He sits up in bed and I hand him a mug of coffee and a bowl of cereal with milk. He eats hungrily with nary a mention of services slipping or anything else. He must be tired because as soon as he’s done, he lies down, nestling his beautiful blonde head into the pillow. He pulls the covers up over both of us. I’m tired too. Super tired. I hardly got any sleep, so I lie down beside him. His body is warm and the heavy pull of sleep tugs at my limbs.
“Hey, Asshole,” he says as I close my eyes, “it’s the middle of the day. It’s no time for sleeping.”
I lift my head. I’m groggy from having been so close to dropping off. “Oh. What’s it time for then?” I’m tired as hell, but I think I could go another round if he’s up for it. Okay, fine. I know I could.
“It’s time for you to answer some questions.”
“Huh?”
“I have a ton of deeply personal questions for you.”
He smiles personably but his eyes glint with malice. I realize too late that I made a mistake last night when I told him it would be better for us not to talk about what’s happened between us. I gave something away, and he got a read on me. That slight stiffening of his lip was a message. A message I missed. He’s correctly assessed that I fucking hate talking about this type of shit. Another quick glance at him confirms thathe’sback. His dick’s been subdued, and nowheis back.Him. The most annoying guy on the planet.
“What would you like to know?” I’m determined to show no fear and beat him at his own game.
“Let’s start with your childhood. Tell me all about it.”
“My childhood? Why’d you want to know about that?” I ask before I have the sense to stop myself.
“For one thing, I’ll need that kind of information for when I file my police report, won’t I?”
I snort. “What makes you think I’d be dumb enough to give you anything you could use?”
“’Cause, Asshole, if you don’t answer my questions, I won’t be able to guarantee my best behavior. I have a feeling I might become difficult to be around. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“Iknewyou were being annoying on purpose.”
“What can I tell you, I’m a man of many talents. You may think you’ve seen me at my worst, but baby,you ain’t seen nothing yet.” He punctuates his statement with a look that could cause a houseplant to wither and die. “We’ve played the games you wanted to play, haven’t we?” I don’t answer, but it doesn’t seem to matter. “Thisis the game I want to play.”
So little prick has a talent for reading people. So what? So do I, and I’m better at it than he is. I’d put money on that. I’ve stayed alive because of my ability to read people. I’ve made a fuckton of money because of it, too. Here’s my read on Damon Alexander Beckett; he’s a spoiled little shit who always gets his own way. The best way to handle him is to let him think he’s getting what he wants.
“Fine,” I say, “what do you want to know?”
“I already said. Childhood. Tell me about it.”
I try not to groan at the predictability of his question. Psychology 101, much? “My childhood was shit. I was raised by a single mom who wasn’t a fan of working and was a big fan of drugs.” His eyes widen microscopically. I swear, if I see so much as a hint of sympathy in them, this conversation is over. He can do his worst. If need be, I’ll gag him and cuff him to the bed until the handover tomorrow. Sympathy doesn’t come to fruition though, instead it turns into something different. Not glee exactly, but something pretty close. “It was fine. Most of the time she forgot I existed.”
He nods as if to agree that that was a good thing. It disarms me.
“Did she remember to feed you?”
He says it so softly, I answer without thinking. “Nah, not always. Sometimes there was cereal or bread, but a lot of the time there was nothing.”
“What did you eat?”
“School breakfast and lunch.”
“And on week-ends and holidays?”
“I uh, I collected soda bottles for recycling and sold cigarettes outside the corner store near our apartment. Sometimes our upstairs neighbor gave me a sandwich.” I’m not happy I’ve said all that. I’m a bit surprised, to be honest. Damon looks decidedly pleased and I don’t like that. “Your turn,” I say. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, come on. I gave as good as I got when we played the games I wanted to play. For every question I answer, you have to answer one of mine. What wasyourchildhood like?”
He rolls his eyes hard enough that I’m surprised they don’t get stuck at the back of his head. He looks at me as if I’m the dumbest person on the planet. I haven’t seen that look on his face for a while, and I can’t say I’ve missed it. “My childhood was idyllic, Asshole. It was an endless procession of ponies and presents and yachts and the type of excess most people can’t even imagine. I was doted on by everyone who met me. I had a whole team of people who were paid to provide me with positive reinforcement when I completed even the smallest of tasks. I wanted for nothing. I had an excessively privileged, perfect childhood.”
“No, you didn’t.” His eyes flash with shock, so I add, “You were neglected.” Another flash. Still quick, but brighter than the first one. It’s there for a split second and then gone. Replaced by his usual sneer. Even though I hate this game, I have a feeling it’s going to be worth playing if I get to make him look like that again. I’m surprised to learn that he doesn’t know he was neglected. He’s had plenty of therapy. He should have been all over that shit. He could have spent years cheerfully blaming his parents for all manner of things.
I guess it would have occured to him that his childhood was less than perfect if he’d actually bothered to talk to the therapists he was sent to when he was a teen. Instead, he made up crazy stories and fed them complete bullshit. As soon as they started catching him out, he refused to see them again and was sent to somebody else. When I was checking him out online, I hacked a couple of his therapists and read through some session notes. It was fun. To be honest, it was kind of amusing. Some of the stuff he came up with was funny as hell. I don’t know how he kept a straight face.
“Okay, so crack addict mom…”
