16. Demi
DEMI
When I return to the bedroom, my body weak from retching, he is gone.
I climb into bed naked and shivering, pull the sheets over me, and close my eyes.
But all I can see is the image on the phone screen of Michael Douglas carved up like an animal, his eyes dark and vacant.
It isn’t even the face that haunts me, it’s the bloody body parts scattered around the floor, the thought of someone taking photographs of their work as if it was something to be proud of.
Nausea continues to wash through me in waves. I’ll never be able to erase that image from my psyche, so the best I can hope for is that it fuels me to keep taking down these ruthless bastards preying on decent people.
I must sleep; when I wake, I’m grateful to have no memory of my nightmares, because my first thought is of Michael Douglas.
Then I smell food.
Pushing back the sheets, I sit up to find a covered dish on the nightstand along with a fresh bottle of water. Underneath the metal cover is a cooked breakfast of sausages, bacon, hash browns, mushrooms, and eggs, two slices of toast on the side of the plate.
My stomach grumbles in response to the aroma, and I pick up a sausage with my fingers, too ravenous to worry about utensils.
“Oh, my God,” I mutter out loud, my voice still muffled by my bruised vocal cords.
I don’t know how long it has been since I last ate, but my body does what comes naturally, and I clear the plate, mopping up the eggs with the toast. When I’m done, I’m tempted to lick the plate clean, but my surroundings penetrate my food coma and my shoulders slump when I glance at the spotlights still glaring at me from around the bed.
Pulling the sheets up to my chin to cover my nakedness, I drink a quarter of the water slowly, unsure when it will be replaced, and sit back against the pillows. Now that I’m fed, I need to focus on getting the hell out of here.
“Hello, Brian.”
The voice drags me back to consciousness, and my eyelids flutter open.
It’s dark, so dark, I’m momentarily disoriented.
I try to sit up, but my body feels heavy, my limbs weighted down like I ran a marathon carrying a bucket of sand in each hand, my heartbeat thudding dully from the shock of being jolted awake.
Where am I?
The image of Michael Douglas pushes through the fog in my brain, and I remember the stark lights, my captor throttling me against the wall.
I raise my hand to touch my throat; it still hurts to swallow.
I reach for the bottle of water on the nightstand, feeling my way in the blackout with my fingertips, and realize that the covered dish is gone.
Someone was here. I heard them speak, but all I can remember is the name Brian.
“Hello?” I rasp, my head still on the pillow.
“Nyx?” It’s Brian. How did he get here? “Are you a recording?”
“No, I’m real, Brian.”
That’s me. My captors are trying to confuse me by replaying my first conversation with Brian in the dark.
“So, when does the show begin?”
Tears sting my eyes when I recall Brian asking the question. He seemed so vulnerable when I first met him, a regular guy from a regular background, and maybe that’s why we connected the way we did.
“Nu-huh, Brian. No touching.” I smile when I hear myself performing as Nyx.
“What happens if I touch you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Has anyone touched you before?” Brian asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I have all night.” Nyx says via the invisible sound system.
“Yeah, but I don’t.” There’s a long pause before Brian says, “Who else is here?” He sounds jittery, and my heart goes out to him, knowing how this all ends a week later.
“Sit down, Brian. We’re alone in here, I promise.” Nyx says, and somehow, Brian believes her because he stuck around long enough to get hurt. “Why do I need to wear a mask, Nyx? Can you see me? Is that it?”
“No, I can’t see you,” I say at the same time as Nyx. “I wish I could’ve seen you, Brian.” My head is spinning like I have the hangover from hell, and my eyes close.
“How does the mask make you feel?” My voice is still playing and I try to focus, but it’s hard when I’m so goddamned sleepy.
“Claustrophobic. Gimp masks are not my thing.”
“Can you feel the blood pumping around your veins?”
“Yes.”
I cling to Brian’s voice. “Need to stay awake,” I mumble hoarsely.
“Embrace it, Brian. Lean into the mask instead of counting the moments until you can take it off.” Did I say that?
My brain feels incapable of stringing that many words together right now, and the thought makes me shiver. I don’t know what’s going on. I should be trying to escape…
“You only imagined me touching you.” Nyx is still talking. “I’m right here in front of you, Brian.”
“Where? Why can’t I see you?”
“Because I’m the night. I’m the fantasy inside your head when you close your eyes and go to sleep. Would it be as much fun if the lights came on and you could see me?”
Without thinking, my hand slides between my legs. I’m wet because I know what’s coming even if I can’t remember the conversation word-for-word. I remember how he made me feel, how his voice made me feel: special.
“Describe me, Brian. What do you see right now?”
I slide a finger inside me. This is wrong on so many levels, but if Brian was here right now, I would beg him to fuck me, just like he wanted.
“You’re wearing black leather.”
“Too gimmicky.”
“Okay… You’re not naked. But you’re not fully clothed either. You’re wearing sexy underwear.”
“Color?”
“White.” He knew.
I soften my clit with my wet finger, round and around, my pulse racing, desperate to stay awake so that I can hear more of Brian’s voice.
“Interesting. Do you want me to be naked?”
“Yes,” I answer for him and spread my legs wider. It occurs to me then that I’m not under the sheets, but my heart is pumping blood to my pussy and not to my brain, so I don’t dwell on it.
“You haven’t finished describing me,” Nyx says.
“Are you naked?”
“Yes.” I’m slipping too easily into the role of Nyx.
“Are you close enough for me to touch?”
“Yes.” I’m making myself come for the ghost of a voice that turned me on in a blacked-out room a lifetime ago.
“You’re blonde. Your eyes are green, like a cat. No, not green, they’re hazel with flecks of amber.”
I work my clit harder, faster, the way I did for Brian. My breathing is shallow, my sore throat amplifying the panting sounds reaching my ears.
“Come for me, Demi.”
My orgasm crashes through me, my clit spasming as I roll over and drag my knees to my chest. My last lucid thought is that Brian said my name. Only, in my confusion, it didn’t sound like Brian.
I feel it slipping from my grasp as I lose consciousness with Enzo’s name on my lips.