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Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome by Richard Rider Page A
Authors: Richard Rider
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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knocking on the window and letting herself in, I nearly chucked a knife at her head."
"You're insane. Don't you understand what's at stake here?"
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"Shut up, I know the stakes make you hard, you get off on danger even more than me."
"Not when it's my mother ."
"Ain't my fault you're lost in Narnia, mate. OW, leave off, you're hurting..."
"You're making me crazy."
"So stop fucking me without johnnies, if you don't wanna catch my diseases."
"Don't move." A last vicious squeeze and he lets go, leaves him there against the wall all flushed and wheezing and hard and coughing up greedy fresh lungfuls of oxygen. "I swear to god I'll make you sorry if you move."
The kid stays on the spot but he stretches and yawns deliberately, smirking. Lindsay wants to snap his little bones like dry twigs.
"What're you gonna do this time? Oh, wait, lemme guess. Are you gonna... point a gun at me? Do I get a prize?"
The revolver's in the dresser drawer, empty as always, but the bullets are right next to it. Now he's got the kid's attention.
"What're you doing?" he asks, uneasy. Lindsay doesn't answer. He takes six cartridges, makes a big show of considering them, then puts five back into the drawer, very slowly, one by one so the kid's got plenty of time to count them.
His mismatched eyes have gone very big. He just stares at Lindsay, with his mouth slightly open like he's trying to say words he's forgotten how to form. The whirr-click of the spun cylinder going back into place makes him jump, and the noise of the hammer being cocked, and the noise of it falling onto an empty chamber.
"Fuck, Jesus, fuck, you are fucking crazy, what are you doing ?" He's gone very pale, and almost comically wide-eyed. Lindsay wonders whether this is what crazy feels like. He doesn't feel crazy any more, but maybe that's a sign of it. The gun's heavy in his hand. He cocks it again and aims the next shot at his
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own head. Two seconds after the hammer slams down on nothing again, the kid bursts out crying.
"Shut up," Lindsay says, calm as anything. "Shut up." He feels like he's soaring, he's higher than he's been on any drug in his life, but flying's always made him want to throw up and there's that as well, twisting and coiling round in his stomach. Nothing to do but ignore it, he's gone too far to stop and he doesn't want to stop; the kid looks terrified and it's fucking amazing, he's finally getting through to him. Not quite sure what his message is, but there's something getting through. Hammer, trigger, hammer, trigger, barrel in the kid's face. Four done, two left.
Valentine's eyes keep darting around like he's trying to work out how to get away, but there's nowhere he can go and he seems to give up, he slumps against the wall and rubs his eyes like a crying child does, clumsy and ineffectual. "This ain't funny," he says dully.
"I'm not laughing, am I?"
"No, but you're smiling like fucking Pennywise."
Lindsay pulls the hammer back again and turns the gun so he's looking down its barrel, but when he pulls the trigger for the fifth time it's pointed off across the kitchen somewhere because Valentine's grabbed his arm. It's all he can do not to belt the bastard one around the face with the handle.
"Come here," he says instead, twisting his hand behind the kid's head and pulling him across the kitchen by his hair, yanking until he complies and gets to his knees. He keeps the gun pointed at his forehead and reaches back behind himself to the stereo on the counter. No idea what's in there, but he presses play and waits.
It's fucking Stealer's Wheel. Funny, he thinks, in a way that makes you want to groan and throw things at the telly.
"What-" Valentine starts, but Lindsay interrupts him.
"Make me come in three minutes twenty-nine or I'll shoot, I swear to 89
C H A P T E R 7
god."
The kid stares at him like he's grown an extra couple of heads, until Lindsay cocks the gun and taps
"You're insane. Don't you understand what's at stake here?"
87
C H A P T E R 7
"Shut up, I know the stakes make you hard, you get off on danger even more than me."
"Not when it's my mother ."
"Ain't my fault you're lost in Narnia, mate. OW, leave off, you're hurting..."
"You're making me crazy."
"So stop fucking me without johnnies, if you don't wanna catch my diseases."
"Don't move." A last vicious squeeze and he lets go, leaves him there against the wall all flushed and wheezing and hard and coughing up greedy fresh lungfuls of oxygen. "I swear to god I'll make you sorry if you move."
The kid stays on the spot but he stretches and yawns deliberately, smirking. Lindsay wants to snap his little bones like dry twigs.
"What're you gonna do this time? Oh, wait, lemme guess. Are you gonna... point a gun at me? Do I get a prize?"
The revolver's in the dresser drawer, empty as always, but the bullets are right next to it. Now he's got the kid's attention.
"What're you doing?" he asks, uneasy. Lindsay doesn't answer. He takes six cartridges, makes a big show of considering them, then puts five back into the drawer, very slowly, one by one so the kid's got plenty of time to count them.
His mismatched eyes have gone very big. He just stares at Lindsay, with his mouth slightly open like he's trying to say words he's forgotten how to form. The whirr-click of the spun cylinder going back into place makes him jump, and the noise of the hammer being cocked, and the noise of it falling onto an empty chamber.
"Fuck, Jesus, fuck, you are fucking crazy, what are you doing ?" He's gone very pale, and almost comically wide-eyed. Lindsay wonders whether this is what crazy feels like. He doesn't feel crazy any more, but maybe that's a sign of it. The gun's heavy in his hand. He cocks it again and aims the next shot at his
88
S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E
own head. Two seconds after the hammer slams down on nothing again, the kid bursts out crying.
"Shut up," Lindsay says, calm as anything. "Shut up." He feels like he's soaring, he's higher than he's been on any drug in his life, but flying's always made him want to throw up and there's that as well, twisting and coiling round in his stomach. Nothing to do but ignore it, he's gone too far to stop and he doesn't want to stop; the kid looks terrified and it's fucking amazing, he's finally getting through to him. Not quite sure what his message is, but there's something getting through. Hammer, trigger, hammer, trigger, barrel in the kid's face. Four done, two left.
Valentine's eyes keep darting around like he's trying to work out how to get away, but there's nowhere he can go and he seems to give up, he slumps against the wall and rubs his eyes like a crying child does, clumsy and ineffectual. "This ain't funny," he says dully.
"I'm not laughing, am I?"
"No, but you're smiling like fucking Pennywise."
Lindsay pulls the hammer back again and turns the gun so he's looking down its barrel, but when he pulls the trigger for the fifth time it's pointed off across the kitchen somewhere because Valentine's grabbed his arm. It's all he can do not to belt the bastard one around the face with the handle.
"Come here," he says instead, twisting his hand behind the kid's head and pulling him across the kitchen by his hair, yanking until he complies and gets to his knees. He keeps the gun pointed at his forehead and reaches back behind himself to the stereo on the counter. No idea what's in there, but he presses play and waits.
It's fucking Stealer's Wheel. Funny, he thinks, in a way that makes you want to groan and throw things at the telly.
"What-" Valentine starts, but Lindsay interrupts him.
"Make me come in three minutes twenty-nine or I'll shoot, I swear to 89
C H A P T E R 7
god."
The kid stares at him like he's grown an extra couple of heads, until Lindsay cocks the gun and taps
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