I narrowed my eyes.
“Different kind of dress code around here, senorita. It especially applies to people who point guns at my head.”
“I couldn't have been the first to do that,” I said, surprised at the sound of my own voice. It was raspy, like a lumberjack with a four pack a day habit. I hit my chest with my fist. “You're a soulless fuck, Petersen.”
“Not going to argue that point. But, if you’re as hungry as you look, you’ll need to get naked.”
He took his hunk of bread, sopped up some of the butter with it, and popped it in his mouth.
He was a special level of sadistic, this guy. If there was a God, he'd choke on that sourdough. But he didn't. He just kept chewing, and chewing, and raising his eyebrows up and down.
I didn't want to take his salmon, or the asparagus, or the bread. If I were to keep up my strength, however, I'd have to eat something, sometime. I reminded myself I wouldn't have to be wearing clothes to kill him. Although how that was going to happen at this particular juncture in time was anybody's fucking guess.
The opportunity would present itself, though. Opportunities always presented themselves. You just needed to keep your eyes open because opportunities were sneaky little bastards. And if I was weak with stupid hunger, I wasn't going to be aware of shit. Stay awake, stay alert, stay alive.
Where had I heard that before? I'd heard that somewhere before, but my mind was still in a hazy cloud. I couldn't remember.
I got to my feet, bobbling just a bit. Between the rocking of the boat, and the vertigo caused by the Rohypnol, getting my legs to comply was proving a challenge. But I'd sailed before, I was a gymnast before, and my balance began to return, slowly.
I started to slip off the shirt, and watched Maddox the entire time.
One sleeve, and his eyes were eager.
The other sleeve, and they were glistening.
I held it in front of my chest, and studied him. His breath was coming quicker, his eyes wider. His brows higher. His eyebrows… there was something weird with them. Not necessarily bizarre, but something… something…. holy shit.
He dyed his eyebrows.
What kind of dude dyes his eyebrows?
“You're not a natural brunette,” I said, still holding the shirt to my chest. He flinched, just the corner of one eye closing for a microsecond, like a tic. “You should find a new stylist. 'Cause that's some sloppy ass work. You don't do it yourself, do you? Maddy?”
The problem with poking a tiger with a stick is there's a distinct possibility of pissing it off. Which is exactly what I had done.
Maddox shot up from his seat, his jaw and his fists clenched, because I was a wise ass little bitch and he was going to teach me a lesson.
I dropped my shirt to the deck.
He stopped.
Water lapped at the sides of the ship. The gull was gone, long gone, and all there was now was the sound of the Atlantic, splashing against the hull and the moon, the stars, as well as the lights from the transom illuminating Maddox's in a strangely natural, yet unnatural glow.
His jaw moved slightly from one side to the other as he ground his teeth together in a freaky kind of coping mechanism.
There was something inside this son of a bitch. Something deep and hidden that went far beyond deviant. All I'd done was point out a bad dye job. It was enough, though. Enough for me to discover that there was a nerve on which I could touch. All I had to do now was keep touching it. My revenge wouldn't survive, otherwise.
Stay awake, stay alert, stay alive.
That was from Endure! An insidiously popular reality show I'd tried out for when Leslie was in the last stages of her cancer. Money wasn't tight, it was gone, and the grand prize for living like a savage for six weeks was a cool million dollars. I'd actually made it to the final round of auditions, and was sitting in the producer's office when I got the call from the hospital. Leslie was gone.
Rebecca would soon follow.
What a fucked up ass time for me to remember.
“Take off the skirt,” Maddox growled.
I didn't.
“I said, take off the skirt.”
I gave it a beat, then another, before I did as I was told.
I undid the button, then the zipper, and pulled it down. The fabric puddled at my feet, and the sea breeze blew cold against my bare ass. In that moment, I wanted to die. There were girls who were stripping to pay their bills. Girls who were taking their clothes off by choice. I respected them. I tried to convince myself that doing this didn’t mean my dignity was gone. Like them, I was taking my clothes off to put food in my belly. Even more than that, I was doing it to save my damn life.
Maddox took a long draw from his beer, and returned to his seat. He looked at me, took his eyeful of my body, dancing his gaze up and down, up and down. I was his exhibit. His specimen. His plaything. And I gave him nothing. Not a glare, not a sorrowful plea for mercy. Nothing. I thought of ice. I thought of Leslie. I thought of Becca's last words to me.
Maddox wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took up his knife and fork, and dug into the fish again. Then he cast a glance over at me. Smirked. And pushed my dinner across the table.
I didn't have any silverware. Nor did I have china. His own food was nicely plated while mine was pushed onto a paper plate. He wasn't stupid, after all.
“And if you think for a minute I'm going to give you a knife, or a fork, even a spoon,
