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I add bubble bath to the water and sip my coffee while waiting for the tub to fill. By the time it’s finished, a thick layer of fragrant suds floats on the surface. It makes me think back to when we were little, the way we used to blow bubbles at each other in the tub during our shared bath time. Back when all that mattered was being together, no matter what. Back before we knew how miserable our lives really were. Little kids are resilient. Especially when they don’t know any better.
But back then, our father was with us, too. He was employed and only indulging in his vices on the weekend. Things were more stable. We could afford to be little kids giggling and making pretend hairstyles out of piles of bubbles while Mom laughed with us. Back then, she still laughed.
It’s not only boredom that has me wanting to negotiate for freedom. It’s being cut off from Deanna. There’s no phone up here—there might be in one of the other bedrooms, but not this one. Maybe that’s why he chose this room to lock me in. I’m worried about her, and I’m sure she’s worried sick about me. She wouldn’t do anything drastic, would she? Like going back to that piece of shit who got us into this situation in the first place? God, I hope not. The thought is enough to make the warm water I step into feel icy cold. What if Greg goes to Luca and tells him he’s got the wrong girl? What happens then?
But it’s not like I could have told her what was going on, either. There was no time to explain why she has to pretend to be me, and I didn’t want to break her heart further by telling her what Greg did. I barely got away with that phone call as it was.
I need to come up with a plan, an actual plan. Eventually, he’s going to get the prostitution side of his business running again, and that’s when he’ll send me wherever he was going to in the first place. I have to make sure that doesn’t happen, but how?
The answer is clear. It disgusts me, but it’s the only way. No matter how many angles I look at it from, it’s obvious I have to find a way to make him want me. I need to make it so he can’t live without me.
Disgust skitters its way through my body—but at least it shuts down any last bit of hunger I’m still wrestling with by the time I get out of the tub. I need to make it so the idea of sending me away to get used and abused by countless strangers is unthinkable.
By the time lunch rolls around and another tray is brought to the room, I think I have a pretty good idea of how to move forward with that. But first, I need free rein to move around the house. I need to stay in front of him as much as I can. I need to make an impression, and not only when he decides to barge into this room in the middle of the night and use me. That’s not going to get me anywhere.
“I told you, I’m not interested.” This time, I greet my unfortunate guard wearing a bathrobe, my hair in a turban. “I’m sorry to waste your time like this.”
“Are you sick?” It’s almost sad, the hope in his voice. Like he’s dying for an excuse to give Luca.
“No, I feel fine. I’m not interested in eating, that’s all.” But this time, I’m not nasty about it. This man is not my enemy. His boss is. And I’m going to need all the friends I can get.
“It would really be good if you did, though.”
“What’s your name?”
He frowns. “Rob.”
“Thanks, Rob. I’m not trying to get you in trouble with your boss, but I don’t feel like eating.” I maintain the same pleasant but neutral expression, waiting through the process of him leaving the lunch tray on the bed and picking up the breakfast tray. This time, the aroma of fried chicken just about brings me to my knees. I can’t see what’s under the lid, but I would bet anything that’s what awaits me.
Instead of torturing myself by lifting the lid, I turn my back on the tray and go to the closet. I need to occupy myself somehow, so it makes sense to sort the clothes by size and try things on, seeing what actually fits me. I pull everything out of the drawers and go through each piece one by one. They’re all good quality, and some of them still have price tags attached.
The sight of a six-hundred-dollar skirt makes me laugh out loud. It reminds me of that scene from Working Girl, when they’re going through Sigourney Weaver’s closet. “It’s not even leather,” I mutter to myself, laughing again. Imagine having enough money that six hundred bucks for a skirt seems like a reasonable idea. And it’s never been worn.
Once I’m finished with the casualwear, I sort the nicer pieces. Dresses galore, skirts, blouses. There are more than a few designer labels mixed in—Gucci, Prada, Chanel. I still can’t figure out who it belongs to or why it’s all here. An old girlfriend, maybe? Because the thing is, even though there are all sorts of sizes on the tags, everything is roughly the same fit. Some of the dresses could use a little tailoring—pulled in at the waist, let out at the bust—but on the whole, I’m starting to get the idea that one single person bought all of this, or had it purchased for them.
Maybe he has a sister I don’t know about. I never exactly paid attention to the news beyond recognizing the name Bruno and knowing there’s nothing good about the family.
Whoever she is, she’s not here.
By the time there’s another knock on the door, I have everything organized the way I want it. There are plenty of shoes in here, but I can’t wrap my mind around putting somebody else’s shoes on my feet unless it’s necessary. As it is, I would rather stick to the clothes that still have tags on them, meaning nobody else ever wore them. It feels creepy enough, wearing another girl’s things.
“Boss wants you to come down for dinner.”
“Does he?” I call back. “That’s nice. You can tell him I’m not hungry.” I’m starving. My stomach is eating itself at this point. I feel shaky and weak. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to tart myself up for him tonight after what he did.
It’s not another minute before there’s another knock—then, a key in the lock. I perch on the end of the bed, my bare feet swinging back and forth. “Oh. I didn’t expect you,” I say to a very frowny Jock. He’d be heartbreakingly handsome if he didn’t look angry all the time. Not that I’ll go out of my way to point that out.
He sighs, eyeing me up. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting here.” I shrug, looking around. “What’s it look like?”
“What’s with the hunger strike?”
“Is that what this is? I just figured I wasn’t hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten all day. You need to eat.”
“You don’t know anything about me. I’ve never eaten very much.”
