10. Lex
10
LEX
T he kitchen on the yacht has no windows, so it’s nearly impossible to keep track of the passing time. At some point, I must have either fallen asleep or passed out again. I suspect it was more likely that I lost consciousness, because, when I open my eyes, I discover someone has been in to clean up the mess around me. I can still detect old fish water on my clothes, though, and there’s still the hint of vomit in the air.
I took comfort in hearing Vani’s voice on the phone, even if it was only for the briefest of moments. I’m worried about what happens next, though. Do Vani and the other Vipers know where I am? Has Olsen told them?
Jarl Olsen probably still believes we’re responsible for Reagan’s death, despite him asking Vani to bring the real culprit here, and I’m shit scared about what he might do to my brother, Vani, and Zane when they get here.
I’m surrounded by shiny, metallic surfaces, and across from me is a row of stainless steel cabinets. Even the doors are metal, and I catch my reflection in the one directly opposite. Merde. I look a mess. My skin is pale, and dark marks shadow my eyes. A patchwork of blues and purples color one side of my face where that asshole punched me. I stink, too, and I suddenly find myself hoping Vani doesn’t see me like this. I’m pathetic—chained up, stinking of fish guts, and covered in bruises.
The headache I woke with has dulled to a steady thud behind my eyes. I hope this means I don’t have a fractured skull, and I’m simply concussed. The nausea hasn’t completely abated, but I wonder how much of that is down to seasickness rather than any concussion. If I do have anything like that, it’s got to be mild. I have no memory loss at all, but I’m finding it hard to think clearly. The boat continues to rise and fall beneath me, though not in a dramatic way. I remember the storm that was hitting when I was trying to sort out the disaster that was my car. That’s probably why I can feel so much movement, even if we’re on a lake. The winds had been high then, which would be plenty enough to cause waves.
I blink in the light and peer around, trying to discover if there are any security cameras in here. There most likely will be, even if there’s no one watching me on the other end of them. I spot a circular device in the corner of the ceiling, a red light blinking on it. That’s a camera; I’m sure of it.
I remember the massive guy with the leather necklace of tiny, shriveled cocks. Is he behind one of the lenses, peering at me? Or do they think I'm still unconscious, so they've taken their eye off me? Whether they're watching or not, I can’t just sit here. I need to figure out a way out of this.
If Vani, Saint, and Zane show up, they will be in danger. I'm not going to wait around in the hope they'll rescue me. I’ll do whatever I can to get the fuck out of this situation first. If something happens to them just because they're trying to save me, I'll never forgive myself.
I yank at the cuff around my wrist, testing how strong the chain is. The metal-on-metal clanks noisily, and I wince, hoping no one has heard it. Merde . I'm not sure anything other than some kind of hacksaw or an axe is going to get me out of this one, and I certainly don't have one of those lying around.
I study the place where the metal cuff rests around my wrist. Of course, my hand and wrist are a lot more fragile than a metal pipe. I might not be able to cut metal, but can I cut my own skin.
The possibility has me sucking in a fractured breath. Could I do that? I yank at the handcuff again, trying to pull it off my hand this time. It's tight, wedging around the base of my hand, but if my thumb wasn't there, it would slide right off.
I close my eyes and draw in another breath, trying to quell a fresh wave of nausea. Cut my fucking thumb off to escape? Could I really do it? It’s irrelevant anyway because I don’t have my knife.
If I did, I'd have stabbed one of these motherfuckers the minute they got close enough.
Breaking my hand might work, but maybe not, and I’d be useless to fight these bastards then, which is kind of the point.
A tiny part of me, that I wouldn’t have willingly admitted to, is relieved the option has been taken away from me, because cutting off my thumb would have been insane, but then my gaze is drawn back to all the stainless steel cupboards and drawers around me. Surely they wouldn’t have been stupid enough to chain me up within reach of a weapon? Nothing is obvious on the countertops, but on boats that have a tendency to move, things aren’t just left out. They’re all secured inside cabinets and drawers, so they don’t go flinging around the kitchen when the boat hits rough waters.
I almost don’t want to look, but now the possibility has occurred to me, I don’t have a choice. I’m not a fucking coward.
I glance back up at the tiny flashing camera in the corner, trying to get some sense of anyone being behind it. If there is, they’re going to see me searching right away and get down here to put a stop to it.
I decide the best place to start is right behind me. I’m partially leaning up against one of the steel cabinets, so I edge myself forward to give myself enough space to twist to the side and open the door. The position is awkward, but I manage to crack the door a couple of inches to see inside. It contains a few saucepans, all clipped into a plastic rack, but nothing I could use as a weapon. Next is the drawer directly above it. This is harder to see, because my wrist is chained down low and limits my movement, but I manage to open the drawer and strain up to see inside.
Empty, apart from a couple of leaflets that look like instruction manuals for the stove, refrigerator, or microwave. I never understood why the hell anyone bothered to keep those things.
No one has come bursting in to demand to know what I’m doing.
I keep going, opening the cabinets and drawers that are within reasonably easy reach. I don't find anything of interest. It's as though the kitchen has only been stocked with basics. I don't believe anyone lives on this yacht full time. There's none of the debris or clutter I'd have expected to find otherwise. I've been at this for a good few minutes now, and no one has rushed in to stop me. It makes me more confident that no one is watching. What are the bastards up to? Living it up on the top deck, drinking champagne and toasting how clever they are? Jarl Olsen has the sort of money that could enable him to buy a boat like this simply so he could murder his enemies on it, and then blow the whole thing to smithereens, or sink it to the bottom of the lake. He couldn’t blow it up, though, without people possibly seeing and alerting the authorities, but maybe a fire? Yes, a fire on board would sink the vessel.
A fire… The thought gives me pause. Is the huge industrial stovetop within my reach?
What would happen if I was able to set a fire in this kitchen? Do they have a lifeboat? They probably do. Still, they'd have to escape, which would mean either putting the fire out or getting the boat to shore, but they probably wouldn't save me. If they let the boat burn, I'd burn with it.
I grit my teeth. Not a good plan, unless I also want to die in a truly horrific way. I’d take some satisfaction in taking Jarl and his cock-wearing friend with me, but I also have too much to live for.
My thoughts flash to Vani again.
I’ve never been in such turmoil over a woman before. It bothers me that she might have played a part in me being here, but I also know that if she told me it was a mistake, I’d forgive her in an instant. Fuck, she probably doesn’t even need to tell me she’d made a mistake. I’d still drop to my knees and bury my face between her legs the first moment she let me.
I’m sure my brother and Zane feel the same way, even if we haven’t given voice to our feelings yet. I need to get off this fucking boat so I can taste her again, touch her, give her the aftercare she needs so bad when Zane and Saint have destroyed her. That’s our bond, that’s what makes her and me special. I do believe I’m the one out of all of us who has a deep connection with her based purely on the moments we share in the aftermath. Saint doesn’t know what he’s missing out on, but I guess that’s why we work so well together, even if it is sick in other people’s eyes.
Renewed by thoughts of being with Vani, I fix my attention on the cabinets and drawers that aren’t within easy reach.
I debate how I’m going to open them. Just reaching across isn’t going to work. The distance I have when I stretch from the end of one arm to the other isn’t enough.
I scoot down, so I’m lying on my back on the cold floor, and use my feet to move closer to the cabinet. I stretch out my leg, and the toes of my boot just about reach the base of the one I want. I manage to hook my toe under the lip of the cabinet door and edge it open.
Fuck.
Attached to the inside of the door on hooks aren’t just knives. They’re fucking cleavers.
Movement comes at the door to the kitchen, the thud of footsteps and the jangle of a keychain. My heart lurches into my throat, and I quickly kick the cabinet shut again and scramble to push myself back into a seated position. I’ve broken out in a sweat from the effort, and I imagine my face has lost the paleness, and I’m probably flushed pink now.
The door swings open, and the huge guy with the cock necklaces stomps in. I try to remember his name…Amo…no…Apo. That was it.
“The boss said you’d need some water.”
He’s carrying a large plastic bottle under one meaty arm. I’d prefer not to put my lips around something that has been quite so close to his armpit, but the sight of the bottle reinforces how thirsty I am. My throat is like sawdust, and my tongue is thick and furry. The inside of my cracked lips keeps gluing to my teeth. I find my tongue sneaking out to try to wet my lips in anticipation of liquid.
Apo must notice my body language.
He stops just out of reach and cracks open the cap of the bottle. Then he holds it at arm’s length and slowly pours some onto the floor.
“You are a dog,” he says. “Drink from the floor like a dog.”
I don’t give him the pleasure of reacting.
He pours out some more, and it splashes around. It makes me want to fucking sob. I am not lapping up water off the goddamned floor. I remain like stone, refusing to give him anything.
He laughs. “It’s almost gone.”
If Olsen told this asshole to bring me some water, I’m fairly sure he meant for the prick to hand me the bottle. Instead, Apo is using it to torment me. With his free hand, he tugs at the leather cord around his neck, deliberately reminding me what he’s capable of.
“Do you like touching other men’s cocks?” I enquire, keeping my voice light.
His expression turns thunderous. “What did you say to me?”
“I just notice how you keep playing with the ones around your throat. Do you keep them there so they’ll be close to your heart…” I pause slightly. “Or your mouth?”
“You fucking prick. The only thing protecting you now is my boss, and the minute he gives me the nod, I’ll cut off your tiny dick and add it to my collection.”
I offer him a smile. “Because you can’t wait to sleep with my cock so close to your face, too?”
If Olsen is keeping me safe, for the moment, at least, it means he wants something with me. Is it possible he believes what I told him about us having nothing to do with Reagan dying? It’s more likely he’s keeping his word to Vani and letting me live until they arrive, but what if they can’t get what he asked for? The person who really harmed Reagan? Worse, what if they do and it’s a trap? These thoughts keep circling around and around in my mind, tormenting me. They’re confused, too, because of the fucking concussion. I can’t think straight, and my head is murky as if someone filled it with glue.
Apo grits his teeth and steps closer. He raises the hand holding the plastic water bottle. “Cocky little shit for brains.”
He throws the bottle at me. It smacks me on the side of my head and bounces off. I’m more concerned about the lid being off, and that what remains of the water is now pouring onto the floor, than I am about any damage that might have been caused by the bottle.
Apo pauses just long enough to hawk a blob of phlegm into his throat, spitting it at me, before he turns his huge form and stalks back to the exit.
Anger bubbles up inside me and spills over. I release a stream of insults in French, spitting out every word, making sure he understands the contempt behind them. I could have just as easily cursed him in English, but I’m enjoying seeing the confusion in his eyes as he glances back at me. I love watching his face as he tries to hide his anger at the fact he can’t translate what I’m saying.
He slams the door shut again, leaving me alone.
I snatch up the bottle and bring the top to my lips. There’s only a tiny bit left, and I open my mouth and relish the cool wetness. So much has been wasted. It makes me want to weep.
I keep hold of the empty bottle, just in case I can use it for something, and slump back. Exhaustion sweeps over me, and I want to give in to it. But then I remember those cleavers.
It occurs to me that no one is watching the cameras. If they were, they’d have seen what I was doing and tried to stop me. Unless they know there’s no way I can reach the goddamned cleavers, and are entertaining themselves by watching me struggle?
I look down at the empty plastic bottle in my hand, and then at my booted foot, and start to come up with a plan.