Andy Carter
Ipush myself up into a sitting position, and he rises, walking over to me as calmly as if I had arrived as a guest – and not just dragged myself from unconsciousness on the floor. After being drugged and hauled here unwillingly.
“Mark?” I say sharply. An oily grin spreads across his smug face.
“You remembered my name. How heartwarming,” he sneers. I stare up into features that are still so familiar to me despite the years. Years that haven’t been kind to him. Mark Whitlock can’t be more than 35 now, but he looks ten years older. Haggard. Worn. His skin is sallow. It’s a skin tone I’ve seen many times before while working in the wards – on alcoholics and junkies.
He’d always been good-looking in a tousled, preppie kind of way. But now, though his sandy hair is still tousled, it’s receding at his hairline. Deep grooves have been cut around the smile that was once boyishly charming. But I know better. That charm hid a cruelty that his eyes could never disguise. The cruelty simmers within those flat brown eyes now, and I gather myself in anticipation.
As he takes another step toward me, looming over me, I launch myself. I feel my fist glance off his cheek, and his breath hisses out. But my satisfaction is short-lived. Rough hands are on my arms, and I feel myself being hauled back even as I continue to thrash and flail out at him.
“You bastard!” I scream, fighting against the goons who are holding me off. They must have been standing near me all along. I’d been too focused on this nightmare from my youth to pay any attention.
“Well, well, well,” Mark murmurs, brushing fingertips across his jawline. “It’s clear you’re no longer the innocent little cunt I fucked all those years back.” He turns his head and spits on the floor. The glob that lands on the tiles is pink-tinged.
Good!
But I can see I’ve pushed the envelope. In spite of the smile, something dangerous flickers in his eyes. I realize that if I continue to fight, I’m going to make things worse for myself. I force the resistance from my body, watching him warily.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, but get no immediate answer.
He jerks his head at the men who are holding me, and I feel myself being dragged in the direction of a table nearby. It’s been set with cutlery, glasses, and candles – as if in preparation for some romantic date. The cutlery looks to be solid silver; the glassware is expensive crystal. It’s as opulent and decadent as the décor of the room around me – ornate red velvet furnishings, huge gold-framed paintings on the walls. If this is Mark’s home, he still has the wealth he grew up with. It figures. I’ve learned the hard way that the corrupt always manage to stay on top. Although having money is no guarantee of good taste. The place looks like it would suit a Russian oligarch it’s so over-the-top.
“I thought you might be hungry after your…ordeal, Andrea,” he says mildly. It’s insane. He’s obviously the one behind my “ordeal” in the first place. I find myself being set onto a plushly upholstered chair like a doll. My arms are still firmly gripped. Mark gives a nod as he seats himself across from me, and I’m released. I sneak a quick glance to my side and see one of the men is sporting a black eye and glaring at me balefully. Must be the bastard who grabbed me in the elevator.
God…does anyone know that I’m gone? How manyhours have passed? Nikki must be looking for me by now.
I hope.
“What do you want from me?” I repeat, more firmly this time. A door to the room opens, and a man walks in, pushing a trolley laden with food. Without looking at me, he sets plates in front of us. Steaming mounds of meat with vegetables displayed around them like edible art. With great care, he fills our glasses with red wine and then steps away from the table.
He moves silently across the room to a console near a wall, and suddenly music is playing. I think it’s Vivaldi or something. Mark picks up his knife and fork and begins cutting into his steak.
“Do you like beef?” he asks, still ignoring my question.
“This is Wagyu. I have it flown from Matsusaka – it’s a region of Japan.” He spears a sliver of half-raw meat and shoves it into his mouth, chewing as he goes on, “You know, they spoil those cows over there. Put them in big fields, massage them. Play them classical fucking music.” He chuckles, and I feel my gut churn at the sight of the food swirling. He crams another piece in, blood drooling onto his lip. It’s enough to make me want to gag. He reaches for his glass and takes a big gulp, washing his food down. It’s a brief moment of relief from having to see him openly chewing.
“So, you went through all the trouble to get me here so you can show off your fancy meat?” I deadpan.
“Why am I here?”
“Go on, eat,” he ignores me. “This is from a farm I’m thinking of buying. I’m investing in several properties over there, you know. Takes big cash, but of course, that’s no problem to me.” He grins. Even from across the table, I can see the meat stuck between his teeth. Teeth that are no longer as white as they once were.
My God, when did this man become so vile? Perhaps he always was.
“Am I supposed to be impressed, Mark?” I snap.
“Why the fuck did you drag me here?”
“Eat up like a good girl, and all will be revealed,” he replies maddeningly. I slice off a tiny morsel and pop it into my mouth. It’s an effort to keep myself from throwing up. Aside from the side effects of whatever they injected me with, my stomach is in knots over this conversation. I swallow hard and set my knife and fork down, then glare at him.
“There! Happy?” I say. He doesn’t answer me. He’s too busy running his eyes over my chest, where my t-shirt is clinging snugly to the curves of my breasts.
“Those babies swelled right up, huh?” he says, shoveling another chunk of meat into his mouth. “You barely had tits when I popped your cherry back then.”
I try not to choke. The memory of that horrible night still haunts me. I was little more than a child. He should have been arrested.
Fucker.
