AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I race into a living room. If the front door is blocked, then the window is my only other option. I jerk up the handle and nothing happens. I should’ve guessed they’re bolted shut too. I grab a black iron poker from the fireplace and heave the bar up in the air, drawing my strength from adrenaline since my muscles are so weak from lack of food. Slamming as hard as I can into the pane, I yelp from the reverberation shooting from my hands through my arms. Another barrier immune to my force. Surely, I’m not so pathetic I can’t break glass.
Embarrassment deluges me that I’m such a wimp unable to manage even a crack. I try again. Hoisting the pole backward and using my entire body weight to smack the surface only manages to tangle the red curtain gathered on the side with a silver decorative hook. Damn.
Resiliency I didn’t even know I had burns inside of me and I keep going. Hitting over and over, I achieve nothing but my arms aching in defeat. Not a single mark or splinter appears from my failed efforts. I only accomplish upsetting Pete with his whines as the backdrop to my blows.
Breathless and sweaty, my body gives up before my mind does. My throbbing fingers spasm, and I drop the poker. My wobbly legs buckle, and I stumble back into a sofa, leaning on the sleek gray cushion.
My spinning thoughts give me a headache, and I rub my temples, wishing for some epiphany that will liberate me from this trap. Despite me terrifying him, Pete snuggles next to my legs, comforting me even though I don’t deserve the consolation after I scared him. I slide to the floor and stroke down his body, reassuring him I’m okay. That we’re okay.
“They’re bullet proof and won’t shatter. You’ll never break through.”
I startle from the calm tone and open my eyes. The boss from the basement stands in the foyer taking in my escape attempt. He doesn’t seem mad. More amused if anything with his half smile and bright eyes. His blasé response is the last thing I expect.
“Come and eat.”
He turns around and strides to the kitchen, expecting me to follow.
Come and eat.
Sure—enjoy a meal with the man holding me prisoner—that’s not foolish. I roll my eyes at the absurdity. The situation’s so ridiculous it’s almost impossible to believe. But here I am. Shaking, panting, and starving. My stomach burns, and I know Pete’s dying too. I can’t formulate a new plan while I’m this feeble, so maybe I’ll play along just to buy some time.
I push off my butt and grab the poker from the tile, ashamed of making a mess. Too much time living in filth turns you one of two ways I always analyzed—a slob or a clean freak. I’m practically obsessive in my desire for neatness, striving to be the exact opposite of my mother. Incapable of leaving the previously tidy space in disarray, I replace the rod in the stand on the hearth and straighten the thick sheers I twisted up.
Of course, I’m stalling to admit defeat or join him in the kitchen. If I had the energy, I’d slap my own self. Now I’ve stupidly wasted too much effort on a fruitless mission that was never going to work. I need to be smarter about this.
Pete pushes up against my thigh. The smell of something fabulous wafts to my nose too. “I know buddy. I know.”
Nuzzling the fur around his ears, I hug him like the best friend he is and promise him I’ll figure this out for both of us. He won’t have to suffer anymore because of me.
The man doesn’t look up from his sandwich building when we walk into the kitchen. He layers thick slices of roast beef and provolone cheese on dense multi-grain bread. Even from ten feet away I can tell this is the good stuff, displaying once again how rich he is. They’re not thin, dinky slices from plastic wrappers, rather real meat from a roaster, homemade bread, and fragrant horseradish in a white bowl instead of a yellow bottle of plain mustard.
“Mrs. Zirkelbach, my housekeeper, is an excellent cook.” He glances at the black and silver watch on his wrist, which probably cost more than most people’s cars, and chuckles. “Even if dinner’s at three a.m.”
Three a.m.
It was only about nine when I went outside to sit on Devin’s porch. I was unconscious for a long time. I touch the small bump on my neck from the needle. A weird contrast that he sedated me against my will, but he also waited to eat until I was awake, until he knew I was all right. Although I shouldn’t care, I do. For a girl used to eating alone even in a room full of people, the gesture pleases me.
No. I’m being foolish. He wasn’t concerned for me. He just wanted to interrogate me, and now he’s stuck with me.
Worse, I’m stuck with him. “I don’t want to eat with you. I just want to leave.”
“Noted.” He continues building a masterpiece adding lettuce and tomatoes between the layers. “Then I hope you don’t find me rude but I’m not going to stop.”
Rude is the least of his flaws. Pete whines when the guy glides onto one of the stools and takes a huge bite. My dog’s no fool—he knows what we’re missing out on by me refusing to eat. I can’t be unfair to him when there probably isn’t any harm in giving him a few bites. “Fine. I’ll join you.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t gloat at my surrender. Even more shocking, he tears off some of the meat and throws the bites in the air for Pete to catch when I go to wash my hands. Not a single crumb hits the floor. Pete really is ravenous, which crushes me to my soul that I’ve let him down and this man is the one to rescue him.
I don’t like being beholden to anyone, especially a bully. I throw the towel on the white countertop. “This makes no sense. You killed a man and kidnapped me—threatened to torture me—and now you want to sit around eating dinner like all of that is no big deal.”
“You’re not sitting or eating.”
His infuriating chuckle irritates me even more than his teasing. I have to act like he doesn’t bother me. I’ll never let him think he’s won. I’m doing this for Pete. I grab a plate and duplicate his sandwich. A cold, wet nose nudges my knee looking for more, and I give him first dibs, which he gulps down without chewing. “He needs some water too.”
The guy nods toward the cabinet to the right of the oven. “In there. Help yourself to whatever you want.”
His manners are unnerving. How can a crime lord be so polite? Maybe if I am too, I’ll be able to talk myself out of here. “Thank you.”
With at least twenty sizes and styles of bowls to choose from, I rummage through the stacks and pick a large stainless-steel one to carry to the faucet. Bigger than he needs but less likely to splash over the sides like he does when he’s really thirsty.
