwich.”

“That’s better. I’m vegetarian.”

“I’ll let our chef know.” He offers me his own brand of sarcasm, his voice already descending. I realize that he’s about to climb back up. I can’t let that happen. Who knows when he’ll check on me again? The prospect of holding my pee a minute longer is nothing short of tormenting.

“Wait!” I launch forward, crawling on the floor toward his voice. I don’t hear anything, so I continue.

“I really need to take a shower, wash off all this blood. And I really, really need to pee.” I shuffle my way back to the corner, taking a small bite off my sandwich, my teeth brushing against my fingers. “Please?”

I feel his palm pressing flat against the wall I’m leaning on. I swear it moves a little from the impact.

“Finish your sandwich. Make it quick.”

I wolf down my dinner before he grabs my hand and leads me up the stairs. He stalks closely behind, and even though it’s taking me forever to climb up the narrow staircase, he keeps his grunt-count to a respectable minimum.

Leading me to the bathroom by the arm, he throws the door open and we both walk into the tiny room. Still blindfolded, I feel the cold sink stabbing at my lower back, but the warmth of his proximity keeps me from shivering.

“I need my privacy.” I lick my lips, feeling him everywhere. Not only is Beat physically big, he is also somewhat of a human furnace. I swear he radiates enough heat to photosynthesize a whole forest. I guess it’s good, because I always know when he’s around. But also bad, because why would it matter? It’s not like I can fight him in any way.