Grace Street (A Chapter 8 Novel, #1) (14 page)

His stomach cramped and a knot rose in his
throat. Why the fuck did she have to call that piece of shit? Her
punishment was only going to be light until she dialed his number.
He could live with the panty wearing, but not with her contacting
an ex-lover.
Lover.
He wrinkled his nose in disgust at
thinking of her with another man. He hoped by making Elsa see him
with another woman it would make her forget about him… but she was
still crying. For what? That man never loved her. If Patrick had,
he never would’ve let her go. If he wasn’t the man he was now and
he was like he used to be, he sure as hell never would’ve let Elsa
go willingly.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed
sorrowfully. He needed a long vacation away from everyone and
everything; away from killers and victim’s families’ pleas for
justice. And Anthony. Fuck him. Hell, he needed a break from life
in general. Even away from his cherished, but challenging, Eight.
He glanced in her direction again to see she had moved from the
chair to the chaise. No, he didn’t need time away from her, he
needed more time with her; time to break her down in order to take
complete control of her.

He bowled the soup and carried it to the
small table.

“Come eat, Elsa,” he gently ordered.

She shook her head. “I have no appetite.”

“You need to eat. You’re worn out and after
all that wine last night and your menial breakfast, you need
something with substance in your stomach.”

Her sable eyes darted to him. “You know
everything, don’t you?” she asked contemptuously.

“It’s a fact that your body becomes
dehydrated after alcohol binges and you need to replenish it.”

“It wasn’t a binge, thank you. But you’re
full of lots of little facts aren’t you, Mr. Black?” Her eyes
revealed the agitation rising up again and Victor feared another
show down with her. “Here’s a little fact: you’re sadist and a
son-of-a-bitch,” she hid her face in her hands and began to cry
again.

Victor left her comment to linger in the air.
What would be the point of denying it? It was true. Hell, it was in
his blood and he had no one but his mother and father to thank for
those fucked-up qualities.

***

Elsa wiped her tears and looked up at Mr.
Black when her statement went unanswered.

“How could you?” she asked again,
sniffing.

His look of imperviousness turned to
agitation and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Why are you
crying over a man who doesn’t deserve you?”

His statement stunned her. How the hell would
he know what Patrick deserved? “You don’t know Patrick or what he
deserves. You know nothing about him,” she tried to defend him.

“I know he used you for his own pleasure and
then threw you away as if you meant nothing to him,” he glared at
her.

Elsa winced. It was true, Patrick had done
that, but still… “You hypocrite. What is it that you’re doing with
me if not using me for your own ruthless pleasure?”

Now it was Mr. Black’s turn to wince. “I’m
not using you,” he puffed his chest out. “I’m helping you.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
Did he really believe that? “Say what?”

“You heard me. I’m helping to make you a
stronger person.”

“No, you’re making me learn to hate you,
VICTOR,” she gave emphasis to his real name.

Suddenly the bad-ass Mr. Black shrank in his
seat. “Hate is a strong word,” his eyes reflected hurt.

“Yes, it is; the strongest. And I don’t use
it frivolously.”

Recovering quickly, he waved his hand in
dismissal. “Hate me if you want, but you’ll be a better person
because of me when this game is over.”

Him and his damned game. There was no getting
through to him and Elsa was too tired to try. “You know nothing,
only stupid, useless facts,” she turned her face away.

“I know your precious Patrick likes to fuck
his sexual partners in the ass,” he shot back.

His cruelty knew no bounds and she rose to
her feet, ready for another fight.

“I have some footage of that, too, if you’d
like me to show you,” one side of his mouth curled upward revealing
his amusement in her annoyance.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she blared
at him.

“Did he fuck you in the ass?” he plunged on,
his voice low and composed.

Feeling the blood rise to her cheeks, she
seated herself and fidgeted with the hem of her robe. “No,” she
whispered, trying to avoid eye contact.

Sitting on the edge of his seat, Mr. Black
gave her a pointed stare. “I’ve already told you once that if
you’re going to lie to me, then make it convincing.”

“You
want
me to lie to you?” she asked
with incredulity. What person in their right mind wanted to be lied
to?

“No, but if you’re going to play my game and
continue to do it, then put some fucking effort into it and make me
believe what you’re saying,” he snapped. “Here’s another little
fact for you, Ms. Cassidy: despite what everyone says about the
merits of truth and honesty, lying can be an extremely useful skill
to master. It can get you out of a helluva lot of shitty situations
and it may even save your life someday.”

There truly was no talking to this man
logically or otherwise and she sat slack-jawed staring at his
ridiculousness. Is this what they trained him to be in the FBI? An
egomaniac who touted the virtues of dishonesty?

“Now shall we try this again? Did Patrick
fuck you in the ass?”

She wasn’t going to play his game. Not this
time. “Yes,” she answered without blinking an eye.

His blazing eyes seethed with fury at her
honesty. “Did you like it?” he continued to badger her.

Pushing her chin out, she answered truthfully
again. “Yes.”

Seemingly resigned, Mr. Black sank back into
the chair and folded his arms back over his chest. Elsa felt pride
in having won this round against the inscrutable Mr. Black until
she saw the light in his eyes return as if he was ready for the
next go round.

“I’ll have to keep that little
fact
in
mind.”

She gave up. It wasn’t even noon and she was
ready for a nap. She curled into the chaise and turned away from
Mr. Black. She couldn’t stand to look at him one more minute. The
room darkened when the curtains were drawn on the bay window and
without warning, the tears came again. But they weren’t for
Patrick, they were for the loss of the last little bit of innocence
she had retained over the years. Mr. Black had annihilated it and
she felt used up.

“Peach,” she heard from above her.

She wasn’t anyone’s sweet anything. She was
just plain old, used-up Elsa with a broken heart and a battered and
bruised spirit.

The small chaise could barely hold her, but
Mr. Black squeezed his body in behind her and crushed her with his
arms.

“Don’t touch me,” she tried to shrug him
away.

“Stop fighting me, Elsa,” he cooed into her
ear.

She needed his warmth and grudgingly gave
into his embrace. He tugged her closer yet until her body
ached.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he breathed
against her neck. “That was never my intention. I just wanted…” he
sighed. “Just let me hold you.”

*

Elsa woke hot and sweaty and with Mr. Black’s
limbs wrapped around her. She freed herself from his grip and moved
to the window. She had no idea what time it was, but she was
guessing it was late afternoon. She peered over her shoulder to see
him slumbering soundly.

She was still feeling the effects of his
reprisal, both physically and emotionally. Would she ever forgive
him for what he had done? Could she? She wanted to. The desperation
heard in his voice as he held her close spoke more to his
intentions than his actions.

Kneeling by his side, she pulled her fingers
through his thick hair and he mumbled “Cambridge” before rolling
onto his side. The skeleton key hanging on the long chain around
his neck jangled and dipped off the edge of the chaise. Skimming
her fingers over the old silver ridges of the key, she had an idea
of what door it might open after looking it over closely – the door
to the room she had been trying to gain access to during each of
her visits to 2500 East Grace Street.

She fretfully chewed the corner of her lip,
pondering what to do. She lifted the key to see if she could slip
the chain over his head but when she tried, he stirred and nearly
woke up. Instead, she slid the necklace around until the clasp
presented itself. Slowly she opened it and released the chain from
around his neck.

Quietly, she climbed the stairs and put the
key into the opening. She took a deep breath and turned. The loud
click of the door unlocking startled her and her eyes darted to the
staircase, positive she had woken Mr. Black. When she was convinced
she hadn’t, she tip-toed in. Flipping on the lights, she was faced
with a wall of small televisions and a computer on a desk. She
immediately knew what she was looking at. Surveillance monitors.
Her stomach dropped. He had been watching her all along in the
house. It was no wonder he knew that she had masturbated. But what
was the purpose of watching her? What exactly was his agenda?

She glanced out the door one more time and
listened carefully to make sure there were no signs of life from
below before booting up the computer.

One by one, the monitors came on, revealing
each of the rooms in the house except the surveillance room and the
hall to the bedrooms. She could see clearly that Mr. Black was
still in the same position she had left him. She punched several
buttons randomly on the computer and was faced with a panel of
options, one of which was to view recorded video. Undoubtedly her
punishment had been recorded, but she couldn’t bear the thought of
seeing that horrible fiasco played out and her reaction. Or Mr.
Black’s.

Remembering the slap, she touched her cheek.
She wasn’t going to make excuses for his heinous action against
her, but he did warn her. She had no doubt that no matter how harsh
his response had seemed at the time, he had most definitely held
back and that he could’ve hurt her far worse than he did. Actually,
her cheek wasn’t even sore and she suspected there was no trace of
it. She shook her head of the thought. He hit her and she would
never allow it again. Like she had been allowed one for free – so
had he. She vowed at that moment to never raise her hand in anger
against him again, but not out of fear of reprisal but out of
respect, even if he didn’t deserve it.

Sitting on the floor next to the desk sat his
briefcase. She opened it and reached a hand inside, pulling out the
first thing her fingers clamped onto - a thick, leather-bound
journal. When she opened it to the page that was bookmarked, her
pulse skittered when she read the heading.

Chapter 8: Elsa, age 28. Profession:
Biomedical engineer.

She only got halfway through the distressing
passage when something on one of the monitors caught her eye and
she saw Mr. Black rising from chaise. She stuffed his journal back
into his satchel and turned everything off quickly, panic coursing
through her body. She reached the door and looked back to see his
briefcase wide open. She forgot to latch it, but there was no time.
She quietly closed the door, locked it and hoped that he didn’t
hear the noisy old latch when she did. She heard her name called
out and sprinted into the master suite across the hall and into the
bathroom, planting her ass on the seat.

Hearing footsteps on the stairwell, she
suddenly remembered she still had the key and necklace in hand. She
flung both out into the bedroom near the chair facing the wall and
prayed he believed it had fallen off during their physical
altercation.

He came sauntering in, rubbing the back of
his neck, none the wiser of her little investigation. She kept her
eyes to the floor as she tried to make herself urinate. She didn’t
dare make eye contact for fear that he would see right through her
little charade. Mr. Black was right – learning the skill of lying
might just come in handy, especially around him.

Without so much as an acknowledgment, he
unceremoniously undressed and climbed into the shower. Only then
did Elsa let out the breath she had been holding. Her mind was
still racing with what little she had read and she was itching to
get her hands back on that journal.

Chapter Eight. So that’s what she was to him
and now his words from Thursday made perfect sense. He had stated
that she was no different than the other Chapters and she was dying
to know what exactly he meant by that. She was different. She
didn’t need to read the rest of his journal to know that, but that
didn’t keep her from wanting to read about the ones before her and
to see what else he had written about her.

But could she handle what else was written on
those pages? His upsetting words were hard to forget. He admitted
to enjoying her anxiety from the very beginning and she had only
given him what he wanted by reacting the way she did. He also
stated he was a sick and depraved fuck. Did he really believe that?
If that was true, what a frightening thought. More than
frightening. Mortifying.

It made her want to bolt in the opposite
direction and to call the authorities, but who would she call? The
police? What would they do when one of the FBI’s best was accused
of being sick and depraved? Like Mr. Black had pointed out, those
are subjective qualities. After all, other than the slap, he hadn’t
really hurt her physically. Her allegations would go over like a
lead balloon and no doubt her words would fall on deaf ears.

But the other side of him… the one he had
shown her in her apartment… where did that part of his personality
play into all of this? Or was his duality all part of his damned
game to lure her in only to cruelly punish her? Damn Mr. Black and
his secrets and games.