Torture to Her Soul
Page 4
She'll be here, because she knows if she isn't, I'll just track her down and drag her right back.
Slipping on my shoes, I fix my tie before grabbing my coat from the chair. I put it on, fastening the button as I start for the door. "I have things to do."
Karissa says nothing, doesn't even look at me, but she heard. The way her face twitches tells me so, as she bites down on the inside of her cheek.
"I might be late," I say, strolling over to the couch, stopping right beside where she sits. "Or I might not."
Another twitch. More silence.
I stand there for a moment, contemplating, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. I don't bother trying to kiss her lips. She won't resist me, she never does, but I'll get nothing in return today.
"Call me if you need me."
A grunt, soft and throaty, like she fought to restrain words and instead only offered the sound of annoyance. Annoyance at the fact that I'd dare think she'd ever need me? Or annoyance, because deep down, she realizes she already does?
Either way, I smile again, laughing to myself as I walk out.
The Cobalt Room is an upscale social club deep in Manhattan, not far from the campus of NYU. It's the sort of place people admire from the outside, a grand old structure that belongs in the pages of a historical magazine, but very few ever get to step through the door. It's membership required, by invitation only, and to get invited these days, you have to get through Ray.
He doesn't own it, but he certainly controls it. He runs most of his business out of a back office, tucked away behind the elaborate bar and swanky entertainment rooms. He hangs around out front, commanding the crowds with his open personality, but when you get pulled into the back, you know there's hell to pay.
I don't bother to flash my ID when I step inside. Kelvin, the man working the door, knows me—he's one of us, after all. He works here most afternoons for Ray, moonlighting weekends a few blocks away at the little nightclub called Timbers. He was working the door that night, the night Karissa went there with her friend, the night I decided to make my move.
Kelvin sent word as soon as she showed up that night. He recognized her face and knew she was my mark. They all knew, frankly… every one of Ray's men know exactly who Karissa is.
Kelvin nods, bowing his head as I pass, maybe out of respect but more likely because the guys don't like to look me in the eyes.
Few people do.
The street soldiers, cruel thugs who lie, cheat, kill, and steal, shy away, whereas little Karissa, half my size with barely any physical strength, never hesitated to stare me straight in the eyes, like she was reading my soul with just a glance. I thought at first she just didn't see it, didn't see what I was, but after a while I realized she saw it—she just didn't mind it so much.
Didn't mind that there was enough darkness inside of me to rid the world of every stitch of light.
Nobody ever looks at me that way, with that sort of openness, that sort of trust and affection.
Not even Ray.
Except for when he's drunk, maybe. And drunk he is tonight. He grins when he sees me approach him in the private bar area, grins like he's the Cheshire cat and he found an Alice to fuck with. "Naz!"
I nearly flinch when he says it. He catches himself right away and doesn't apologize, instead shrugging his shoulders and scrunching up his face as if to say, 'ah shit, you caught me.' He waves his hand, wordlessly telling the guy in the plush leather chair beside him to vacate, and I slip into the seat the moment he's gone. I motion toward the waitress, telling her to bring me my usual—a bottle of cold pale ale, still sealed. She brings it without question, without hesitation, and I use the bottle opener on my keys to pop the top off.
"So we cashed out the frozen food stock this morning," Ray says right away, lounging in his seat. "Almost a quarter million profit."
"That's great," I say, relaxing in the chair. "I take it my drinks are on you tonight then?"
"You know it," Ray says, holding his glass up—scotch, on the rocks—to clink it against the side of my bottle. "You keep it up and I'll buy you an entire brewery."
Laughing, I take a sip of my beer. "I'll hold you to that."
"I know you will."
Spirits are high and alcohol flows freely. Ray laughs and jokes, his mood infectious. I humor him, smiling, trying to relax and push everything else from my mind, but thoughts of Karissa keep seeping back in.
It looks like we're just hanging out, but this is work for men like us. Plotting, scheming, talking, socializing… it's the part of the job I hate. It's not that I hate people in general. I don't. Not really. I'm just happier when they're not around.
Except for her.
Goddamn Karissa.
Always my exception these days.
She never should have been.
It's past midnight when the women arrive. They're not usually invited, not allowed inside Cobalt, but when Ray gets a hankering to celebrate, everyone indulges him.
Prostitutes. They call themselves escorts. I call them whores. Most are nothing more than girls with too much make-up and not enough brains.
Brandy, Ray's meddlesome blonde girlfriend, shows up and squeezes into the seat with him, draping across his lap as she nuzzles into his neck. She once sold herself like the others, but Ray took a liking to her and kept her for himself.
His own little baby doll, he calls her.
Everyone else starts to loosen up, while my muscles grow tenser, the alcohol in my system doing nothing to quell my growing unease.
Slipping on my shoes, I fix my tie before grabbing my coat from the chair. I put it on, fastening the button as I start for the door. "I have things to do."
Karissa says nothing, doesn't even look at me, but she heard. The way her face twitches tells me so, as she bites down on the inside of her cheek.
"I might be late," I say, strolling over to the couch, stopping right beside where she sits. "Or I might not."
Another twitch. More silence.
I stand there for a moment, contemplating, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. I don't bother trying to kiss her lips. She won't resist me, she never does, but I'll get nothing in return today.
"Call me if you need me."
A grunt, soft and throaty, like she fought to restrain words and instead only offered the sound of annoyance. Annoyance at the fact that I'd dare think she'd ever need me? Or annoyance, because deep down, she realizes she already does?
Either way, I smile again, laughing to myself as I walk out.
The Cobalt Room is an upscale social club deep in Manhattan, not far from the campus of NYU. It's the sort of place people admire from the outside, a grand old structure that belongs in the pages of a historical magazine, but very few ever get to step through the door. It's membership required, by invitation only, and to get invited these days, you have to get through Ray.
He doesn't own it, but he certainly controls it. He runs most of his business out of a back office, tucked away behind the elaborate bar and swanky entertainment rooms. He hangs around out front, commanding the crowds with his open personality, but when you get pulled into the back, you know there's hell to pay.
I don't bother to flash my ID when I step inside. Kelvin, the man working the door, knows me—he's one of us, after all. He works here most afternoons for Ray, moonlighting weekends a few blocks away at the little nightclub called Timbers. He was working the door that night, the night Karissa went there with her friend, the night I decided to make my move.
Kelvin sent word as soon as she showed up that night. He recognized her face and knew she was my mark. They all knew, frankly… every one of Ray's men know exactly who Karissa is.
Kelvin nods, bowing his head as I pass, maybe out of respect but more likely because the guys don't like to look me in the eyes.
Few people do.
The street soldiers, cruel thugs who lie, cheat, kill, and steal, shy away, whereas little Karissa, half my size with barely any physical strength, never hesitated to stare me straight in the eyes, like she was reading my soul with just a glance. I thought at first she just didn't see it, didn't see what I was, but after a while I realized she saw it—she just didn't mind it so much.
Didn't mind that there was enough darkness inside of me to rid the world of every stitch of light.
Nobody ever looks at me that way, with that sort of openness, that sort of trust and affection.
Not even Ray.
Except for when he's drunk, maybe. And drunk he is tonight. He grins when he sees me approach him in the private bar area, grins like he's the Cheshire cat and he found an Alice to fuck with. "Naz!"
I nearly flinch when he says it. He catches himself right away and doesn't apologize, instead shrugging his shoulders and scrunching up his face as if to say, 'ah shit, you caught me.' He waves his hand, wordlessly telling the guy in the plush leather chair beside him to vacate, and I slip into the seat the moment he's gone. I motion toward the waitress, telling her to bring me my usual—a bottle of cold pale ale, still sealed. She brings it without question, without hesitation, and I use the bottle opener on my keys to pop the top off.
"So we cashed out the frozen food stock this morning," Ray says right away, lounging in his seat. "Almost a quarter million profit."
"That's great," I say, relaxing in the chair. "I take it my drinks are on you tonight then?"
"You know it," Ray says, holding his glass up—scotch, on the rocks—to clink it against the side of my bottle. "You keep it up and I'll buy you an entire brewery."
Laughing, I take a sip of my beer. "I'll hold you to that."
"I know you will."
Spirits are high and alcohol flows freely. Ray laughs and jokes, his mood infectious. I humor him, smiling, trying to relax and push everything else from my mind, but thoughts of Karissa keep seeping back in.
It looks like we're just hanging out, but this is work for men like us. Plotting, scheming, talking, socializing… it's the part of the job I hate. It's not that I hate people in general. I don't. Not really. I'm just happier when they're not around.
Except for her.
Goddamn Karissa.
Always my exception these days.
She never should have been.
It's past midnight when the women arrive. They're not usually invited, not allowed inside Cobalt, but when Ray gets a hankering to celebrate, everyone indulges him.
Prostitutes. They call themselves escorts. I call them whores. Most are nothing more than girls with too much make-up and not enough brains.
Brandy, Ray's meddlesome blonde girlfriend, shows up and squeezes into the seat with him, draping across his lap as she nuzzles into his neck. She once sold herself like the others, but Ray took a liking to her and kept her for himself.
His own little baby doll, he calls her.
Everyone else starts to loosen up, while my muscles grow tenser, the alcohol in my system doing nothing to quell my growing unease.
