Bull Mountain(33)

Gareth stiffened and went cold. The tears disappeared as quickly as they’d come. He rubbed his thumb over the tattoo again. “You want to be Annette?” he said, and raised the broken bottleneck to his chest. Using the sharpened edge, he sliced into the skin above his nipple and carved through the letters inked into his skin. Blood poured down his chest and Angel jumped back.

“Jesus Christ. You’re crazy,” she said, and scanned the room for her clothes.

“You want to be Annette?” he said again, turning to face her.

Angel grabbed her dress, panties, and shoes from the floor and held them out in front of her.

“Hold on, mister, I didn’t mean nothing by it. I’m just here for a good time. I can go now, okay? I can walk right out.”

“Annette’s a no-good bitch that thinks she can do better than me. She thinks she can say and do whatever she pleases and up and leave whenever she wants.”

“I’m real sorry about that, mister. That sounds really awful, but . . . but I ain’t Annette.”

Gareth pulled down a hand towel from a silver ring on the wall and wiped the blood from the fresh gash on his chest. “Yeah, but you want to be.”

Angel grabbed her purse from the side table and made a dash for the door, but, despite being blind drunk, Gareth was much faster. He reached out and grabbed a handful of white-blond hair. She dropped the purse, and makeup, cigarettes, and several unused condoms spilled out on the carpet.

“Ow. Please, Papa, I didn’t—”

“—mean nothing by it. I know. And I’m not your f*ckin’ papa.” Gareth pulled her back and tossed her petite naked frame onto the bed. She kicked and flailed her legs, bunching up the sheets, trying to slide out of the reach of the broken bottle, but once he was on top of her, she couldn’t move. He straddled her, putting all of his weight on her chest, crushing the wind out of her, pinning her arms.

Angel screamed. He let go of her hair and slid his hand, slick with his own blood, over her mouth. He leaned in close when he spoke to her. The stink of whiskey and sweat coated her face like a film. She wanted to throw up.

“So, Annette, I was thinking about the last time you got lippy with me. You remember?”

Angel just stared back, wide-eyed, unable to answer or breathe through her mouth.

“The last time I had to straighten you out. I hit you right here.” Gareth held the edge of the broken bottle to the side of Angel’s nose. “Do you remember, Annette?”

Angel struggled to push her head down deeper into the pillow and out of the bottle’s reach, but Gareth pushed down harder. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the glass press into her skin. She screamed through his hand, but no one could hear her. Blood spilled onto the sheets on both sides of her head, forming Rorschach wings on the cotton as he dragged the broken glass across her face.

When he was finished, he got off her and tossed the bottle to the floor. He walked back to the mirror and stared at the blood smeared across his arms and chest. He turned on the faucet and held his hands under the water until it was scalding.

Angel pulled herself to the floor and slowly crossed the carpet toward the door.

“Aw, now where you going?” Gareth said, and she stopped cold. “You don’t wanna be my friend no more?” He squatted down and looked at her with the curiosity a hunter would give a wounded animal. “You can’t leave until you get paid,” he said. “I mean, you are a whore after all, right?” He swiped up the two twenties he had laid on the table earlier, crumpled the bills in his hand, and stuffed them into Angel’s mouth. She gagged. He stood her up, opened the door, and threw her battered figure into the second-floor guardrail right next to where Val was standing.

“What the hell, Gareth?” he said.

“Get this bitch outta here,” Gareth said, and closed the door.

Within minutes he was asleep.

2.

Val came back out on the breezeway with a bath towel, a wet rag, and a thousand dollars in cash. “Hey, can you hear me?”

Angel shrank back from his voice, lifting her shoes and dress to block her face from this new threat.

“Don’t be scared, girl. I’m not gonna hurt you. I want to help you, okay? I want to help.” He held out the towel. She hesitated but finally lowered her shoes, snatched the towel from his hands and covered herself the best she could. The left side of her face was on fire and it hurt to breathe. Her ribs felt broken.

“You’re . . . his . . . friend,” she said between short, stuttered breaths.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He cut me . . . my face.”

Val went to touch her cheek, but she winced and pulled away. “It hurts.”

“Yes, ma’am. Here, put this on it.” He handed her the wet rag. “Keep pressure on it like this.” He took her hand in his and pressed the rag down on her wound.

“It hurts so bad.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you help me? Can you call the police, or an ambulance or something?”

Val scanned the parking lot below them, then cupped his mouth and sighed into his hands. “No, ma’am. I can help, but I can’t do that.”

“Can I use your phone, then, or something, please? I can’t stay out here like this. Please? You said you wanted to help.”