not, she continued to expect them to be good and was left alone and astonished when they weren’t. She was either stupid or crazy, but either way, she never learned. Even now, she wasn’t learning; even now, her brain conjured up the memory of Nick lying with her on the sidewalk. That was the good man she wanted, and that was the thought in her head when the Percocet haze enveloped her.
~oOo~
When she woke, the room was dim; night had fallen. She felt a little better in body and spirit, so she got up, eased her hoodie back on, and went out to see what the world of her handsome prison was like now.
It was quiet and still dim. The hall sconces were lit, and there was a light on over the kitchen sink, but otherwise the only light in the apartment came from a single lamp on a table in the living room.
The place was deserted—or almost. Nick sat on his sofa, a glass in his hand. Scotch, probably. She had seen the bottle of scotch on his counter the night she’d brought the beer over, and he’d drunk scotch at Neon, too. His drink of choice, she guessed.
His mother was gone, all the strange men were gone, even Donnie was gone.
His eyes went to her immediately as she entered the room. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better. A little less sore. Where is everybody?”
“Working or home with their families. There are three men on the building, including one just outside the door, so don’t worry. We’re still covered. I needed some quiet.”
“I’ll go back to the room, then.”
“No. Sit with me. Do you need anything?”
She was hungry, but not really in the mood to eat. On the counter was a bowl filled with a bunch of bananas, some peaches, and a couple of apples. “Can I have a banana?”
“Of course.”
She took one and came into the room as she peeled it. She sat on the other end of the sofa, and he watched her eat. They didn’t speak.
When she finished her banana, feeling self-conscious with his eyes so heavy on her, she took the peel to the kitchen and found the place to throw it away. Then she went back around the counter and sat where she’d been.
“I don’t like it when you look at me like that.”
He didn’t apologize or respond to that statement at all. Instead, he said, “Tell me about your scars, bella .”
She felt sure that she would have told him to fuck off, except that he’d called her bella . It seemed like he was always doing or saying just one thing, just enough, to keep her in the stupid zone. So she didn’t tell him to fuck off. But she also didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, not yet. “Why? Why is it so important for you to know?”
“You tried to kill yourself.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like quitters. I don’t like weakness. There’s no room for either in my life. Suicide is both.”
“So?”
“I do like you.”
That caught her off guard. He was different, again, from the man who’d trapped her in his office earlier in the day. “Which Nick are you tonight? Good Nick or Bad Nick?”
He cocked his head at that, and then he grinned. Not a half-smile, a grin—but not exactly mirthful, either. She couldn’t figure it. He was so hard to read, always. Inscrutable. “I’m always Bad Nick, bella . But I’m good to people I care about.”
“And you care about me?”
“I seem to.”
She tried to ignore the way her stupid heart skittered at that. “Why?”
“I like your spark. Tell me about your scars.” He’d barely moved throughout this conversation—or was it another interrogation?
“I’ve only ever told people I trusted.”
“So trust me.”
She wasn’t so far gone for him that she didn’t see the absurdity in that statement. “Why should I? You’re holding me against my will.”
“Aren’t you trusting me with your life, then?”
She laughed and then grunted at the sharp twinge that followed.
~oOo~
When she woke, the room was dim; night had fallen. She felt a little better in body and spirit, so she got up, eased her hoodie back on, and went out to see what the world of her handsome prison was like now.
It was quiet and still dim. The hall sconces were lit, and there was a light on over the kitchen sink, but otherwise the only light in the apartment came from a single lamp on a table in the living room.
The place was deserted—or almost. Nick sat on his sofa, a glass in his hand. Scotch, probably. She had seen the bottle of scotch on his counter the night she’d brought the beer over, and he’d drunk scotch at Neon, too. His drink of choice, she guessed.
His mother was gone, all the strange men were gone, even Donnie was gone.
His eyes went to her immediately as she entered the room. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better. A little less sore. Where is everybody?”
“Working or home with their families. There are three men on the building, including one just outside the door, so don’t worry. We’re still covered. I needed some quiet.”
“I’ll go back to the room, then.”
“No. Sit with me. Do you need anything?”
She was hungry, but not really in the mood to eat. On the counter was a bowl filled with a bunch of bananas, some peaches, and a couple of apples. “Can I have a banana?”
“Of course.”
She took one and came into the room as she peeled it. She sat on the other end of the sofa, and he watched her eat. They didn’t speak.
When she finished her banana, feeling self-conscious with his eyes so heavy on her, she took the peel to the kitchen and found the place to throw it away. Then she went back around the counter and sat where she’d been.
“I don’t like it when you look at me like that.”
He didn’t apologize or respond to that statement at all. Instead, he said, “Tell me about your scars, bella .”
She felt sure that she would have told him to fuck off, except that he’d called her bella . It seemed like he was always doing or saying just one thing, just enough, to keep her in the stupid zone. So she didn’t tell him to fuck off. But she also didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, not yet. “Why? Why is it so important for you to know?”
“You tried to kill yourself.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like quitters. I don’t like weakness. There’s no room for either in my life. Suicide is both.”
“So?”
“I do like you.”
That caught her off guard. He was different, again, from the man who’d trapped her in his office earlier in the day. “Which Nick are you tonight? Good Nick or Bad Nick?”
He cocked his head at that, and then he grinned. Not a half-smile, a grin—but not exactly mirthful, either. She couldn’t figure it. He was so hard to read, always. Inscrutable. “I’m always Bad Nick, bella . But I’m good to people I care about.”
“And you care about me?”
“I seem to.”
She tried to ignore the way her stupid heart skittered at that. “Why?”
“I like your spark. Tell me about your scars.” He’d barely moved throughout this conversation—or was it another interrogation?
“I’ve only ever told people I trusted.”
“So trust me.”
She wasn’t so far gone for him that she didn’t see the absurdity in that statement. “Why should I? You’re holding me against my will.”
“Aren’t you trusting me with your life, then?”
She laughed and then grunted at the sharp twinge that followed.
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