He cups my cheek, his hot, sour breath fanning over my face. “I wish I could, angel. But then the police would ask to come and see you. And I don’t trust you enough for that, yet.” He taps his finger on the tip of my nose like I’m a little girl. My stomach churns. “Anyway, they’ll probably be looking for me. Because of the bombs. I’ll need to lie low for a while.” He smiles. “We’ll get to spend some time together, just us. That’s what you want, right?”
I can’t speak, so I just nod. He beams.
“Come now, angel.” He stands and wraps an arm around my waist, helping me up. I try not to shudder under his hands as he leads me to the small dining table. He pulls out my chair with a flourish, and I sit down slowly, looking over the table. It’s like something out of a cheesy romance; checked tablecloth, napkins folded into swans, a long-stem rose in a vase. A battery-operated tea-light flickers light over the cutlery.
X goes back to the counter, returning with two steaming plates. He sets one down in front of me.“Here we are, angel. Eat up.”
I stare at the plate. He’s cooked a full roast dinner: chicken, potatoes, sprouts, and carrots, all drenched in gravy. Maybe it’s the lighting, or the drugs lingering in my system, but the food looks fake and plasticky, like the inedible prop food we sometimes have on set.
“I don’t eat meat.”
He sighs. “I thought you might complain about this. I don’t want you doing any of those LA fad diets anymore, they’re unhealthy and dumb. Human beings were made to eat meat. It’s just biology.” He strokes my hand. I close my eyes, forcing myself to keep still. “I think the celebrity lifestyle has gotten to your head, darling.”
I lick my lips. “I’m not really hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
“I’m still nauseous. From the drugs.”
“I’m sorry about that,” he says, his face softening again. “I’m very sorry about that. But you have to eat the food, I’m afraid. It’s part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
“It’s how my mother taught me,” he says, proudly. “You always have to take a girl to dinner first.”
“First?” Ice slides down my spine. “What comes next?”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t tease me. You know what comes next. Here.” He shuffles his chair closer to mine. “I always imagined us eating like this.” He cuts a few bites of food and stacks them up on his fork, then holds the mouthful to my lips. “Open up!” He says brightly. It takes everything in me not to spit in his face. Slowly, I open my mouth, letting him push the fork inside. I chew and chew and chew, hyper-aware of his face just millimetres from mine, and eventually manage to swallow.
“Very nice,” I croak out, and his smile spreads to a beam.
“I thought you’d like it. My mother taught me to cook, when I was younger. I didn’t want to learn, I didn’t think it was really a man’s place,” he sloshes some wine into our glasses. “But she insisted that a good man should be able to feed his woman. And I guess she was right, huh?”
I nod, looking down at the plate. “Can I lie down? My head hurts.”
He shakes his head. “Not until you eat everything. There’s pudding, too. I’m doing thisright.”
“Right.”
X reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I am so happy that you’re here,” he says quietly. “I love you, Briar. I know you might not believe that yet. But just give me a chance to prove it to you.”
I force myself to smile, turning back to my plate of meat.
And I eat it. I eat every last bite. When I lay my cutlery back down, my stomach is churning.
“Pudding time!” X announces brightly. “It’s a little late, but I made you a birthday cake! Chocolate, your favourite!” He goes to the fridge and pulls out a covered plate. He places it in front of me and pulls off the lid with a flourish, revealing a thickly frosted chocolate cake with my name piped on top in shaky calligraphy. “Do you like it?” He asks, looking anxious. “It took me four tries to get it perfect.”
I think of Kenta handing me the heart-shaped doughnut, Glen sparking up the candle with his lighter, and tears press behind my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m really full, though.”
X considers for a moment, then smiles. “Well, that’s okay,” he decides. “We can have dessert after, I suppose.” He takes my hand, helping me out of the chair.
I press a hand to my stomach. “What now?”
He giggles—actuallygiggles—and the sound is so creepy that goosebumps brush down my spine. “Come. Sit on the sofa here with me.”
I sit stiffly next to him. X slides closer, wrapping an awkward arm around my shoulder. His fingertips skim my back, left bare in my dress, and I can’t hold back my full-body flinch as he reaches for the zip.
X sighs. “That security guard really hurt you, didn’t he?” He coos. “You poor baby. Don’t worry. I’m not like him. I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to.” He lets go of the zip and cups my face. I close my eyes. “Don’t be nervous,” he whispers. “We’ll go slow.”
