“What if you’re wrong?”
“Last time he had the element of surprise. He’s lost that now, and I’ll be watching for a needle. If he brings one, I won’t give him a chance to use it.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that,” she said, her skepticism obvious as she munched on a limp fry.
“Thanks.”
Overhead, the loose floorboard groaned again and my head swiveled toward the stairs before I could stop it. Wow, I thought, I’ve only been here for a few hours, and already I’m acting like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Only my conditioned response was not salivation, but fear.
“It’s Miguel,” Abby whispered, a thin tremor in her voice.
“How do you know?”
The soft whoosh-whoosh of her pulse sped up as she dropped her fries back into the paper bag. “Trust me. It’s him.”
Wonderful.
“Carpe diem,” I mumbled, scrambling to my feet as I tried to recall the Latin translation for “Seize the cat by the balls.” Marc had taught it to me years ago. Too many years ago, apparently. “Any advice?”
Abby scooted backward on her rear. “Think about something else.”
“Like ripping his throat out?”
She stared at me in astonishment, then a grim smile spread slowly over her face. “That might work.”
I had my doubts, but the image of blood pouring from Miguel’s neck was pretty damn appealing.
The creak of the door opening interrupted my fantasy with an unhealthy dose of reality. A sudden flood of light from the staircase made me instantly alert. I forgot my need for the restroom. My hand clenched around the plastic bottle. Water spilled over my fingers and onto the mattress. Fresh sweat broke out behind my knees and on my forehead. My muscles tensed. My chest tightened.
The woman in me watched the steps in dread, but the caged cat was eager, because everyone who entered the basement represented my shot at freedom. Even if I had to fight for it. And I was ready to fight.
I screwed the lid on my water bottle and let it fall to the mattress as I stepped onto the concrete, struggling to control my pounding heart.
Black work boots appeared on the top step. Abby glanced up.
“Buenos días, chicas,” Miguel said. His words sounded beautiful and exotic, in startling contrast to his apparent intentions.
But I didn’t give a damn about his intentions. I had plans of my own.
Twenty-Two
Miguel clomped down the stairs, his steps heavy and pronounced. I held my breath, hoping to hear him stumble in the dark and fall to his death. Unfortunately that only seems to happen in the movies. He took the stairs slowly, and I was sure he did it intentionally, to prolong my dread. But if that was the case, the joke was on him, because I had lots of practice waiting anxiously. Inspiring fearful anticipation was Daddy’s specialty. My father was the master at making you wait until you were willing to punish yourself just to get it over with.And waiting on Miguel had a benefit for me that he’d probably never considered. By the time he hit the last step, my eyes had readjusted to the gloom, and I could see him pretty well.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, facing Abby. “How are you this evening, Ms. Wade?” Each word was crisp and carefully spoken, his pronunciation seasoned with the distinctive rhythm of his native Portuguese.
Abby glanced at me with wide, scared eyes and backed up until she hit the cinder blocks at the back of the cage, her palms flat against the wall, as if she’d like to pass through it.
“Don’t worry, niña,” Miguel said. “I’ll be visiting our new guest today.” He turned his back on her, and Abby slid down the wall to sit with her arms wrapped around her knees. She watched through eyes narrowed to slits as Miguel sauntered slowly toward me, stopping two feet from the door to my cage. “How do you like your accommodations, Ms. Sanders?”
“My accommodations?” Ignoring my rolling stomach, I glanced around the basement, pretending to consider the question. “I assume you were going for stark simplicity with the metal-and-concrete decor, but it just doesn’t work for me. It’s too ‘third-world detention center’ for my taste. As are the restroom facilities. And room service here sucks. I can’t think straight in the morning without a healthy dose of caffeine, and I have yet to see a single cup of coffee. But the worst is the food. Tell Ryan to get off his ass and make me something decent. Maybe some chicken, with a little rosemary? He’ll know the recipe I mean.”
Miguel smiled, clearly amused. “Anything else I can do for you?”
I scratched my head, just behind my left ear. “Um, let me think. Yeah, there is one more thing. Fuck off.”
Chuckling, he pulled a small silver key from his front pocket. “As delightful as that sounds, I was thinking of something a little more…collaborative.”
Collaborative? How very civil, as if he wanted to cochair a committee with me.
“I get the impression you don’t play very well with others, but if you’d like a set of scars to match Eric’s, by all means, come on in.” I backed into the center of the cell, feet spread for balance, arms open wide to welcome him into my accommodations—at his own risk.
Miguel paused to take in my defensive stance, one hand cupping the padlock. He looked relaxed and confident, dark eyes blazing not with fear but with anticipation. And just in case I had any doubts regarding his intention, the bulge in his pants spoke quite clearly.
Shoving aside fear and self-doubt, I met his eyes, aiming for absolute confidence in both my stance and my voice. “My father taught me to disarm my opponent at all costs—regardless of his choice of weapon,” I said, glancing pointedly at his groin.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Damn right. Lay one hand on me and you’ll never stand to pee again.”
His eyes darkened, and his laugh sounded forced. “You’re very funny, gatita.”
“I’m glad you think so. I’ve always considered my sense of humor to be largely underappreciated, so it’s nice to finally meet a fan.”
Miguel laughed again, more genuinely this time, and unlocked my cage with a needlessly harsh twist of the key. The lock popped open with a sharp click and fell into his cupped palm.
Okay, time to get serious. I let my smile fade slowly and lowered my pitch, as no human woman could have. “I’m not joking this time. If I see it, it’s mine, and you won’t get it back at the end of the school year.” I growled, deep and long, savoring the feel of the vibrations in my throat, as if the sound alone could save me. It wasn’t quite a cat’s growl but it was damn close. And it was his last warning.
Miguel dismissed my threat with an easy smile, and my stomach clenched. Oh, yeah, Faythe. You have Puss shaking in his boots, all right.
I kept my eye on the key until he shoved it deep into the right front pocket of his jeans. The key was my goal, and everything would be all right once I had it. At least in theory.
Miguel opened the door and stepped inside, then closed it and reached through the bars to replace the lock. Behind him, Abby scooted into her favorite corner and buried her head in her arms. She couldn’t help hearing, but she didn’t have to watch. Seeing her like that made me want to kill him before he’d even laid a hand on me.
“Esto no tiene que ser difícil, mi amor.” He leaned against the door, waiting patiently while I puzzled my way through the translation. How courteous.
As I searched my brain for remnants from my high-school Spanish class, I stole a moment to try to force my face into a partial Shift. I stretched. I strained. I twisted my mouth into a horrible grimace. Nothing happened.
Miguel chuckled, apparently assuming my problem was linguistic in nature. It wasn’t. By the time I realized my face wasn’t going to Shift on command, I had the translation. He’d said something like, “This doesn’t have to be difficult.” But his eager grin said he was lying; he wanted me to resist.
He was about to get his wish.
Still watching him in my peripheral vision, I glanced around my cage, desperate for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing but the plastic coffee canister and the mattress. Shit.
Miguel’s heart raced, and eagerness shined in his eyes. He was practically humming with anticipation. Instinct told me to back away from him, but I fought the urge because once I reached the wall, I’d have nowhere left to go. Better to keep my options open.
“Esto va ser una diversión.”
I was still trying to translate the new phrase when he pounced, driving me back by my shoulders. He pinned me easily to the only solid wall of the cage, in spite of my attempt to avoid being trapped.
Grunting, I threw my knee up hard, aiming for his groin. Miguel stepped back, deftly avoiding the blow. Seizing my left arm, he yanked me forward. In a single, frighteningly fast movement, he spun me around, twisting my arm behind my back.
I sucked in a short breath, and Miguel pulled up on my elbow. Pain exploded in my shoulder. He shoved me face-first into the concrete blocks. I turned my head just in time to avoid a broken nose. I got a skinned cheek instead.
Aiming blind, I kicked backward and caught his shin with my heel. Miguel cursed in Portuguese and jerked up on my left arm. Fresh pain ripped through my shoulder, burning deep within the joint. I screamed. Miguel writhed against me, obviously aroused by my agony.Not again, I thought. He won’t hear me scream again.