Chapter 61
Daisy
Keeping hold of my hand, Gatsby took me into his large home, leading me to the elevator. He stuck a key inside it and nodded to me solemnly. His entire demeanor had shifted since I'd demanded he show me everything. His lips were a thin, straight line, his green eyes cold and seemingly lost. He stared straight ahead as the elevator jerked upward, taking us to the only part of his house I'd yet to be granted access to.
"Are you sure?" he asked one last time, pausing with his hand on the door, keys in the locks. I looked around. The hall was deathly silent, as if it too, were waiting to hear me change my mind.
"Yes, I'm sure." I nodded.
Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the doors and pushed them open. We went inside and found a small empty room with more locked doors. He went to it, unlocking them and throwing them open.
"Care to stay for dinner, Daisy?" he asked.
Cautiously, I stepped inside. The room smelled of... soap.
"We deep clean every day," he explained as I continued deeper into the room, looking every which way. The room was impossibly huge. It was a banquet hall on the top floor of his house. On one side, there was a giant fireplace, and on the other side, a small stage. The floors were a dark red wood. It matched the red curtains, the dark walls, and the general tone. It was early fall outside, but in here, it was the heart of winter.
In the center of the room, the reason people came here, was the table. It stretched from one end to the other. As I walked through, I placed a hand on each chair, counting.
"Forty-two, including our chef and the guest of honor."
"The chef as in..." My heart raced, hoping he'd answer a different way, but he only confirmed my fears.
"Jules."
In the center of the table, running from end to end, was a charcoal plate. I reached out, needing to feel the texture.
"It's a cooking skillet. Once the meat has been carved, we give our dinner guests the option to cook the meat themselves."
My stomach twisted.
"Do they?"
"Some." Gatsby shoved his hands deep into his suit pocket as he walked behind me, as if on a simple jaunt, discussing the weather. "It varies night to night."
"Who are the guests?"
"Jules knew people. It's a rotating group of about hundred people. All of them are experts in the culinary arts."
"Is Jules one of them?" I asked quickly. “Does he… enjoy the meal like them?”
He hesitated. "I don't know if that's my business to share. Tell me about Lydia."
I froze. It was like he'd punched me in the gut. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think. The blood rushed from my face.
"What?"
"Lydia. Tell me about her."
What exactly did he want to know?
"She's small," I said lamely, straightening back up. "She likes to color."
"When is her birthday?"
I blinked. Did I remember that?
"May 12th. She was born in the spring."
"I see. Which means..."
"Who chooses who gets served for dinner?" I asked quickly.
"Rape victims who never saw justice. Daisy…" Gatsby gave me a look of warning. He knew what I was doing, but I couldn't help it. I wasn't ready to discuss Lydia.
"Tell me about the dinners. Tell me about it all. From start to finish. I need to hear it." I gulped, closing my eyes.
"Well, Jules prepares the menu based on the person we are helping’s preference. If they have favorite foods, he includes them.”
“The person you are helping is…”
“The rape victim.”
I swallowed, then nodded. He continued.
“Then we get our main course here, to the estate. The man or woman then spends a week with me, in my tattoo room."
"Man or woman?"
"Women are just as bad as men," he said. I realized then that this wasn't the first time he'd said that. I tilted my head, ready to dive deeper into that, but he continued.
"I tattoo them with their crimes, which you know. I want them to know fear, but also uncertainty. I make sure not to tattoo pieces Jules will use, like the cheeks, thighs, internal organs, et cetera."
"So it's true. You eat people."
"Me?" He blinked rapidly. "No, I'm vegetarian."
I shook my head. "I saw you eat steak, at dinner, with Max and Tuth and Neal. You're lying to me." My chin quivered. "You're a cannibal, aren't you?"
Gatsby's eyes widened, and as if turning a switch on, Emile appeared in front of me, a slow grin spreading onto his face.
"Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you? A reason to hate me. A reason to leave this room and go back to Max, where you can pretend you're happy and safe and comfortable. Would me being a cannibal be the best thing for you? Would it help you hide Lydia more?" He stepped toward me, and I took another step back. Soon, we were in a game of slow tag. I grasped each chair for balance as I walked backward.
"Don't put this on me. I'm not the bad guy." I said.
"And I am? Is putting an end to a rapist's crimes bad? Is giving their victims peace bad? Tell me, if someone hurt you like I was hurt, would you want them out in society, living their best lives, hurting others, or would you want to end their reign of terror?"
I stumbled on my feet, rolling my ankle. He caught me and lifted me, kicking a chair out of the way as he laid me on the table. I stared up at him, directly into his wild, passionate green eyes.
He was hurt?
I was too stunned by his admission that I’d let my guard down and he'd caught me. He lifted my dress and yanked my panties down. I kicked and fought him, but fighting Emile was always a foolish endeavor. He shoved my legs apart and dove between them, spreading me wide. I wiggled back and forth, pleading for him to stop.
"Gatsby, please. This isn't right, I-I'm scared," I confessed, tears streaming down my cheeks. He inhaled deeply in between my legs.
"I know. Your pussy smells delicious. Fear is one hell of an aphrodisiac." He ran his tongue along my sex and my resolve quivered fast. He was so good at what he did; it was a blessing and a curse.
“Emile, please let me go." I clamped my eyes shut.
"Why would I do that, Shiloh ?"
The use of my old name sent my eyes flying open. I raised my head and reached for his hair. I clenched it between my fists and, not able to control the need to come, shoved his head deeper between my legs. He lapped at me, sucking, nipping, and using his fingers to fuck me to orgasm.
"You never legally changed your name," he said as he stood. I scrambled to right myself, pushing my dress back down, the fear returning in an instant. "You know how I discovered this?"
He reached for his belt, maintaining steady eye contact as he undid it, unbuttoning his pants and pulling his shirt out with it. I shook my head and scrambled back further onto the table. With an impressive ease, he pulled a chair out and used it to step up and and on to the table. Fear filled my body; I turned around and tried to crawl away, but he dropped to my knees on the table and caught me by my hips.
He shoved my skirt up and yanked his pants down. Kicking my legs apart, he entered me from behind, causing me to cry out. He always felt so big-- too big, from this position.
"It was on Lydia's birth certificate," he said before pulling out and thrusting hard into me. I screamed and tears fell as he fucked me angrily on the table he used to feed humans to humans. I closed my eyes, and despite trying to block out the pain mixed with pleasure enveloping me, I was overcome with humiliation as I imagined a table full of people around us.
They laughed, cheered, and shouted at me. We were their main course, and they couldn't wait to tear us apart. Gatsby seemed determined to wring me dry, keeping me coming as I begged him to stop.
"Let me go, please, Gatsby. Stop and I'll explain everything."
"Will you, Daisy? Or will you continue to lie to me?" he said, slapping his flesh against mine, over and over. Time had slowed, and mere minutes felt like hours. My legs were shaking and I couldn't hold myself up much longer. I hated how he made me feel, just as much as I loved and craved it.
It was my downfall, my need for Gatsby.
My need for the green light.
"I'll tell the truth if you do," I blurted.
"What more do you need?" he asked through grit teeth. He was close, I could feel it. I shifted, pushing myself against him and arching my back. A few more thrusts and he came undone, pumping his seed into me until I was dripping. I removed myself from him and sat on the table to look at him.
"Tell me about the people who hurt you."