Chapter 12
12
R eturning from Noire House, I’m a wreck, a car crash of emotions and angst and a desire to claw at the eyes of that pompous asshole who informed me of my so-called fate.
My nails have embedded half-moons into the heel of my palms during the short drive returning me to my bell jar made of glass and misery.
I feel like someone has netted me, fumigated me, and then used fine pins to affix my delicate wings against a frame. I’m stuck inside a glass casing, dressed in the prettiest gown I’ve ever had the opportunity to feel caress my skin, and yet I’m no better than a butterfly collected by some obsessive psychopath.
Who the fuck do these people think they are? More to the point, what led them to choose me ? I’m no one. Nothing.
There’s nothing special or intriguing about Posey Reed. Just a shitty, failed foster childhood. A series of indifferent caregivers, who fortunately weren’t cruel or abusive; however, they simply ignored me and counted down the hours until they could ship me off elsewhere. Does that count as child neglect? I don’t know. I never bothered to dwell on it for long because the day I was old enough to get a job and find my own freedom, I took it with both hands, and ran.
I don’t have much more than a high school diploma and an education that came in the form of Betsy-Lou, who gave me my first graveyard shift pouring coffee and cleaning her diner in return for a safe bedroom out back.
My giant guardian, who deserves some sort of apology—but also, in the same breath, absolutely doesn’t because it feels as though the sticky residue of his cum and spit still coats my stomach despite long since being washed away—brings his enormous vehicle to a stop in a parking garage big enough for half a dozen regular vehicles.
This tank, however, commands a third of the space, and I wonder if there might usually be two additional similarly sized vehicles parked here. Do those empty spots belong to the other two men bound up in this situation I’ve been thrust into?
He unfolds himself from the driver’s side and doesn’t look back. Last time I saw him, we were still tangled in our netting like two fish bound together despite our best efforts to thrash and escape, now he can’t seem to get away from me fast enough.
That level of indifference has no business stinging the backs of my eyes.
What else am I to do, other than trudge miserably to my room? I don’t have the stomach for food, and the events of tonight have left me drained. I think back to Keisha, and I wonder how much was true. Was she sent to butter me up? Was she sent to deliver me on a platter? To filet me and have me softened to take the gut punch from that asshole who sat in that chair like a devilish overlord with those piercing blue eyes.
A man I willingly gave my body to not so long ago, and who seems to know an awful lot about me, and yet I know nothing about him.
Not even his name.
All I know is that his face might as well have been carved from stone, and I’m guessing that sharp jawline matches the cutting state of his demeanor.
He’d been such a fucking asshole that I’d momentarily forgotten the third man. The one who lured me in with a certain kind of charm, only to prove he was no better than a set of razor-sharp fangs and a viper’s strike beneath that charismatic exterior.
By the time I reach my bedroom, with head swirling thanks to the overwhelm of what I’m faced with in this unknown future of mine, I realize the silent man has vanished. Presumably, into one of the bedrooms I’ve just passed while lost in my head.
As I turn back, I see the door almost across from mine is cracked ajar, and from inside the room comes the sound of a shower running.
If I was going to make any attempt to apologize, I really should have done so when we were shut inside that vehicle together, but I was too busy withering on the inside to form adequate words.
I reach up and rest my fingertips lightly against the pale, sandy color wood. Why the urge to press forward, to add a little pressure and see if this barrier might swing open a little further, why that grabs me, I couldn’t say.
The thought startles me, and I hastily backpedal.
He couldn’t even stomach the sight of me, of course he is here to do nothing more than watch me on behalf of whoever has decided to lay claim to me.
My sorrow feels heavier all of a sudden without his wordless shadow by my side. Knowing that this man—who, by all accounts, has done so much to see me through something so awful—has now moved on to whatever his next orders are within this place, twists something in my gut. The thought leaves me feeling more alone and forlorn than ever before since waking up in this terrifying new reality.
A thought circles, taunting and bitter in my head.
Can you miss someone and detest their very existence at the very same time?
Every sound pricks my hearing.
In all the nights I’ve slept here with him watching over me, my mind had been too foggy to truly take in the nuances of this place. Outside my bedroom window, there are distant hoots of owls, melancholic choruses hidden in the murky black. I hear the faint rustling of leaves and branches as a breeze drifts through. It might not be winter, but the crisp night inches closer to its longest duration.
We’re drawing ever closer to the solstice.
I’ve lain here awake and fidgeting for what must be hours. With a pounding head and scratchy eyes, I stare at the shadowy ceiling.
Cutting through the silence, a vehicle approaches. Tires drag slowly over gravel before the engine cuts. The sound of whoever is arriving comes from the same direction as the garage where we parked earlier.
Footsteps move quietly through the house. They’re making an effort to arrive softly, as if not to disturb the two of us.
My brain flies circles, flaps around incessantly. Is it Keisha? No. Those footsteps sound more like bootsteps. Not high heels. I count the rhythm of thudding, masculine strides. Could it be one of the other men ?
Rampant curiosity and spiraling emotions from earlier have me moving before I can stop and think.
Wrapping my fingers around the door handle, I twist it with the lightest, featherweight touch, cracking it open on silent hinges just enough that I can see along the row of other doors.
Across from mine, the door concealing the presence of my silent stranger still remains ajar, but it’s entirely dark inside. As I press my eye to the tiniest gap I dare make and stand there, hardly breathing, the footsteps previously in the kitchen draw nearer.
The shadows are long, but there’s a sensor light that flicks on at ankle height, revealing the presence of a now familiar figure.
Copper Mask.
I still don’t know his name either.
Does he live here, too?
His sure stride in the direction of the next door, the one further along the hall from mine, seems to indicate he does. The blue light glow of his phone holds his attention in one hand, while the other tugs on his tie to loosen the knot. I can see that he’s already ditched the jacket but still has his vest on. Since our encounter earlier this evening, his shirt sleeves have been rolled back to reveal those tattooed forearms and hands that send a fleeting shiver running down my shoulders.
Just as he reaches his own door, I hear it.
A muffled, pained noise.
The other man pauses with one hand raised and waits.
The sound repeats. This time louder. More hoarse.
Entirely more desperate.
It’s coming from the room directly across from mine.
My pulse flutters wildly, unsure what this means, because that man—Angel—can’t speak, and up until now, has hardly made a single sound.
Except what is floating on the night emanating from the bedroom across from mine sounds almost like words. The noise is muted and indecipherable, but clearly him all the same.
With one hand slapped over my mouth, I step away from the crack in the door because the other man closes the space in a few quick strides. He approaches what feels like is going to be my room, but it’s not.
As he pushes the door opposite mine open, I hear the low, croaked sound transform as my silent stranger lets out an eerie wail. Such a guttural noise, a cry for help and sanity all rolled into one, it sends all the fine hairs on my arms standing on end.
“Heyyy. Hey, big guy.” The other man heads straight in without hesitation. As if he’s done this a thousand times before. A weary rasp coats his voice.
The sound builds in intensity, sounding pained and purely terrifying because what could possibly make this giant beast sound so fearful?
“You’re ok. Shh .”
More muffled moans are accompanied by the sound of thrashing sheets and a thud.
“ Hey . Hey, I’m here, ok?” the other man says. Voice hushed. “Feel me. See? I’m real. I’m right here.”
God, my heart is in my mouth as every single cell in my body says I should step away from this door. If I were sane and thinking clearly, I would take myself back to my bed and ignore whatever this is.
It’s none of my concern.
Yet, as the murmured words of comfort continue to drift across the hall, I’m unable to stop myself. I can’t hear what he’s saying clearly anymore, and without any sense of self-preservation left in me, I ease my door open and glance toward the kitchen.
The place is empty, and the door across from mine sits open a fraction but conceals my curious footsteps .
I mean, what are they gonna do? Lock me in my room? Limit my existence even more than they have already?
As I sneak my way to hover outside the door I should be staying far, far away from, I catch a glimpse of their figures illuminated by a soft, warm glow.
The man—who up until now had been so resolutely stationed by my side—is seated, braced on both palms, leaning slightly forward. Blankets are pooled at his waist. His bare chest glistens with a sheen of sweat, and long brown hair falls around his shoulders.
As I intrude on this private moment, I see the other man reach up and sink his fingers into Angel’s hair. He brings their foreheads together until they rest against one another’s, and I see the way the man who had been tortured during his sleep visibly softens a little at that physical point of touch.
“You’re safe. We won’t let them touch you, got it? They’d have to fucking go through me first, and I don’t care who they are, or how high ranking. I’d slit their bellies and piss all over their corpses.”
Angel turns his head from side to side, keeping that connection between their foreheads. I can’t tell if he’s maybe quietly laughing, or telling him no, or perhaps both all at once.
“Was it the same?”
The giant man draws back now, and they sit looking into each other’s eyes with unflinching care, communicating in a way that doesn’t rely on words. He must tell him something to the affirmative, because the other man hums and brushes some more strands of hair back thoughtfully.
It’s a level of intimacy that’s almost breathtaking to watch from the outside.
I knew there was something between them. That night, they all had their way with me; it was clear these two share something.
As much as I know this sight is not meant for me, I’m transfixed, yet still can’t find it anywhere within me to give them their privacy. So here I stay, rooted to the spot, madly trying to trap my shaky breaths as I listen in on their private moment.
“I can go if you’d rather be alone.”
He doesn’t blink or flinch.
“Do you want me to stay?” The man says. This time, he brushes more disheveled hair off his face.
One of those massive palms comes up to wrap around his tattooed wrist.
Stay.