Despite the normal ingredients and the canned tuna, there’s something special about it that I can’t put my finger on.
Maybe it is drugs, after all.
So I take another bite and another. Just to make sure.
“You like it?”
I lift my head to find Jeremy swirling the contents of his glass and watching me intently, his plate barely touched.
My ears heat when I realize I’ve almost finished mine.
“It’s not bad,” I say all businesslike, trying to downplay my embarrassment.
Jeremy’s lips twitch and he pushes his plate in my direction. “You can have this, too.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t take back his plate either. He plants his elbow on the table, leans his chin against his fist, and continues watching me from the rim of his cup.
The way he looks at me is unnerving. It’s like he wants to devour me instead of the food and then break me. Or maybe both at the same time.
So I focus on the omelet, trying and failing to figure out the special ingredient. Is it spices?
I choke in my haste and Jeremy slides a glass of water in my direction.
Only when I drink half of it and I’m assaulted by the burn do I realize it’s not water.
I cough, spluttering and hitting my chest as the burn settles there. “Why…why the hell would you give me pure vodka?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You were choking.”
“Water is fine.”
“Alcohol is better. You don’t drink much, why?”
“I’m not even going to ask how you know that. I just…don’t like losing my inhibitions.”
“I assume it has to do with drugging being a hard limit?”
I purse my lips, but apparently, that’s all the answer he needs, because he nods all-knowingly. This man is annoyingly observant and when I’m around him, I constantly have this feeling of being under a microscope.
He retrieves his glass and makes a show of drinking right from where my lip marks are.
Usually, that would make me squeamish, but right now, all I can do is stop and stare.
I clear my throat, more to disperse my attention than anything. “What happens after we eat?”
“We’re still eating.”
“I know. I’m asking about what comes after.”
“You need to learn how to live in the moment sometimes. Being too future-oriented will only lead you to the grave.”
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice.”
“You’re welcome.”
“That was sarcasm.”
“I know. Doesn’t suit you, but I digress.”
I eat a mouthful of food and stare at him. “Why do you think you’re an expert on what suits me and what doesn’t?”
“I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I notice telltale signs and patterns. It’s what I do best.”
“Because you’re in the mafia?”
“Because I had to in order to predict the behavior of someone.”
“Someone?”
He raises a brow. “Aren’t you full of questions today? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re interested in me.”
“As if.” I push the empty plate away. “I just want to know who I’m dealing with.”
“You know, you don’t have to make this unpleasant, Cecily. You and I are compatible and share a very specific kink. I can make you feel alive and desired in ways no one else is capable of. I can take away the burden of being socially accepted. It’s all in the palm of your hand if you quit being standoffish and stop fighting me every step of the way.”
“We’re not compatible, Jeremy.”
“How so?”
“You think of me as your toy, someone you can dish out orders to and expect to fall in line, and I just refuse to be that way. You don’t even give me a fair chance to make my own choices.”
“I gave you that and you chose wrong.” His voice darkens to a frightening edge.
“What? When?”
He doesn’t answer, as usual, and I’m left with the worst case of bemusement.
Ever since I became acquainted with Jeremy, he’s never given me a choice. Not even once.
So how the hell can he say I chose wrong?
He stands up with the lethargy of a big black cat and I push back against the banquette.
There’s been a shift in the air. I’m not sure why, but it’s there, and it’s rippling with suffocating tension.
“Are you done eating?”
“Why?” My voice is barely a murmur, despite how much of a pep talk I internally give myself.
“Didn’t you ask what we’ll do after we eat? The answer is a game.”
“What type of game?”
“My favorite. Russian roulette.”
CECILY
“Did you just say Russian roulette?”
“If you know the game, it doesn’t need any introduction.” A cruel smirk lifts the corner of Jeremy’s lips as he marches to a side cupboard and retrieves a small metal suitcase.
Like the ones you see in action films.
He slides it on the table between us and opens it, pulling out a revolver.
Not a toy gun, not a prop, but a real one.
His long fingers slide around the metal with expert ease as he rolls the rotating cylinder open and dumps all the bullets on the table.
They scatter and bounce in a haunting sound that strikes straight through to my bones.
For a moment, I wish this was one of those nightmares where my subconscious has a field day with bringing all my fears and weaknesses to the surface.
I wish the scene in front of me was nothing more than a cruel joke.
But the more I blink, the realer it gets.
Jeremy actually has a gun and he said he’s going to play a game with it.
Russian roulette.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I whisper, my heart thundering so hard in my chest, I’m surprised I don’t faint.
He doesn’t spare me a glance, continuing his task, erasing me from his immediate surroundings.
“Jeremy!” My voice quakes and chokes.
Finally, he slides his intense gaze to me, and it’s…dead.
Gone is the person who made me food and even smiled while talking earlier. A demon has taken his place and transformed him into a soulless monster, who’s hungry for flesh.
Myflesh.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I try and fail to control the quivering in my voice.
“I told you. Russian roulette.” He pushes a bullet into one of the gruesome holes of the rotating cylinder and slams it shut, then rolls it with a blurry speed. “But let’s make it truth time. We’ll ask two questions each and when the other answers, he has to shoot. It might be the last thing we say, so lying is prohibited. There are five empty shots and we’ll play four rounds. You go first.”
I shake my head frantically and jump up. I’m not staying here or taking part in this madness.
His earlier threat about what he’ll do if I run away pales in comparison to actually shooting ourselves.
I’m one step away when a strong arm wraps around my wrist and I’m tugged back with a force that knocks the breath out of my lungs.
He forces me down onto something hard. His lap. To keep me in place, he wraps an arm around my middle, forbidding me from moving an inch.
A deep sense of terror grips hold of me and I push at his arm, scratching, clawing, hitting.
I pour all my energy in the struggle, but I might as well be remaining still. Not only does he not budge, but his grip has tightened until I can barely breathe.
“Are you done?” His hot breath draws shivers against the skin of my ear.
I cast a glance at him behind me, at his chiseled face and handsome features. At the beautiful creature who might as well be cut from the darkness.
“Don’t do this, please,” I say more calmly, holding on to my rationality by a thread. “I…don’t want to die.”
“Neither do I.”
“How is this different from committing suicide?”
“It’s not about dying. It’s about the truth.” He hands me the gun. “You have more chances of survival if you go first. I’ll ask the question.”
“I’ll answer any questions you have. Just not like this.”
“Why do you periodically go into a catatonic state?”
A jolt zips through me and I stare at him, dumbfounded. How does he know that when I’ve managed to hide it so well?
Even the closest people to me think I’m prone to zone out, but they wouldn’t name it as specifically as he does.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice is barely above a murmur. Low and haunted.
Jeremy snatches my hand that’s balling into a fist and splays it out on the gun. I try to resist, to fight, but I’m no match for his strength.
His larger palm engulfs mine and he forces my finger to press on the trigger. He then lifts it to my temple with chilling calm until the cold muzzle is glued to my skin.
“Don’t do this.” My words tremble in sync with my insides. “I don’t want to die.”
When he speaks, it’s as if a demon has possessed him. His voice is monotone, cruel, and absolutely frightening. “Answer the question or you’ll have to take two in a row.”
I shake my head, my vision becoming blurry, and it’s then I realize my eyes are filled with tears. I can feel the air being forced out of my lungs and how the gun gains more weight with every passing second.
“If you’re calling my bluff…” He exerts force on my trigger finger.
“Wait, wait!” I blurt, the high of emotions wrecking through me like a hurricane. “It…it started during the last year of secondary school.”
“I didn’t ask you when it started, I asked why.”
I purse my lips. “Mental stress.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question. What’s the reason behind the mental stress, Cecily? What drives a confident girl like you to the point of dissociating from the world?”
I can feel my carefully built armor cracking, disintegrating, and scattering around me in bloody pieces, but I still hold on to the illusion that I can hide this part of me. “Does there need to be a reason?”
“There’s always a reason for choosing to escape inside your mind.” His voice hardens. “Why do you shut out the world and people who care about you to entertain your demons?”
My spine jerks, more at his tone and stiffening posture than what he’s demanding of me.
A crazy thought forms in my head. Could he be interested in this because he encountered something similar?
Or am I imagining things?
“Answer the question, Cecily. Properly this time.”
The nonnegotiable quality of his voice mixes with his firm grip on my finger.
If I die, then he killed me.
The fact that this might be the last moments I have, that in a few seconds, he might blow my head off, gives me the courage and openness I’ve never experienced before.
Not even when I’m drunk.