“Have the bottle,” I say, holding it out.
He takes a swig, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Quite the christening,” he comments. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I won’t fuck this up.”
Koby downs his drink. “We know, but we’ve been in your shoes before. Your first time’s never easy. Having company helps. Besides, it’s not like we have anything better to do.”
He doesn’t say it aloud, but the look crossing his face tells me he’s grateful we’re not leaving. I’ve been there.
My first torture session under Carter’s and Broadway’s watch lasted four hours. I still remember the screams, the smellof blood that gushed out of the man who stole from Dante Carrow.
It baffled me that he thought he’d get away with it. No one who’s ever wronged Dante has got out unscathed. The man is a machine, designed to kill. Designed to rule the underground.
And Carter’s the same these days. He craves power. More now he has someone he’d do anything to protect. Someone he’s willing to die for.
I don’t derive that much pleasure from hunting and hurting people. My biggest weapon has always been my brain.
That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the occasional shitstorm.
I prefer using my fists than my gun, though. There’s something freeing about inflicting pain with my bare hands. A level of personal connection a gun doesn’t offer.
Still, I’m a tech guy and my hands stay relatively clean. Bruised knuckles were fun a few years ago, but the older I get, the more I appreciate my assigned role in Carter’s ranks.
6
Bianca
Days pass in a blur. Vaughn hasn’t brought up the awkward conversation where he compared me to his wife again, neither has he commented on how alike we are.
That doesn’t mean he’s stopped making me uncomfortable.
If anything, the feeling increases every time he downs one glass of whiskey after the next.
I catch him staring, eyes hooded, mouth parted, tongue wetting his lower lip. Three nights ago he pulled my covers up higher when he thought I was asleep.
Warm whiskey breath fanned the side of my face as he leaned over my bed. My heart threatened to burst out of my chest the whole time he was sitting beside me. It felt like an age before he tucked a few strands of my hair behind my ear.
It took everything in me not to flinch away, bolt upright, and scream. I held still, the stench of alcohol wafting in the air hinting that a verbal scuffle would not go down well.
I didn’t want him comparing me to my mother again, telling me how beautiful he thought I was, or staring at me with a mixture of embarrassment and something else... something indecent I tried to forget.
Come morning, he acted as if nothing had happened. Of course he did; he had no idea I’d heard and felt him. Maybe he didn’t remember a thing. Given his rapidly increasing intake, that wouldn’t be surprising.
I, on the other hand, remembered every second and kept my distance, nose buried in a book all day long despite barely keeping my eyes open. I didn’t get a wink of sleep, too scared of how forward Vaughn might be after a few more drinks.
You’re sick. He’s not into you. He’s just looking after you.
Yes, and while that sounds more reasonable than the thoughts plaguing my mind, a small part of me remains apprehensive, to say the least.
Especially since I’ve caught him watching me more often.
When he’s sober, he averts his gaze immediately, but when he’s not... he doesn’t. Hestares, the intensity of his eyes burning my cheeks every time.
That’s why I’ve stopped looking at him whenever he opens a bottle for his daily ritual. I keep my head down, focusing on the pages of yet another book. Thank God there’s a bookstore three streets over, or I’d be killing time with crossword puzzles.
Vaughn hijacks the TV for surveillance, so that form of entertainment isn’t available.
I’ve stayed awake the last two nights: eyes closed and mind racing, ears perking up at the slightest sound. Vaughn didn’t brush my hair away again... no, he grew bolder. He moved from his wheelchair onto my bed twice.
What he did was anyone’s guess. I didn’t dare look, but I felt the heat of his scrutiny as if he held a match against my skin.
