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10
ANGELA
When I’m finally done with my shower, there’s a towel waiting for me on the top of the toilet, plus a tube of A&D ointment.
I guess Burns left these for me while I was behind the frosted glass door of the standing shower. After his confession that he used to break into my apartment to watch me sleep, I wouldn’t put it past him to stand there and stare as I showered. So consumed with washing my captivity off of me, I don’t think I would’ve cared even if he did.
He really was prepared for me. He had my favored brand of shampoo and conditioner waiting inside the stall, a vanilla-scented body wash, and some antibacterial soap. That, like the ointment, is a big clue that he wants me to take care of the tattoo he left on my chest.
I almost refused. I feel like it’ll only work against me if I do everything that Burns expects me to without putting up even a little fight. However, trapped in this basement cell, what exactly will happen if I develop an infection because I was too stubborn to take care of his mark? If I get out of this in one piece, I can always get his name and number removed. I can’t do that if I die of sepsis.
I don’t have any tattoos. I’ve always thought about getting one, though, so I’ve done my research. In the shower, I peeled the bandage off, letting it breathe while I scrubbed the rest of my body and washed my hair. Using the antibacterial soap, I washed the tattoo. Patting it dry with the towel, I applied the ointment.
There. It’s as good as it’s going to get. Here’s hoping I didn’t screw up somehow.
Glancing around, I can’t find a brush. Not a hairbrush, at least. There’s a brand new toothbrush next to the sink and—no surprise—the brand of toothpaste I use at home. Taking the hint for what it is, I brush my teeth, then finger comb my hair.
At that point, I realize that, if I stay in the bathroom much longer, Burns is going to get impatient and come in so he can drag me back out.
Hoping like hell that Burns won’t really make me parade around naked in front of him, I tighten my grip on the towel. It doesn’t cover much. My cleavage is on display—so is the shiny tattoo—and the hem of the towel barely hits the curve of my ass.
He’s been busy while I was in the shower. The small table has two candles, each with a flickering flame casting shadows in the corner of the basement. Two plates are set, facing each other. Just like I thought, one of them has a plate of ravioli on it; that one has to be mine. The other has eggplant parmigiana, I think. I can’t really tell, only that Burns is gonna have a hard time eating it if he insists on only bringing plastic spoons around me.
As though I didn’t spend a good chunk of this afternoon trying to figure out how to make a sturdy shiv out of a plastic spoon.
Hey. I watch a lot of prison shows. It might not have prepared me for living with an insane cop, but if it helps me figure out a way to escape, it would’ve been well worth it.
It smells delicious. I don’t even pretend like I’m not going to eat dinner now. Looks like Burns was right. I definitely worked up an appetite in the shower.
He’s waiting for me just outside of the bathroom. In his hand, he’s traded the dress from before for a light grey t-shirt that he hands to me with a smirking, “For you.”
I shake it out. A familiar logo stares back at me. It’s an SPD shirt. Springfield Police Department.
I know what it is. I’m just not so sure why he’s giving it to me. “What’s this?”
“One of my shirts. I thought you could wear it while we eat.”
“What about the dress?” Considering Burns is both taller and larger than me, if I wear a shirt that’s his size, it might actually cover more of me than that skimpy red dress. Definitely more than the towel I currently have on.
“Next time, angel. Tonight, I want you in something of mine. Unless you’d rather go naked? Because I won’t mind.”
I quickly shrug the t-shirt on over my head. It musses my damp hair. Shoving it out of my face, I ask, “No underwear?”
The look he gives me answers the question. Right. No underwear.
Because the table is so low to the ground, we sit on the floor to eat. I yelp when the t-shirt shifts and my bare ass hits the cool cement. For some reason, Burns finds that amusing. He does get up, grabbing the blanket from the cot, laying it beneath me so that I have some coverage, so I guess I can forgive him for his slight smirk at my expense.
Dinner tastes as delicious as it smells. Usually, I don’t like reheating my food in the microwave, but Mamma Maria’s is an hour away from where I currently am. Between cold food and a nuked meal, I’m glad Burns thought to warm it up. And watching him struggle to cut the eggplant parm with the plastic spoon is as funny to me as I thought.
He’s a smart man, though. After so many years of sleeping with a knife under my pillow for protection, I’m more comfortable than I probably should be with the idea of stabbing him if it’ll get me my freedom. Pity each one of my homemade shivs has snapped with too much pressure, but if there’s one thing I have right now, it’s plenty of freaking time to figure it out.
I finish first; scooping up the ravioli with the spoon is a lot easier, I admit. As I watch Burns eat, his gaze grows more and more heavy-lidded as he stares back at me. I don’t know what kind of thoughts are running through his head. Considering he’s basically fucking me with his eyes, I’m betting he’s seeing right through his old t-shirt, imagining me naked again.
It’s something like that all right…
As soon as he finishes eating, he looks right at me and announces, “I’m ready for dessert.”
Mamma Mia has an extensive dessert menu. For a moment, I honestly believe that’s what he means. There’s a black box resting on top of the fridge that I think he means, so when he gets up, I figure he’s going for that.
