Stray
Page 82
“Thanks.”
Overhead, the loose floorboard groaned again and my head swiveled toward the stairs before I could stop it. Wow, I thought, I’ve only been here for a few hours, and already I’m acting like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Only my conditioned response was not salivation, but fear.
“It’s Miguel,” Abby whispered, a thin tremor in her voice.
“How do you know?”
The soft whoosh-whoosh of her pulse sped up as she dropped her fries back into the paper bag.
“Trust me. It’s him.”
Wonderful.
“Carpe diem,” I mumbled, scrambling to my feet as I tried to recal the Latin translation for “Seize the cat by the bal s.” Marc had taught it to me years ago. Too many years ago, apparently. “Any advice?”
Abby scooted backward on her rear. “Think about something else.”
“Like ripping his throat out?”
She stared at me in astonishment, then a grim smile spread slowly over her face. “That might work.”
I had my doubts, but the image of blood pouring from Miguel’s neck was pretty damn appealing.
The creak of the door opening interrupted my fantasy with an unhealthy dose of reality. A sudden flood of light from the staircase made me instantly alert. I forgot my need for the restroom. My hand clenched around the plastic bottle. Water spil ed over my fingers and onto the mattress. Fresh sweat broke out behind my knees and on my forehead. My muscles tensed. My chest tightened.
The woman in me watched the steps in dread, but the caged cat was eager, because everyone who entered the basement represented my shot at freedom. Even if I had to fight for it. And I was ready to fight.
I screwed the lid on my water bottle and let it fal to the mattress as I stepped onto the concrete, struggling to control my pounding heart.
Black work boots appeared on the top step. Abby glanced up.
“Buenos días, chicas,” Miguel said. His words sounded beautiful and exotic, in startling contrast to his apparent intentions.
But I didn’t give a damn about his intentions. I had plans of my own.
Twenty-Two
Miguel clomped down the stairs, his steps heavy and pronounced. I held my breath, hoping to hear him stumble in the dark and fal to his death. Unfortunately that only seems to happen in the movies. He took the stairs slowly, and I was sure he did it intentional y, to prolong my dread. But if that was the case, the joke was on him, because I had lots of practice waiting anxiously. Inspiring fearful anticipation was Daddy’s specialty. My father was the master at making you wait until you were wil ing to punish yourself just to get it over with.
And waiting on Miguel had a benefit for me that he’d probably never considered. By the time he hit the last step, my eyes had readjusted to the gloom, and I could see him pretty wel .
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, facing Abby. “How are you this evening, Ms. Wade?” Each word was crisp and carefully spoken, his pronunciation seasoned with the distinctive rhythm of his native Portuguese.
Abby glanced at me with wide, scared eyes and backed up until she hit the cinder blocks at the back of the cage, her palms flat against the wal , as if she’d like to pass through it.
“Don’t worry, niña,” Miguel said. “I’l be visiting our new guest today.” He turned his back on her, and Abby slid down the wal to sit with her arms wrapped around her knees. She watched through eyes narrowed to slits as Miguel sauntered slowly toward me, stopping two feet from the door to my cage. “How do you like your accommodations, Ms. Sanders?”
“My accommodations?” Ignoring my rolling stomach, I glanced around the basement, pretending to consider the question. “I assume you were going for stark simplicity with the metal-and-concrete decor, but it just doesn’t work for me. It’s too
‘third-world detention center’ for my taste. As are the restroom facilities. And room service here sucks. I can’t think straight in the morning without a healthy dose of caffeine, and I have yet to see a single cup of coffee. But the worst is the food. Tel Ryan to get off his ass and make me something decent. Maybe some chicken, with a little rosemary? He’l know the recipe I mean.”
Miguel smiled, clearly amused. “Anything else I can do for you?”
I scratched my head, just behind my left ear. “Um, let me think. Yeah, there is one more thing. Fuck off.”
Chuckling, he pulled a smal silver key from his front pocket. “As delightful as that sounds, I was thinking of something a little more…collaborative.”
Collaborative? How very civil, as if he wanted to cochair a committee with me.
“I get the impression you don’t play very wel with others, but if you’d like a set of scars to match Eric’s, by al means, come on in.” I backed into the center of the cel , feet spread for balance, arms open wide to welcome him into my accommodations—at his own risk.
Miguel paused to take in my defensive stance, one hand cupping the padlock.
He looked relaxed and confident, dark eyes blazing not with fear but with anticipation. And just in case I had any doubts regarding his intention, the bulge in his pants spoke quite clearly.
Shoving aside fear and self-doubt, I met his eyes, aiming for absolute confidence in both my stance and my voice. “My father taught me to disarm my opponent at al costs—regardless of his choice of weapon,” I said, glancing pointedly at his groin.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Damn right. Lay one hand on me and you’l never stand to pee again.”
Overhead, the loose floorboard groaned again and my head swiveled toward the stairs before I could stop it. Wow, I thought, I’ve only been here for a few hours, and already I’m acting like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Only my conditioned response was not salivation, but fear.
“It’s Miguel,” Abby whispered, a thin tremor in her voice.
“How do you know?”
The soft whoosh-whoosh of her pulse sped up as she dropped her fries back into the paper bag.
“Trust me. It’s him.”
Wonderful.
“Carpe diem,” I mumbled, scrambling to my feet as I tried to recal the Latin translation for “Seize the cat by the bal s.” Marc had taught it to me years ago. Too many years ago, apparently. “Any advice?”
Abby scooted backward on her rear. “Think about something else.”
“Like ripping his throat out?”
She stared at me in astonishment, then a grim smile spread slowly over her face. “That might work.”
I had my doubts, but the image of blood pouring from Miguel’s neck was pretty damn appealing.
The creak of the door opening interrupted my fantasy with an unhealthy dose of reality. A sudden flood of light from the staircase made me instantly alert. I forgot my need for the restroom. My hand clenched around the plastic bottle. Water spil ed over my fingers and onto the mattress. Fresh sweat broke out behind my knees and on my forehead. My muscles tensed. My chest tightened.
The woman in me watched the steps in dread, but the caged cat was eager, because everyone who entered the basement represented my shot at freedom. Even if I had to fight for it. And I was ready to fight.
I screwed the lid on my water bottle and let it fal to the mattress as I stepped onto the concrete, struggling to control my pounding heart.
Black work boots appeared on the top step. Abby glanced up.
“Buenos días, chicas,” Miguel said. His words sounded beautiful and exotic, in startling contrast to his apparent intentions.
But I didn’t give a damn about his intentions. I had plans of my own.
Twenty-Two
Miguel clomped down the stairs, his steps heavy and pronounced. I held my breath, hoping to hear him stumble in the dark and fal to his death. Unfortunately that only seems to happen in the movies. He took the stairs slowly, and I was sure he did it intentional y, to prolong my dread. But if that was the case, the joke was on him, because I had lots of practice waiting anxiously. Inspiring fearful anticipation was Daddy’s specialty. My father was the master at making you wait until you were wil ing to punish yourself just to get it over with.
And waiting on Miguel had a benefit for me that he’d probably never considered. By the time he hit the last step, my eyes had readjusted to the gloom, and I could see him pretty wel .
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, facing Abby. “How are you this evening, Ms. Wade?” Each word was crisp and carefully spoken, his pronunciation seasoned with the distinctive rhythm of his native Portuguese.
Abby glanced at me with wide, scared eyes and backed up until she hit the cinder blocks at the back of the cage, her palms flat against the wal , as if she’d like to pass through it.
“Don’t worry, niña,” Miguel said. “I’l be visiting our new guest today.” He turned his back on her, and Abby slid down the wal to sit with her arms wrapped around her knees. She watched through eyes narrowed to slits as Miguel sauntered slowly toward me, stopping two feet from the door to my cage. “How do you like your accommodations, Ms. Sanders?”
“My accommodations?” Ignoring my rolling stomach, I glanced around the basement, pretending to consider the question. “I assume you were going for stark simplicity with the metal-and-concrete decor, but it just doesn’t work for me. It’s too
‘third-world detention center’ for my taste. As are the restroom facilities. And room service here sucks. I can’t think straight in the morning without a healthy dose of caffeine, and I have yet to see a single cup of coffee. But the worst is the food. Tel Ryan to get off his ass and make me something decent. Maybe some chicken, with a little rosemary? He’l know the recipe I mean.”
Miguel smiled, clearly amused. “Anything else I can do for you?”
I scratched my head, just behind my left ear. “Um, let me think. Yeah, there is one more thing. Fuck off.”
Chuckling, he pulled a smal silver key from his front pocket. “As delightful as that sounds, I was thinking of something a little more…collaborative.”
Collaborative? How very civil, as if he wanted to cochair a committee with me.
“I get the impression you don’t play very wel with others, but if you’d like a set of scars to match Eric’s, by al means, come on in.” I backed into the center of the cel , feet spread for balance, arms open wide to welcome him into my accommodations—at his own risk.
Miguel paused to take in my defensive stance, one hand cupping the padlock.
He looked relaxed and confident, dark eyes blazing not with fear but with anticipation. And just in case I had any doubts regarding his intention, the bulge in his pants spoke quite clearly.
Shoving aside fear and self-doubt, I met his eyes, aiming for absolute confidence in both my stance and my voice. “My father taught me to disarm my opponent at al costs—regardless of his choice of weapon,” I said, glancing pointedly at his groin.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Damn right. Lay one hand on me and you’l never stand to pee again.”
