Chapter Ten
Tank
The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the heater. I’m sitting at the table, arms crossed, watching and waiting. Ricky DeMarco stirs to life, groaning, as if emerging from a long, restless sleep. His eyelids flutter open, struggling against the blur of waking. I watch the gradual process unfold, every second of confusion and disorientation. He shifts, moves his arms, and the metal clink of handcuffs snaps into his awareness. He freezes, like someone who’s just remembered a bad dream. Panic floods him. His whole body jerks violently. I can see the exact moment the shock hits him, like a punch, that he’s handcuffed, that it’s to my bed, that he’s in my cabin. His eyes go wild, and his expression swings from confusion to fear. His breathing grows frantic, chest lifting with each heaving breath that he hauls in, bigger and bigger, his lungs sprinting, his nerves short-circuiting. He flushes deep red, eyes saucer-wide, muscles coiling like he’s preparing for a fight. He yanks desperately at the cuffs, pulling with all his strength, testing them, like he’s hoping they might magically snap open. They don’t budge, of course, and he goes still for a second, disbelief and panic twisting his face.
Then his gaze snaps to me.
His eyes are wide, wary, flashing with a dozen questions he can’t quite shape. “The fuck?” His voice is raw and cracks like dry wood, as if he hasn’t used it for weeks. “Where am I? What’s — why am I chained to a bed?” Each question stumbles over the next in his rush to make sense of his predicament, the words escaping in short, stunned bursts. His breathing is loud in my cabin, frantic, each inhalation a ragged edge of panic. I lean back further in my chair, contemplating him. I steeple my fingers, letting my gaze settle on him, fixing him in place with the gravity of my stare. I let the silence stretch between us like a long, thin wire. Let him feel the intensity of being pinned under my attention, watching the drug-pushing wretch flounder, letting Ricky sense the strength of the ‘oh fuck’ feelings roiling his chest as the enormity of his situation sinks in.
Finally, I open my mouth, breaking the silence like cracking ice.
“Things are about to get really uncomfortable for you, Ricky.” I pause, watching him flinch at his name like it’s a bullet. “I’ve taken you,” I say, making each word heavy and measured, watching the meaning sink in. I revel in the fear blooming behind his eyes. “And I will not be done with you until I’m satisfied that I’ve gotten everything I want from you.” I can see him register the words, the weight of them, the certainty. His face goes pale, all the desperate, misguided bravado and color draining like his blood has turned to water. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps down air, strained and on the edge.
“…What do you mean?” he croaks.
I let the corner of my mouth twitch. “You’ll see.”
I stand up, stretch, and stroll into the kitchen.
Behind me, I hear the mattress creak as Ricky shifts, yanking at the cuffs again.
“Hey,” he calls, voice rising. “Hey, man, what the fuck does that mean?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull open a drawer and grab a knife.
Then I gather a few things — a carrot, a cucumber, an eggplant.
I set them all on the counter and I give Ricky another long, pointed look.
He gulps, silent, though his mouth is working for a long time before he finds his voice. “What the fuck are those for?”
I glance at him impassively. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
His breathing goes ragged.
I grab a bottle of olive oil, set it next to the vegetables. Then I take out a bottle of balsamic vinegar, salt, pepper.
Ricky shifts against the cuffs, yanking harder. “Why do you have oils? What are you gonna do to me? Come on, man, why do you have oils?”
I shrug, pouring a little into a dish. “Just be patient. You’ll find out.” Then, just to fuck with him, I add, “And keep an open mind — you might even like it.”
A strangled sound comes from the bed. It sounds like the yelp of a strangled animal.
Ignoring him, keeping my focus on the task at hand, I take out my biggest, sharpest chef’s knife. The blade gleams under the cabin lights — stainless steel, freshly sharpened; I turn it over in my hand, admiring the edge.
Behind me, Ricky full-on wheezes. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. What are you gonna do with that knife? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick or something?”
I flick my gaze up, expression blank. “Be patient. You’ll see.”
His entire body stiffens.
Then I chop the vegetables, my knife making an ominous thunk into the cutting board with each heavy chop.
Ricky freezes, mid-breath.
“…What the hell,” he mutters.
I grab a cast iron pan and put it onto the stove, turn the flame on high, and smile at Ricky.
“I don’t like that smile. What the fuck are you smiling for? Why are you smiling?” He says.
Ignoring him, I keep working — slicing the cucumber into thin rounds, dicing the eggplant, peeling the carrot with methodical precision. I fetch lettuce from my fridge, along with a tomato, and prep both, then mix the salad together, whisk the oil and vinegar into a dressing, and drizzle it over the greens.
Then I grab two steaks from my fridge, pat them dry, season them liberally with salt and pepper, and throw them into the screaming-hot cast iron pan.
The cabin fills with the rich scent of seared beef.
I hear Ricky inhale deeply. Then he says, “…Wait. What are you doing?”
After a quick check with the tip of my finger, I take the steaks out of the pan, plate them along with the salad, and bring both plates to the table near the bed. I set one down in front of Ricky, the other in front of me.
Then I sit.
Ricky stares at the plate. Stares at me. Then he shakes his head. “What the fuck is happening?”
I grab my fork and knife, cutting into the steak. “Shut up.”
He blinks. “That’s your explanation? Shut up?”
I chew, swallow, then fix him with a look. “Yeah.”
His hands flex, like he’s trying to keep from losing it. “Okay. Fine. But can you at least tell me why I’m here?”
I set my utensils down. “What drugs are you on?”
He stares at me. “The fuck does that have to do with anything?”
I give him a hard look. “Don’t lie to me. I can see the track marks on your arm. Smelled it on you when I carried your unconscious ass in here. What are you on?”
His jaw clenches. Then, after a moment—he sighs. “Heroin.”
I nod. “Figured. You stink like it.”
His eyes narrow. “Why do you care?”
I take another bite of steak, chewing slow. “Because I promised someone important I wouldn’t kill you.”
His shoulders relax slightly. “OK?”
“But even if I hadn’t,” I add, leaning back, “I wasn’t gonna kill you, anyway. Because I do things a little differently.”
His brows furrow. “Differently how?”
I gesture at the plate in front of him. “Eat.”
He looks at it, then at me. “Why?”
“Because your withdrawals are gonna hit soon,” I say, matter-of-fact. “And if you wanna survive them, you’re gonna need all the strength you can get.”
His breath catches. I see the reality sink in. Ricky’s hands shake slightly. He looks at the food, at me, then back at the food. “I don’t get it. What the hell are you doing?”
I watch him carefully. “I’m still gonna break you, Ricky.” His shoulders tense, eyes widen. His hands are shaking in a way that I know isn’t from fear; withdrawals aren’t that far away. I let the words settle, let him process. “But just because I break you doesn’t mean I’m gonna leave you broken. You’re no use to me like that. And trust me, I got a use for you.”
His breath hitches. “You do?”
“I do. I’m going to break you. And when we get to the other side,” I say, “when you have a new life, I’m gonna ask you to do something that’ll put all of it at risk.”
Silence.
The only sound in the cabin is the scrape of my knife and fork against my plate and the faint wheeze of Ricky’s broken breathing. Ricky swallows hard. Then, slowly, he reaches for the fork. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Do you want to be your own man, or do you want to be a slave to that sick shit you stick in your arm?”
“Seems like I don’t really have much of a choice.”
“You don’t.”
“I should eat, shouldn’t I?”
“You should.” I nod, taking another bite of my steak.
He picks up his fork and reaches for his plate.
Now we’re getting somewhere.