Burn(4)

“Teo, get the door,” Julio orders the other guard who was with Andreas when I arrived at the compound. Teo’s not like Andreas, though. He does as he’s told without voicing his fucking opinion over even the slightest thing. And he doesn’t seem to hate me the same way Andreas does. He just does his job and keeps his trap shut. This might make most people think he is less of a threat to someone like me, but actually the opposite is true. Andreas has shown me his hand. I know what’s going on in his head every time I fucking look at the guy. I have no idea what’s going on in Teo’s head. That makes him an unknown. A threat.

Teo’s all business as he opens up the door, and I brace myself for whatever we’re going to find on the other side. Am I gonna be killing a bunch of people in a second? Or am I gonna be putting my acting face on? Julio’s bulk blocks my view for a second, but then I see.

Michael.

Sitting on an armchair, hands cuffed together in front of him, watching television. There’s no other furniture in the room besides the chair and the television, resting on a splintering wooden stand. He doesn’t look up at us when we walk in. Just sits erect in his chair, eyes focused on the screen. Julio’s photos of Michael, taken when they captured him, had showed that they’d taken a pot shot or two already—he’d had a nasty black eye and a split lip—and I’d made the assumption that they would continue with their persuasion, but, weirdly, it looks as though I was wrong. He’s fine. Okay, not fine, fine, but they haven’t roughed him up any more. His black eye is a vivid purple against the coffee color of his skin, but the outer edges have begun to take on a jaundiced yellow, and his lip has had time to scab over. Julio lumbers into the room, pausing to take a moment to assess the TV set.

“America’s Next Top Model, huh? You gay, ese?” Julio asks in a conversational tone, as though he’s genuinely interested in Michael’s sexual orientation.

Michael, my boy, my right hand, smirks out of the corner of his mouth and raises one eyebrow. “Yes. That’s why I was checking out all those girls you got locked up here. ’Cause I’m gay.”

Julio snorts, nodding his head slowly. Michael finally peels his indifferent gaze away from the TV and rakes it over Julio and me, and the a silent Teo behind us. His expression doesn’t falter when he sees me. I’m cheering like a fucking moron on the inside. Seriously. Most people would twitch or something—would show some sign of recognition—but not Michael. He knows the drill here.

“Well,” Julio says, “I suppose it’s a good insight into how chicks’ brains work, I guess. You learned anything interesting yet?”

“That they’re all crazy bitches?” Michael rubs his nose with the back of his hand, apparently at ease in his surroundings. He’ll have been like this since they put him down here, which has undoubtedly been driving them, especially Andreas, stark raving mad. The problem is, a random perve busted for spying on chicks taking a shower wouldn’t react this calmly. They’d probably be shitting their pants. They may not have anything on Michael, but his attitude is telling them enough all by itself. He’s not just some pervert. He’s someone. He’s someone that someone else will eventually miss. Julio walks to Michael’s chair and picks up the remote. He switches off the set, which causes Michael to suck in a tired breath and pivot in his seat, so that his body is finally facing us.

Our eyes meet for barely a split second, and I get nothing. Not a warning. Not a flicker of recognition. Nothing. I’m itching to send him some sort of message, but I don’t. I do that and we’re both dead. Michael knows as much already. “You brought in the heavy artillery, I see,” he says.

Julio snaps his fingers and Teo hurries out of the room; they’ve clearly done this before. “Yeah, I brought in the big guns just for you, buddy. We gave you some time to think about what you’ve done and why you’re here. Now we’ve come to chat. Anything in particular you’d like to talk about, ese?”

Teo returns then, a wooden stool in either hand. He places them in front of Michael, and Julio sits down on the first. The other is apparently for me. I sit, trying to figure our how the hell this is all gonna play out. Badly, I’m guessing. Really fucking badly.

“Not particularly,” Michael says, letting his head fall to one side. His shirt is fucking filthy, covered in blood—not his blood; his lip wouldn’t have bled that much and his nose is just fine, which means it must be someone else’s. I get a kick out of that. My boy Michael is fucking dangerous when he needs to be.