Mafia Games by Vi Carter

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CLAIRE

 

The memory of him licking my wrist, licking my blood, seems more unrealistic as time passes. Had I imagined it? Yet, his lips had been stained with my blood. The image drilled into my mind. The sick part of me had felt divine. The idea of him tasting my blood is so wrong, but somehow it felt right. I’m disturbed by my own thoughts. It’s been days, I tell myself, and I need to move past this.

I refocus on the drawing at my feet, I just started to draw, not thinking, and it’s the oddest thing that‘s formed under the pencil. My kitchen table and chairs from my childhood are sketched on the floor.

I pause, my hand hovers above the floor, and I tilt my head, aware of his presence. My heart starts hammering. How does he do that? He’s standing along the side of the box, watching me. I hadn’t even heard him enter the basement. Maybe the sound is off again.

I don’t get off the floor but stay seated. I want to touch my bandage but keep still, not wanting to draw attention to my wrist, yet he’s brought back the memory of what happened last time.

“How is your wrist?” He asks, his voice clear.

His hands are folded behind his back. The blue shirt stretched across wide shoulders. He takes a step to the left, and I turn so I keep him in my view.

His dark eyes look lighter like he’s smiling, but it’s a contradiction to the stern look on his face.

“Better,” I answer.

His dark gaze flickers down to the bandage, and my stomach clenches. His eyes sing the truth that he has tasted my blood. It had shocked me, but something else has taken root that I don’t want to face.

He doesn’t walk any further; his hands leave his back. I notice his knuckles appear damaged like he had a fight with a wall.

I think back to him saying he had been beaten. Maybe he was a fighter; like the ones on TV. The thoughts of him walking around a ring in shorts have me dropping my gaze to hide the growing color in my cheeks.

“Were you in a fight?” I ask.

“With a steering wheel.”

My head snaps up, and I crack a smile without even thinking. His answer is bizarre to me.

His lips twitch. “You find that amusing?” He asks.

My smile melts off my face like ice cream on a hot day. “No.” I sink my hands into the floor to ground myself and try to slow my heart rate down. “Yes.” I take a peek at him. I’m not sure what sets him off, so I want to be careful. “Maybe.”

His face hardens, and his gaze pivots towards my new drawing. “A table and chairs?” He steps closer to the glass, and I want to move back but force myself to stay still.

“From my home.”

“I didn’t see that in your home.”

His answer shouldn’t shock me or make me feel more violated, but it does. He had taken me from my apartment. I just didn’t like the reminder.

“My childhood home.” I correct him.

“Did you have a good childhood?” His question has me staring down at the table and chairs.

“I had great parents.” I answer. “Did you have a good childhood?” I fire back and cringe, wondering if I have overstepped. I don’t think he did. I’m picturing a lot of dissected frogs and headless Barbie dolls if he had a sister. My standards are coming from a documentary on a serial killer.

“My mother did her best.”

My stomach twists. “Your father?” Is he the weakness here? Maybe he isn’t around. Most psychopath’s had mommy issues.

“He did his best, too.”

Did his best? What did that mean? So far, I’m still looking for the broken childhood that turned him into a raging lunatic.

Silence follows. I do have lots of questions. The number one question is: why am I here? But I don’t speak.

He is the one who breaks the silence with a half-smile that startles me. “I had a small victory recently.”

I’m holding myself steady as he continues to smile. I want to smile at him. My stomach quivers. “I wanted to share it with someone, and I thought of you.”

Surprise has me widening my eyes.

His smile grows. “I was surprised too.”

This time I don’t fight with my own smile. My heart races as he continues to smile at me. The longer his smile lasts, the more unsettled I become. I can’t explain it. Smiling at each other feels too normal under the circumstances. That thought kills my smile. Yet, I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be alone again.

“What was your victory?” I ask.

He observes me as I stand. I wipe my hands together like it might remove the lead marks from the side of my fingers.

“I gave a man who hurt me a visit.” His own smile dwindles away, it’s a slower pace than mine, but I’m waiting for the blow that he no doubt will deliver.

“He was in his home with his uncle. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he knew why I was there.”

I swallow. I didn’t want his confessions. “I don’t want to know.” The words tumble and rush from my lips. I’m waiting for the backlash, but all he does is nod his head.

He starts to walk around the box, and I regret stopping him from talking, but I didn’t think my mind could take much more. He had killed them. It is there in his eyes. I just don’t want to hear it. I pivot as he moves until I’m facing the door that he stands outside. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he reaches up and presses a card against a scanner. The door clicks, and I’m sure the color drains from my face.

He steps in.

“My mother made pancakes most mornings. I spent every night with a ruler scratching my back from all the sugar.” I swallow the saliva that pools in my mouth as the door closes behind him, and he walks towards me.

“The sugar made me itchy, but it was worth it.” I’m rambling. I’m trying to reach for something that will make him stop.

I’m afraid.

“Maple syrup...” words fail me as he reaches out and touches my chin, lifting my face, so I’m looking into dark eyes. “I loved maple syrup.” My words are low. His gaze darts to my lips. His large frame shadows mine. His hand could encase my face if he wanted to. “I loved sunny days.” Something in my chest tightens and clicks. “I loved to watch movies on a Sunday.” I try to hold on to some of the fear that’s leaving me, and all I’m filled with is loss and sadness. I want the heartache to fade, but it’s flourishing.

“I loved the smell of the newspaper.” My captor still holds my chin gently, his face so close to mine. “I loved the way my dad said wee. It was a wee road. In a wee while we would be going for ice cream.” I smile through my pain. “I miss them,” I admit. “I miss my parents.”

Surprise filters across his face, and he releases my chin. “They died?” He takes a step back, and I want to reel in all my words that I’ve shared with him.

I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling cold. “Yes.”

I want to walk away, but I don’t move.

“Let's take a walk.”

It’s my turn to be surprised as he leads me out of my cage. Once we reach the first floor of the house, he picks up a box that sits on a chair. He opens it and takes out a pair of red slip-on sneakers and socks. He holds them out to me.

“These will be more comfortable.”

The socks reach my ankles and disappear once I slip my feet into the sneakers. He waits patiently until I’m ready before leading me outside again. It’s a sunny day and my confession about loving sunny days has me wondering if that is why he brought me outside.

“So you have a sweet tooth.” The way he says it makes me fight a smile.

I feel silly sharing such small details about myself with him.

“I like sweet things myself.” He continues to talk.

I can’t stop the laugh. It’s abrupt, and I glance at him. “Like what?” I can’t picture him eating anything sweet. His body didn’t look like he fed it anything wrong.

“Frosties. I had a sick obsession with Frosties when I was young.”

“Frosties?” I ask.

“The cereal.”

“I know what Frosties are.” I kick my sneaker into the grass, trying not to laugh again. It felt unnatural.

“I had three bowls in one sitting.”

I want to tease and tell him he’s so bad. But he is. He’s worse than bad. My smile disappears again. He’s a murderer and a kidnapper.

“What happened to your parents?” He asks.

I stop walking. “Why am I here?”

“You said you loved sunny days.” He takes a step towards me, and I hate when he’s too close, he clouds my judgment.

“Here’s another one for you. I love my home. I love my freedom. I want to go home.” My voice rises, and I’m waiting for him to grab me and stop me from shouting, but he just takes a patient step towards me.

“In time, you may earn your freedom.”

My heart lurches. “How?” Is he messing with me? Could I really go home? My vision blurs, and I swallow the emotion.

“You can earn your freedom by talking to me.” He reaches out and cups my face just like he had done earlier in the basement.

“Talk about what?”

He tilts my head back. “About you, Claire.”

Irritation claws at me. None of this made sense. “So if I talk about myself, you will let me go?”

He doesn’t answer. “I’ll give you freedom.”

He is playing with words as he releases me, and I inhale a wobbly breath. Being outside is better than being stuck in a box.

“Can I ask you questions?”

He nods his head. “Yes.”

“Am I going to die?” I hold my head up high like I can take the truth. My knees weaken, and I lock them, so they don’t buckle.

“Everyone dies, Claire.” His lip twitches.

I want to scream at him and tell him to stop playing with me.

It’s like he knows I’m close to cracking.

“Not by me.” His admission surprises me more than it should. He takes a step back towards me. “Not for a long time. I can imagine you will be old and grey. Still beautiful. Still angelic.”

Angelic?

No one has ever described me as angelic before, and I hate how much I like it. He looks at me like he really sees something different from what I know is there.

“The dog.” I sputter, anything to refocus my mind. “Did he go to a good home?”

He takes a step back and places his hands behind his back. “Connor is still with me.”

“Connor? You named him.”

“You want to see him again?”

I nod and follow my captor to the garage that he had brought Connor and me into only the other day. The dog leaps out the moment he opens the door and races past us. I think he’s escaping, and I’m ready to go after him, maybe leave with the dog.

“Wait.” My captor’s hand touches my arm. The heat of his fingers keeps me still. I try to keep my attention straight ahead as I wait.

Connor disappears completely before reappearing and races back towards us. He stops at his new owner’s feet.

My captor removes his hand from my arm and kneels down, rubbing Connor’s belly. I just observe while being taken by the laughter that bubbles from my captor’s mouth as he plays with Connor.

I stand long enough for him to look up at me. “I thought you would be happy to see him.”

The stupid part of me is wondering if that’s why he kept the dog.

I kneel down close to Connor and reach out my hand. His head bows, and he lets me rub him.

“I am happy to see him.” I smile at the dog and not at my captor.

“His wounds are healing.” I’m surprised all over again at the care he has given the dog.

When I turn my head, we are very close. The dog becomes forgotten under my fingertips.

“If I tell you about myself, I win my freedom?” I ask again.

His lips twitch. “Yes.”

“I can do that,” I answer.

His laugh is soft, but it slams into me hard and fast. Black eyes turn brown. Angles that are hard on his face soften, and he turns from a monster into a very attractive man.

A man who had the capabilities to ruin me in more ways than one.

I can only hope I get my freedom before he captures another part of me that I might not recover.