Extreme Danger. Shannon McKenna
looked her over, and tugged her plunging neckline up so that her nipples no longer peeked over the edge of the blouse. She grabbed his hand. “Please, don’t,” she said. “If you do, it shows my—”
“Aw, fuck.” He scowled at the tuft of pubic hair that he had revealed.
“It’s one or the other, you see.” She shook with hysterical giggles.
He muttered something vicious in that unknown language, and put the tray with the decanted wine, wineglasses and the appetizers into her hands.
The glasses rattled. He put his hands over hers to steady them. His hands were so warm. Strong.
He nudged her along in the direction of the dining room. They stopped outside the door. He leaned down, gave her a swift, firm kiss on the cheek.
“Watch out,” he muttered. “And smile, goddamnit.”
He opened the door and gave her a push that made her stumble a little. Becca stretched her pink, shiny mouth, feeling like a plastic doll. Her bare toes gripped the carpet to steady herself. She felt damp with chilled sweat. Stippled with goose bumps, all over her body.
Someone had lit the candles. The tapers glimmered. Her nearsighted eyes swam with tears. She could barely see the two men seated at the table. Tears swirled the points of light into a bright blur. She squeezed her eyes shut, let them flash down her face. She couldn’t wipe them away with a tray in her hands.
The men swam into focus as she approached. Smile, goddamnit.
She could do that. Smiling, acting cheerful while she was actually dying inside was a skill at which she excelled, although she secretly wasn’t sure whether it was a skill she should be proud of. But it was coming in handy now.
The two men stopped talking as she approached the table. She had a brief moment of total vertigo, and a switch was thrown inside her.
She couldn’t call it courage. It felt more like an automatic default mechanism kicking into action. An emergency generator that came on during a power outage. Just enough juice for basic function. No frills.
She set the tray on the sideboard, flashed a brilliant smile at the men seated at the table. She set out their glasses, poured their wine with practiced grace. Automatic gestures, programmed into her from years of waitressing jobs and catering gigs. She caught a glimpse of the Spider’s guest when she poured his wine. He didn’t really notice, being busy checking out her boobs.
He looked like he belonged at her country club. Late forties, handsome, distinguished. Graying temples, white teeth, perfect tan, reeking of privilege.
“And what have you prepared for us, my dear?” the Spider asked.
She smiled, smiled, smiled, as she set out the antipasti. “You’ll start with four different types of bruschetta, and an assortment of fine Italian cheeses and sausages. Then we’ll move on to roasted zucchini dressed with mint and lemon, eggplant gratinée, grilled portobello mushrooms, and roasted stuffed red peppers. Wafer thin slices of Piedmontese capicollo, dressed with flakes of grana, arugula, and the very best Pugliese olive oil, followed by slices of spicy Calabrese sopressata…”
And so on and so forth. Hyped-up foodie blather was second nature to her. Thank God for her years of restaurant work. She had been able to put a feast like this together and buy a little time.
Or maybe not. She noticed the lustful greed smoldering in the Spider’s eyes.
When she retreated to the door, she was uncomfortably aware of the mens’ gaze fixed on her bottom, the undercurve of which hung right out of the loose peasant blouse. It took all her self-control to walk slowly.
The door closed. She sagged against it, gulping in air.
Time wore on, and as dinner progressed it seemed, at least on a superficial level, to get easier. It even took on an air of apparent normality—if she ignored her lack of underwear, the scowling armed guard, and everything else that had happened that day.
Snippets of the conversation floated through the barriers of fear and tension in her brain. The two men didn’t talk of murder, drug trafficking or anything obviously evil or illegal. She tried to remember the headlines she’d glanced at online a day or so ago. Homicidal Sex Fiends Invade Pacific Northwest? Nah. Nothing like that.
The Spider and his guest chatted about world politics, global economics, natural gas, the stock market. But as they consumed more wine, they began looking at her in that unmistakable way that made her body cringe with dread.
She almost dropped a filet of beef right into the Spider’s wineglass when he grabbed her buttock. His hand was moist and hot, his pudgy fingers pulling up the blouse until her bottom was completely exposed.
“Beautiful, hmm?” he commented to his guest. “Look at this. Perfection. So round. Smooth as a rose petal.”
She was motionless, her gorge rising as those humid fingers traced the cleft of her bottom. Poking, prodding.
“Very.” The Spider’s guest let out a manly chuckle. The smug sound of a guy who was not unused to situations like this.
She made the colossal mistake of meeting his eyes, her pink smile plastered across her face like a rictus of pain.
He didn’t really see her, even when he looked straight into her face. His eyes glittered with speculative interest. He lifted his glass to the Spider. “To beauty,” he said, and drank deeply.
“To desires fulfilled,” the Spider added. They drank again, their throats working.
The Spider’s hand tightened. “Turned into a statue, my dear? Put that meat upon my plate and refill my guest’s glass.”
She poured wine into the proffered glass, noticing the burnished gleam of a wedding band on the man’s hand. Cheating slimebucket. As before, her anger focused her. She drizzled the meat with sauce, imagining herself spitting on it instead. The Spider grabbed her blouse, tugged it. One of her nipples popped out. Her control snapped, and she jerked away. “Excuse me. I’ll just go and get the…the f-f-fruit.”
As soon as the door closed behind her, she ran, hand over her mouth, and barreled into something as unyielding as a brick wall.
It proved to be Mr. Big. He grabbed her shoulders.
“Please,” she gasped out, from behind her hand, before he could start scolding her. “I’m going to throw up. Right now. Please.”
He swung his arm around her shoulders and scooped her along in his wake, hustling her out onto a side deck.
Just in time. She hung over the railing, vomiting up her very soul, along with the half sandwich and coffee Mr. Big had insisted that she choke down earlier.
She dangled there, slung over the railing like a forgotten rag doll, spitting out the bitter strings of snot and bile. Eyes streaming, nose bubbling, bare ass hanging out for anyone to see. Not that she cared.
A big, warm hand on her shoulder made her jump. It was just Mr. Big again, shoving a wet linen napkin into her hand. She cleaned her face. “I c-c-can’t go back in there,” she stammered. “I’m too scared.”
“You have to.” His face was resolute, hard as stone.
She pressed the wet rag against her shaking mouth and tried to suck enough air into her lungs to speak, to make him get it. “You don’t understand,” she gasped out. “He keeps putting his hand between my legs. I think they want—that they’re going to—”
“Becca.” He gripped her shoulders. “I am trying to help you.” He enunciated each word so that they punched into her head. “But the timing’s not right yet. You have to go back. I need…more…time.”
Vibrating with fear, she didn’t fight back.
“Do you want to live?” he hissed.
She stared into his eyes. She mouthed one soundless word. Yes.