Shadow Rider
Page 175
She screamed as the blade tore through the outside of her thigh and came out the other side. The pain burned through her, leaving her breathless, raw, her heart pounding hard enough to hear. Her blood roared in her ears. She’d heard of men being tortured, stoically not making a sound and she couldn’t imagine how they did it. She couldn’t catch her breath, or take her eyes from the knife handle sticking out of her thigh.
Barry pulled the knife free and wiped the blood on her jeans, grinning at her. “That new enough for you, bitch? Do you want more? I can show you more.” Hatred burned in his eyes. Maniacal glee. He got off on her fear. Her pain. She saw the truth in his eyes. He needed to see those things. She’d been too calm and hadn’t given him his fix, or the respect he felt he deserved.
Mesmerized by the look on his grotesquely swollen face, and the red-yellow of his eyes, Francesca watched him touch the tip of the blade to her left shoulder. He placed one hand on the hilt of the knife, ready to drive it through her flesh there. All the while he smiled at her. George laughed. Harold cleared his throat. No one else made a sound, just waiting. All of them watching as mesmerized as she was, while Barry drew out the torment by forcing her to wait.
“Why is it that when a man doesn’t like something a woman does, something he would do himself, he calls her a bitch?” Emmanuelle asked, her voice as calm as ever. “I’ve always wondered about that. Is it because you’re such a little bitch, Barry? Always whining to Mommy when things don’t go your way? I saw you at the racetrack when your car didn’t win and you threw that little fit. That was bitch behavior. Did anyone call you a bitch then? Because I thought you were a total bitch. You moan and groan and complain, but act like a mean girl in high school. Petty and cruel just because you’re one of the popular kids. But you really were only popular because Mommy and Daddy had money.”
Francesca risked a look around the room, her breath hitching in her throat. Emmanuelle was playing with fire. Barry would kill her for that. A blow to his pride would be worse to him than a physical beating. The men were all smirking, not daring to look at their boss, but obviously enjoying the fact that Emmanuelle had taunted Barry.
Barry turned his head slowly toward the shadows where Emme sat in the chair, her hands bound in front of her. He reminded Francesca of a snake with his red slits for eyes and his cold expression. She moistened her lips, terrified for Emmanuelle. Barry stepped back away from Francesca, never taking his eyes from Emme.
Francesca timed her moment, waiting until Barry was within five feet of Emmanuelle. “Actually, Emme,” she said. “He isn’t a bitch—he’s a pussy. You’re really just a pussy, aren’t you, Barry? You always have to have your big bad men around because you can’t get it up yourself so you need them to take care of a woman while you can only watch.” She’d never said that word in her life. Not once. But she’d had to think of something to get his attention off Emme.
Her leg burned and blood stained her favorite pair of blue jeans, but she’d all but forgotten about the stab wound in her fear for Stefano’s sister. Barry would kill her for certain.
Barry made a sound in his throat. A snarl. Like a dog might snarl at something or someone provoking it. He spun around, moving back toward Francesca. Lightning zigzagged across the sky, lighting the room for a second, throwing their shadows across the floor and up along the walls. The dull yellow lights flickered. All attention was on Barry. No one could look away, hypnotized by the crazed expression on his face. Two lines of shiny saliva hung in strings from either side of his mouth. He looked almost as if he was foaming at the mouth, like a rabid animal.
“You’re dead. That sanctimonious son of a bitch is going to find his sister and his fiancée dead. And then I’m going to kill him.” He rushed toward Francesca.
“You can’t kill Stefano, you moron,” Emmanuelle taunted. “I’m tied up, and you can’t kill me. How do you think someone as inept as you could possibly best my brother?”
Barry spun around, this time only feet from Francesca. She could smell the sweat pouring from his body. Feel the heat of his anger. She looked toward the shadows where Emme sat, as did everyone in the room. In the dim lighting Francesca could no longer see anything but the chair legs. The rest of the chair and even Emmanuelle’s legs had disappeared into the shadows. Barry took three steps toward the other side of the room, desperately seeking to find Stefano’s sister.
Francesca felt hands on her upper arms. Emmanuelle helped her up, forcing her to step forward right into the mouth of one of the shadows. There was a terrible wrenching sensation at her body, as if she was flying apart, and then Emme went still, arms around her.
Barry pulled the knife free and wiped the blood on her jeans, grinning at her. “That new enough for you, bitch? Do you want more? I can show you more.” Hatred burned in his eyes. Maniacal glee. He got off on her fear. Her pain. She saw the truth in his eyes. He needed to see those things. She’d been too calm and hadn’t given him his fix, or the respect he felt he deserved.
Mesmerized by the look on his grotesquely swollen face, and the red-yellow of his eyes, Francesca watched him touch the tip of the blade to her left shoulder. He placed one hand on the hilt of the knife, ready to drive it through her flesh there. All the while he smiled at her. George laughed. Harold cleared his throat. No one else made a sound, just waiting. All of them watching as mesmerized as she was, while Barry drew out the torment by forcing her to wait.
“Why is it that when a man doesn’t like something a woman does, something he would do himself, he calls her a bitch?” Emmanuelle asked, her voice as calm as ever. “I’ve always wondered about that. Is it because you’re such a little bitch, Barry? Always whining to Mommy when things don’t go your way? I saw you at the racetrack when your car didn’t win and you threw that little fit. That was bitch behavior. Did anyone call you a bitch then? Because I thought you were a total bitch. You moan and groan and complain, but act like a mean girl in high school. Petty and cruel just because you’re one of the popular kids. But you really were only popular because Mommy and Daddy had money.”
Francesca risked a look around the room, her breath hitching in her throat. Emmanuelle was playing with fire. Barry would kill her for that. A blow to his pride would be worse to him than a physical beating. The men were all smirking, not daring to look at their boss, but obviously enjoying the fact that Emmanuelle had taunted Barry.
Barry turned his head slowly toward the shadows where Emme sat in the chair, her hands bound in front of her. He reminded Francesca of a snake with his red slits for eyes and his cold expression. She moistened her lips, terrified for Emmanuelle. Barry stepped back away from Francesca, never taking his eyes from Emme.
Francesca timed her moment, waiting until Barry was within five feet of Emmanuelle. “Actually, Emme,” she said. “He isn’t a bitch—he’s a pussy. You’re really just a pussy, aren’t you, Barry? You always have to have your big bad men around because you can’t get it up yourself so you need them to take care of a woman while you can only watch.” She’d never said that word in her life. Not once. But she’d had to think of something to get his attention off Emme.
Her leg burned and blood stained her favorite pair of blue jeans, but she’d all but forgotten about the stab wound in her fear for Stefano’s sister. Barry would kill her for certain.
Barry made a sound in his throat. A snarl. Like a dog might snarl at something or someone provoking it. He spun around, moving back toward Francesca. Lightning zigzagged across the sky, lighting the room for a second, throwing their shadows across the floor and up along the walls. The dull yellow lights flickered. All attention was on Barry. No one could look away, hypnotized by the crazed expression on his face. Two lines of shiny saliva hung in strings from either side of his mouth. He looked almost as if he was foaming at the mouth, like a rabid animal.
“You’re dead. That sanctimonious son of a bitch is going to find his sister and his fiancée dead. And then I’m going to kill him.” He rushed toward Francesca.
“You can’t kill Stefano, you moron,” Emmanuelle taunted. “I’m tied up, and you can’t kill me. How do you think someone as inept as you could possibly best my brother?”
Barry spun around, this time only feet from Francesca. She could smell the sweat pouring from his body. Feel the heat of his anger. She looked toward the shadows where Emme sat, as did everyone in the room. In the dim lighting Francesca could no longer see anything but the chair legs. The rest of the chair and even Emmanuelle’s legs had disappeared into the shadows. Barry took three steps toward the other side of the room, desperately seeking to find Stefano’s sister.
Francesca felt hands on her upper arms. Emmanuelle helped her up, forcing her to step forward right into the mouth of one of the shadows. There was a terrible wrenching sensation at her body, as if she was flying apart, and then Emme went still, arms around her.
