Blood Slave

Page 33

I bench 275, curl l40, and squat 400. More than your average Joe at Gold’s gym. Enrique brags about how I’m bad enough to take on a UFC Fighter in the Octagon. I know he’s just trying to get back in my good graces. It’s all an act so he can get laid. I’m not falling for it.
I’m strong, healthy, beautiful, sexy. If I wanted, I could be a professional model. I prefer anonymity, I like a low profile. I am not an exhibitionist anymore. I don’t need to show off my beautiful body to anyone. I’m sexy and I know it, and I don’t give a shit if anyone else knows it.
“I don’t need anyone. I don’t need Enrique, I don’t love him, and I don’t desire his touch.”
If I keep saying it over and over maybe someday it will be true. What’s the truth? I want that son-of-a-bitch every second of every minute, and I know where he is, always. He’s in his office right now. He’s been there for two hours. I’m so well connected to him. I don’t even have to think about it, I just know where he is. It’s there riding in the back of my consciousness, an ever-present awareness of Enrique.
He’s in his office, probably waiting for me to make my appearance. I know his game and I don’t give him an inch, not one stinking inch. If he wants something he can damn well ask. He can beg, he can grovel, but if it’s not in my employment contract, I’ll not give an inch!
How is he taking it? Oh he tries. He tries to seduce me, to win me over. But I’m not falling for the lies and the double-speak. I’m nobody’s fool. Like when he put the package on my desk a couple weeks after I returned to work. It had a note signed, Love Enrique.
Everyone signs letters that way. He always has. It doesn’t mean anything. I must admit the package was pretty awesome, my shiny new visa identification card with a special provision work permit to lawfully act as Enrique’s ‘Administrative Assistant’. I am now officially one hundred percent legal in the U.S., and I collect my paycheck under my new social security number.
He thought he had me there. He smiled all smug. He tried to put his arms around me thinking he’d finally won me over.
I swatted him off, “Don’t touch me!”
He gave me that look, the one I see once in a while, a hurt look. Fuck him. He’s not fooling me. I knew what was up. I see right through his manipulations, and I’ll never trust him again.
He reimbursed me the thirty thousand and change that Arana took, even replaced my twenty four Karat gold bracelet with a new one – which I refuse to wear. He’s paying me over a hundred thousand annual salary to spy on everyone. All that money has to be accounted for on his corporate taxes. Illegal immigrants can’t go on the books. He needed me fully legal for tax purposes, and to avoid entanglements with US immigration for employing illegal aliens. He didn’t do it for me. He did it for himself, for his own self interests. I’m not that easily fooled anymore.
That’s why he killed Lia. He didn’t do it to protect me, to save me from further assault or degradation. He killed her for shooting at him … and well, she actually shot him a couple times. She had intended to take his head off with that chef knife. I just got in the way. Stupid me. I had to be the love-sick idiot to take on the psycho bitch to save Enrique’s ungrateful hide. And who got stabbed eight times? Me, that’s who.
I spent six days in that hospital bed, damn near died. In addition to my stab wounds I suffered dehydration, shock, four broken ribs, three broken toes, four broken fingers, a dislocated shoulder, a concussion, and a broken nose and jaw. The nurses and doctors were surprised I survived. The fact I recovered so quickly creeped them all out big time. They thought I should’ve been bed ridden for at least a month.
And what of Enrique? His gunshot wounds healed up in forty-eight hours without so much as a scar on his flawless white ass.
He didn’t kill Lia for any of the myriad things she’d done to me, for damn near disemboweling me, he killed her on principle. I was not fooled, nor impressed.
I sleep alone. His sly glances, sycophantic compliments, and attempted seductions are getting him nowhere. He doesn’t give a shit about me. I’m his tool, his snoop, and a food source. But I’m not his damn sex toy anymore. I sleep in my room and he sleeps in his. He didn’t care when I was being abused by Lia, he didn’t worry too much when I was raped and beaten to a pulp by Arana. He has lost all rights and privileges to my body beyond the bites I allow him, because I need it. He knows not to fuck with me. I get my bite when and where I want it. My syringe is ready to go every afternoon for those hours before he awakes.
He’s a persistent bastard. Wants to have his cake and eat it too. I know what he wants. I can actually sense his desire for me. I feel his eyes on me, reaching up my skirt, my blouse. His desire is a near palpable thing in the air between us. I have to put him in his place occasionally.
“Back off, asshole! Stop staring at me like that! I’m not your sex toy!”
Then he switches his game up and puts on that butt-hurt look, like I broke his heart. The bastard doesn’t have a heart, and he definitely doesn’t love me. When you love someone you tell them how you feel. He has never once said the words.
Instead of lying to me directly, he plays little games, dropping subtle hints. Like last night. He put the newspaper on my desk with an article about the arrest of a Colombian cartel member. I’m not impressed. I see right through his manipulations. I’m not that naïve anymore.
Colombian Cartel Member Arrested for
Attempted Murder and Money Laundering
September 21st, at 4:45 p.m., Federal Bureau of Investigations Agents with U.S Marshalls raided the home of Faustino Vasquez on a warrant obtained from information given in an anonymous tip. The unnamed caller claimed Vasquez, a.k.a. “El Tiburon”, had kidnapped Ahmet Rahim Mahmoud, an investment advisor.
New York Federal Officials found Mahmoud tied to a chair in Faustino’s basement, bleeding heavily. Mahmoud was severely beaten. His left foot amputated by Vasquez via the “use of a large steel blade, possibly a machete.” Mahmoud is currently in critical condition.
Federal Agent Gregory Cranston states, “Mr. Mahmoud is one of the many victims of the senseless, unprovoked violence that characterizes the terrorist-like operations of drug trafficking cartels. Mr. Mahmoud is a key witness in a money laundering indictment involving Faustino Vasquez. It’s our sincere hope Mahmoud will recover to testify and see these criminals brought to justice.”
Federal Judge Parkinson denied Vasquez federal bail bond on the grounds he’s considered “a menace to society” and a “significant risk of flight”.
I ignored Enrique all night long after reading the article in the NY Times – apart from the brief moments required for his bites. He remained curiously silent, waiting for me. I held my tongue and played the game. If he wanted to be silent, I could do the same. I know he wanted me to come to him, so I didn’t. I refuse to be manipulated.
He was far better at the waiting game. Living over two hundred years, he’d learned patience. By ten p.m. the next night I couldn’t stand it anymore. My intense curiosity eroded away my resolve to wait him out. I’m sure the bastard could’ve waited weeks, months, years. So I came to him. Actually I screamed at him.
“What the hell is this?” I threw the newspaper at his chest as he sat in his office chair looking regal as ever, and very pleased with himself.
“To what are you referring, querida?”
He persisted in calling me that ridiculous pet name. I’ve told him repeatedly to stop, but he does it anyway. It’s all part of his ongoing program of seduction. He’s trying to convince me that he really cares, that I mean something more, more than just a piece of meat to bite and fuck and suck on.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about! Faustino’s arrest! What the hell is going on?”
“It’s all there in the article. Faustino kidnapped Rahim, tortured him, and was arrested on an anonymous tip. The Feds indicted him on money laundering, so he attempted to kill their witness. They caught him in the act.”
“And how did Faustino meet Rahim? How did Faustino know he was being indicted, or who the snitch was? Don’t treat me like a fool! I know how the Feds do it. Confidential informants are confidential. You never find out who’s involved till the Feds have you in custody and prosecute!”
“Querida, are you insinuating I had anything to do with this tragedy?”
“Yes goddamnit! I know you had something to do with it! Now tell me the truth for once!”
“If you insist.” The bastard smiled, so damn smug, so confident. “I took it upon myself to handle your problems and take care of that nasty little man Rahim at the same time. I introduced Faustino to Rahim and recommended he invest. After Faustino transferred his money to Rahim I arranged for an anonymous tip to Faustino. The caller provided information proving Rahim worked with Federal agents as an informer-witness and they had gathered evidence to indict Faustino for money laundering. As you can see, Faustino reacted harshly. I then arranged for a tip to Federal Agent Cranston that Faustino had kidnapped Rahim and planned to kill him. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“And you’re trying to convince me you did all this for me?”
‘Querida, I’m not trying to convince you of anything. That’s impossible. You don’t believe a word I say.”
“Why did you do it?”
He couldn’t have done it for me. He doesn’t really give a shit about me. Why would he do all that for me? He did it to get rid of a potential problem, so Faustino wouldn’t be out there looking for me. He wanted to remove potential complications from his life, that’s all. Prevention.
“Would you believe me if I told you I did it for you?” He tried his best to look earnest, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“No!” I’m not a sucker for his act.
“Then what’s the point of telling you?”
“I can’t read your mind, and I don’t trust you. So unless it’s totally obvious, I’m not gonna believe a word you say.”