“A spectacle?” he asks, giving me a skeptical look. “You want to be watched?”
My heart skips a beat as I think of all the nights in the Slaughterpen, the cheers feeding me like oxygen; of the day in the library when Angel fingered me in front of Father Salvatore. I shiver and sit up.
“It won’t be for every man,” I say. “But maybe that makes it all the more special. And instead of running around on an entire island, in the dark where no one can watch, we do it inside. One room. One man. One girl.”
“I take it you’re that girl?”
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “You admitted yourself that I’m special simply because no one has had me yet. I’m assuming you have repeat customers. But none have gotten a chance with me. Maybe we make it more interesting by giving them a challenge. Not all the guys. Not all the girls. Just any guy who wants one certain girl.”
“Uh huh,” he says.
He’s listening, which is all I wanted. But he’s also interested, which is what I hoped for.
“You know my proposal is good,” I say, pressing my luck. “It might even bring new clients, ones who have already had a go at all the girls here they wanted. They might fight for a chance at a new one. And instead of just giving it to them, you can dangle it just at the tip of their fingers. Maybe they can get it. Maybe they can’t.”
“Men don’t come here to be told they can’t have a girl they want,” he says. “That’s what they encounter every day on the mainland.”
“But it’s the gamble that will keep them coming back.”
“So you propose that they fight for you?” he asks. “And everyone watches?”
“Not fightforme,” I say. “They fight me. No weapons. No timeouts. Just good old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat.”
I expect him to laugh, but he only nods. “Julian did say you put up quite a fight on the docks. Good thing our pickup guy was there with his tranquilizer darts. You never know when those will come in handy.”
He chuckles, and the seed of hatred inside me swells, watered by his utter callousness.
“You could even charge them extra,” I say. “Not to mention what the spectators would pay to see it happen.”
“They have sex clubs for that,” he says. “And the internet.”
“Yes, but sex clubs are scripted, planned, and agreed to,” I say. “How often do they get to see a show like this? One man catching and overpowering a girl in a room with no escape, in real time, right in front of their eyes.”
“You do know that sort of thing won’t appeal to the average man who wants to hear how good he is, hear a woman enjoying herself.”
“Not every man wants that,” I say, remembering Saint’s words to me that last night in Faulkner, how cruel he was, how much he enjoyed my humiliation and heartbreak.
“And you’re willing to put yourself in a room with a man like that,” he says. “A man who doesn’t want your consent, who wants to force you, maybe to hear you scream in pain rather than pleasure?”
“Make no mistake,” I say, staring directly into his eyes. “I didn’t come here willingly, and nothing I do for you is done willingly. I just thought you might like to liven things up for your clients.”
“What’s in it for you?” he asks, studying me from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. I want to use the lenses to scoop his eyes out so I can gouge my fingers into his sick and twisted brain, scramble it until he can’t even twitch, let alone shove his fingers inside me or any other girl.
Instead, I give him my most beguiling smile. “Girls like a challenge too.”
ten
The Salvation
It’s Friday afternoon when we pull into the seaside town where Walker Delacroix says his family has ties. Nate got a blip on Mercy’s tracker a few days ago, so we’re all reassured. Havoc Harbor manages to be quaint in just the way that draws tourists, though it’s nowhere near as popular as similar towns on Cape Cod and scattered along the East Coast.
“There’s an ice cream place,” Heath points out, leaning forward between the seats. “We could get some food there. Even Walker can eat ice cream.”
“I need real food,” Saint argues, looking at his phone. “There’s a seafood place up ahead. Four-point-six star average in the reviews.”
“Sounds good,” I say, easing past the little shopping center with the ice cream shop, where I catch a glimpse of pink hair as a girl leans out the window to hand a cone to someone waiting for their order. I pull around the curve at the bottom of the slight hill, then along past a fish market, a small grocer, and a couple more local businesses before we reach the lone stoplight in town.
Walker sits up and rubs his eyes, then lets out a hiccup of pain when he makes contact with the swollen, purple skin. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up and this will be a nightmare.”
