Torture (Siren Book 2) (7 page)

But my uncharacteristic clinginess is only until I've braced myself again. It's not because I'm having second thoughts. It's not because I'm softening to him. It's not because I'm beginning to question how deep he
was
in his family's empire.

No matter how tenderly he treats me, nothing's changed. He hasn't been redeemed—and can't be. His touches can rattle me, but they can't actually affect me. It doesn't matter that my skin hasn't stopped tingling since he licked me, my body deprived of its release.

I get to my knees, and get back to work. No point dragging this out.

Calder's got some lessons to learn, and here's where they start getting
painful
.

*              *              *

The clock in the control room blinks, and it takes me a few seconds to make sense of it through the exhaustion. My own sweat is heavy in my nostrils, clearing out the last of Calder's musk. It's three AM, and I'm not due at work until six. Even factoring the need to go home and shower, I still have time.

It's been too long since I was able to just sit and
be
, just soak in the
Siren
's allure. And now I have that time. It's even worth the hell the extra stairs'll be on my aching legs. I make the trek up to the bridge, spiderwebs collecting around defunct monitors, and then up the last flight of stairs, outside, several floors above the main deck.

The roof's flat, only a collection of metal antennae of varying sizes studding the plane. The breeze buffets me, chilling me to the bone, and for a moment, as always, I rise to tiptoes, giving it the chance to tug me off my feet, claim me for its own.

An antennae wobbles, rather more than it should, and I test it with my weight. It's secure enough, for the moment, and I've got other things to do than fix it. If I lean on it harder, it might come down, and I don't have time for that right now.

The clear air freezes in my lungs, stealing the last remnants of smoke, musk, and the smells accumulated by humans living together in close proximity. It carries my thoughts away, my uncertainty.

I lay down, flattening myself to the sealed concrete, and stare up, through the thicket of metal prongs. The best kinds of trees, static and soulless. The concrete, refreshingly firm and
real
under my weight. Not jittering in its placement. If I could, I would spend my life here.

It clears away the ambiguity, and insecurity. I don't have to question myself. I don't have to dissect every one of the people below's mannerisms, to figure out if they've learned the lesson, or if they're one wrong word away from stringing me up, and just accepting a quiet death of starvation. Or breaking down my defenses and making me come screaming.

I've bitten off too much; my limbs ache, and I've got a whole work day ahead of me. Maybe I should simplify, creep back to their rooms with more sedatives and overdose them in their sleep. Same end, less work.

But no—that's too kind for them. Not one accepts responsibility for what they've done. No one will admit they can see the world rotting around us, eaten away by these people's greed and lack of empathy. They're the same bleating sheep down there that they were out here, carrying out their grand schemes. Except for Calder, who accepts
some
responsibility, even if he lies and tries to pawn it off on others. Not exactly a step up, that.

He's a good actor, good at playing sincere. He'll be a helluva politician, once he tires of dealing with the shipyard. And he'll rain hell down on all of us, with that lopsided smile and easy charm. Even as he fucks me like I'm the most beautiful creature he's ever seen.
Oh yes, sir. Of
course
I'll look the other way on that bribe.
His easy charisma, and confidence taking charge, his ability to make people in dangerous situations feel
safe
... it would've ruined us, if I hadn't taken steps to ruin
him
first.

Nothing wrong with breaking him first. Like I promised.

I've seen enough broken men in my life. I don't
want
to see any more. Except for him.

It's time to go. The abandoned ship is sealed up tight, the doors checked methodically, and I still need that shower.

As I step off the gangway and return to my normal life, at least for the time being, I miss the way the
Siren
rolled in the waves. I miss the floor shaking under my feet, reassuringly volatile.

It doesn't do any good to weep for reality's intrusions. I'll be back to them soon enough. And I doubt I'll be gone long enough for them to do anything I'd miss seeing.

The road slips into a hypnotic streak beneath my tires. The scenery turns to the familiar urban decay, trees fading into scraggly trees, fading into ramshackle buildings. Time to put away my power and plumage, and be a drone.

I park out front, pausing to stare at a car a block away, rather nicer than any of my neighbors should have. Maybe one of them managed to secure a good loan, or bought it from a relative. It's odd, but nothing unheard of. And I'm in too much of a hurry to think about it. I slide in the front door, automatically reaching down to slide my finger across the bullethole still marring the front wall. Nothing else remains of Mara's short life, except a handful of childish drawings. But it's a constant reminder of the cost of defiance.

Soon, the rest of them will know Winchester's pain. Soon, they'll face karma for the lives they've stolen.

But in the meantime, there's ships to repair. There's a charade to keep up. And there's more planning to do, more opportunities to watch for.

Soon, I'll break my silence. But not yet.

Chapter Eight

Calder

For the first time in fuck knows how long, I wake up alone. And it's doubly disturbing after falling asleep with Milla's hair tickling my cheek and her breath on my neck. The pain of waking up nearly erodes the effect of such peaceful dreams.

At first, I think I'm blindfolded, until I realize there's just no light here. I hope my eyes will adjust, start making out at least a
little
in the blackness. In the meantime, I feel around on hands and knees, trying to get a sense of the perimeters.

I'm on a bedframe with metal netting still intact, but no mattress. No wonder my neck aches. The whole thing is nailed down, and I can't pry up the bolts securing it to the floor.
Why would someone do that
? Certainly no factory I've heard of would have facilities like this; am I still in the same place, or was I moved far? Does that mean someone's looking for me, and our captor had to hide me elsewhere? The room is
tiny
, smaller even than my room at the boarding school I attended until eighteen. And I thought
that
thing was a
closet
.

“Hello?” I call, though I doubt an answer’s gonna come. There’s no sound around me except for the faint creaks of the structure settling. The panic is thick enough to almost  choke me. But trying to get someone’s attention is my best bet.

I yell out more, in case the others are close enough to hear me, but get no response. The darkness, combined with the quiet, it disorients me. The world spins and sways, and I flatten myself to the floor to try to make it stop.

God, what I'd give for Denise's nonconfrontational aloofness, or Allen's insecure aggression. God, what I'd give for Milla's mood swings and warmth. Even if I can't have her body. Worry knots my gut; are the others okay? Are they together? Why was I separated? Who'd I piss off?

I roar until my throat's hoarse, and my knuckles and shoulders ache from pounding the wall and floor. I don't know why I bothered doing it
that
long. It's not like it did any good before.

The floor is marginally more comfortable than the bedframe. I settle in for another purposeless nap.  The air's cleaner than the other room. That would be a pleasure, but smelling my own clothes and hands, there's still the lingering tang of smoke, and something softer that I know to be Milla's fragrance still on me, comforting and heavy. I strip off my shirt for a pillow, to better surround myself in it. Under most circumstances, it wouldn't be pleasant, as concentrated as human smells get, but I'm sure I smell worse. It wasn't worth wasting water to shower. And in the sudden isolation, her scent grounds me. For a while, I wasn't alone.

After long enough, it occurs to me that it's not my own vertigo rocking the floor. And just like that, it hits me—this is some kind of boat. The pipes, the furniture secured to the floor, the swaying... That narrows it somewhat, even if it
does
make it more likely that whyever the others are here, it's directed at
me
. The knowledge cascades panic through me, makes me punch the walls with renewed fervor. But they don't give under my hands like drywall would; it's some sort of durable plastic. Fiberglass, maybe.

In the darkness, a memory comes to me, blurry and addled, but nudged loose by the womanly musk I'm clinging to.

The woman in front of me is drop dead gorgeous, all dark curls and smoky eyes,  and I can almost taste her sweet, sweet pussy already. “You're coming to my place, though; my mama always said not to trust strangers.” Her face changes, something distressing and vulnerable drifting across it, before she catches it and widens her welcoming grin. Even the flash of sadness only lures me deeper, filling me with a craving to make her scream until whatever it is has been chased out of her head by orgasm after orgasm. But that's not exactly polite to say.

“Oh yeah. I'm obviously the big bad wolf.” Better to distract her with teasing.

Her red lips pull back from her teeth as she smiles, revealing a slight gap between her front teeth. “No... I am.” She winks, daring me to disagree.

I'm drunk enough to not want the opportunity to slide by. Any excuse to be close to her. “Are you? You gonna huff,” I lean in and inhale next to her ear, my lips tickling the lobe again. I swear to god, if she makes that little half-moan every other way I want to touch her, we're gonna end up with a public indecency charge. Goosebumps raise on her neck, and I guide her off her bar stool with my palm on the small of her back. “And puff,”  I blow on her earlobe, catching it lightly between my lips and flicking my tongue against it as my breath runs out. Her skin is soft and intoxicating, and her scent...
damn
. “And blow my house down?” I kiss her, again sliding my tongue into her mouth. She gasps, arching into me the rest of the way, her curvaceous body pressing against me, yielding and pliant, but demanding. My blood flows straight to my cock, nothing left but to take her home—to
her
home—and explore her body completely.

She catches her breath, but doesn't let it go unanswered. “You know, I think I just might.” Familiar blue-green eyes dance as she leads me into the night air.

The deja vu overwhelms me, waking up in a dark room alone.

But more than that, there's the revelation. I
knew
I'd seen Milla before. Or maybe she has a sister? But in that bar...
There's
a connection I hadn't seen. The only question is, when the hell was it? Obviously her hair was different, but that just means she dyed it at some point, if it
was
her.

It's sobering, that I can't pinpoint it. I've never been the type to avoid indulging in good liquor, and especially after Mom's death, I spent quite a while crawling up a bottle. And while I've done my best to be kind to the women I screw, they all know it's a one-night thing.

My heart aches, to think of using Milla that way, knowing how resilient and intelligent she is, how enigmatically charming, once you get to know her. Then the ache doubles to guess why she'd
let
me.  I'd kill to have recovered that memory sooner, when there was still time to apologize for dragging her into this. It's becoming more and more obvious that I'm the target; whoever probably just saw our tryst and made assumptions. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong person, and she may yet die for it. How long ago
was
it, anyways?

Her mercurial nature, and unwillingness to open up... it makes sense now. She knew all along that she was there because of me. She just didn't want to be the one to say it. With the loneliness looming, I'd kill to have that memory, to know exactly what her skin felt like against mine, not just in hazy memory, but in visceral reality.

A distant noise jostles me from my thoughts. It takes me a moment to place it—a scream, from a voice not shrill, nor deep. Allen or Denise, then. I can't imagine Milla screaming like that. I'm up and yelling before I stop to think about it. But the cry is gone before I can even figure out which direction it's coming from.

Then, there's just the quiet. I'm well and truly trapped.
Again
.

Nothing for it but to wait.

Chapter Nine

Milla

Maybe for some people, it would be a relief to be home again. Showering regularly, eating warm food hand-cooked, instead of cold sandwiches. But it's felt less and less like home since I started spending so much time aboard the
Siren
, watching those parasites. I can't even make myself put my filthy pants and shirt in the wash.

And it's doubly nerve-wrecking, knowing as much as I do. Roane Industries seems to have hushed up Calder's disappearance; either they
genuinely
think he's off cavorting somewhere tropical, or they have their own reasons for not reporting it widely. It makes me wonder how loyal they really were to him anyways. Would that knowledge hurt? Would it be pouring salt on the wound giving him pictures of them happily grandstanding in his place?

Still, the routine is welcome, even though my sleep cycle is somewhat off, due to the lack of ability to keep time when I'm with my prey. The herd's gonna get thinned really soon, so I've gotta watch for a few more, to make sure they all know the seriousness of it. There's some addresses I've had a tough time locating, but I'll get there eventually. Not too much rush, all told.

My second day back, there's a knock on my front door. Since the neighbors usually leave me well enough be, only talking to me when we pass at the grocery store, it's unexpected.

I open my dad's gunsafe, fingering his Magnum reverently, as I tuck it in my pocket. Better safe than sorry.

The knocks come again, louder. My hands shake slightly, watching the door rattle on its hinges. It's a painful trigger that I never quite moved past; every time someone knocks loudly, I imagine the door giving way, and the knocker storming in, gun in hand, like the two thugs who murdered Mara.

“Coming,
coming.
Jesus.” I yell, turning the burner on low so my food doesn't burn.

I jerk the door open as far as the deadbolt will allow. “Hello?”

I know the young man on my doorstep by sight, only. Calder's combined driver and bodyguard. Evan Duran. He smiles at me, as welcomingly as he can, but I know there's a predator under there, waiting for me to unlock the door.

“No solicitors, man. Not interested.” I go to shut the door, but he slides his fingers between the door and frame to block it. It's an aggressive move, one that matches the imposing vibe embodied in his broad shoulders and stiffly pressed clothes. “What the hell do you think you're—”

“Please, ma'am. A minute of your time. I'm not gonna sell you anything.”

So... now what? If I leave him out there, he might draw attention I don't want from the neighbors. And I don't see a way of getting rid of him without using
far
more violence than I safely
can
, here.

“What's this about?”

“I'm looking for my friend, ma'am. I think you might know him.”

“I doubt it—I keep to myself.”

“I'd feel a lot better if I showed you his picture, ma'am.”

I sigh, and take the pepper spray out of my purse. It seems like a good medium step, and a reasonable warning. I undo the deadbolt, and let him finish opening the door. A muffled sizzle makes me run back to the kitchen, swearing. Somehow, my pot
still
boiled over. “
Shit.
”

He follows me there, watching as I hurriedly stir it, and suck my thumb where a little of the boiling water splashed.

I glare at him, and pick up the pepper spray again. He gives me a nonplussed grin. “Can't blame you there, ma'am. I know this is an imposition.”

“Camilla.” He'll have my name anyways, if he looks up the address. No point in lying. “Not ma'am. Can you make this fast? I've gotta eat dinner, and I've got an early morning tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He can't quite make himself address me by name; he's plainly trying hard to keep a cold demeanor. “Evan Duran.”

I nod an acknowledgment, but keep quiet, busying myself with my food.

He offers his phone to me, and I take it, cautiously. “Feel free to scroll through. Have you seen that man?”

If he's here, he
clearly
knows Calder was. And his phone is full of pictures of him and Calder laughing together: in nice tuxedos with beer bottles in their hands, plainly after some formal function, in t-shirts with their knuckles taped up, probably sparring at the gym or something, shirtless at some beach
far
more luxurious than any around here.

No point in lying, or at least not lying the way he expects. “Ugh.
That
asshole.” I make a low growl in my throat.

“Ma—uh, Camilla?”

“I saw him a bit back. Don't quite remember; the days blur together on the 'yard.” I flash him a tight grin. “We were drinking together, and I thought it might be more, took him back here.”

Evan leans forward, showing his eagerness like a rank amateur. “And?”

“And he was a prick. Spent the whole ride joking about the neighborhood, and got forceful once we got in here. Like he thought that there was no
way
I'd say no to someone as impressively awesome as him.” I roll my eyes, and bite my lip.

“That doesn't sound like him.”

“Well, we
had
a lot to drink. Maybe he's perfectly nice when he's sober. But he was a raging ass.” And who cares what Evan thinks of it, so long as I can persuade him it was real enough to make him stop digging. I shouldn't look like I'm trying to convince him, rather, I need to look like I'm blowing off my
own
steam.

I stir the pot with a little more rage. It's nice taking out the aggression and my own nerves on something. He ducks his head, likely wanting to defend his boss further. I glare harder, and pull my shoulders around myself slightly, as though still feeling somewhat shaken by the whole thing.

“So you two
didn't
hook up, then.” He shrugs, making it clear he's not judging. “What time did he leave, do you know? Did he say where he was going? Do you remember
exactly
what day it was?”

“What's this about?” I stare at him shrewdly. Does he know more than he's letting on? Is he trying to trap me?

He gambles on his acting skills. “Calder, my friend—the guy in the pictures—he's missing. The night he went missing, he said he was going home with someone. He texted me the address to pick him up at, in the morning. It was this one. I came by, but no one was here. It was around nine AM on—” he scrolls through, to look for the date.

“Well there's your problem. I leave for work between five and seven, generally. Shipyard hours. Most of the people around here do. You're looking at a ghost town coming in that late.”

“Oh,” he says, and shakes his head slightly. “Still, do you know which way he went when you kicked him out?”

I pinch my nose between thumb and forefinger, as though massaging the tension out of my head. “It was dark out; he said he was gonna have someone pick him up, and he took off walking that way—” I gesture vaguely. “He was playing with his phone, but I didn't stay to watch. Like I said, I was pretty upset.” Time for my own gamble. “Some of the shit he said, it stuck. I've been doing my goddamn
best
, and for him to just erase it so easily, like everything I had was nothing... I spent the rest of the night crying, with ice cream.” I sniffle wetly, and turn away again. He leaves me the space to compose myself, staying quiet as I blow my nose, and fetch the colander to strain my macaroni.

“How drunk
was
he? You said he was forceful?” he asks, a little frustration in his voice.

“Don't ask
me
. He was drunk when I got there, and he kept trying to drink with me when I was trying to catch up.” I laugh, a little irritably, and avoid the second part of his question. It's a much more complex lie, with questions like “did you call the police?”  “That whole night is
really
damn fuzzy. Hey, wait—he had his phone. He's not answering it? Does he have GPS or anything? Guy seemed rich enough, I'm sure he has
some
safety measures in place...”

He smiles a little at my concern. “Yeah—he had GPS, but it's gone dead. Either he dropped his phone, or someone else dropped it
for
him.”

I shiver. “
Fuck
, that's terrifying. This neighborhood's not the safest...”

“At risk of offending you, I can imagine.”

I offer a placating, low chuckle. “It wasn't always this bad—”

“Local girl, eh?”

I cock my head and shrug. At least he seems to like me, and think I'm telling the truth. “Is this gonna take much longer? Should I serve a second bowl? Excuse me if I can't really wait.” I pull two bowls out of the cabinet, hesitating with them in my hand.

He grins, and stands, reaching to take one of the bowls from me. “That would be great. I should probably try to canvas the neighborhood a bit more. But who knows how long
that
'll take.”

I ladle the pasta into his bowl, and then mine. “
Mi casa es su casa
, then. You'll need all the luck you can get, with that kind of night ahead of you. Some of the others, they answer the door gun in hand.”

“Like I said, it's much appreciated. Don't worry about me, though. I can take care of myself.”

He accepts the bowl I offer him, and I sit across from him at the table with my own bowl. We lapse into comfortable silence eating, and for a moment, I think I'm out of the woods.

But he puts his bowl aside. “I've gotta level with you, Camilla. I'm pretty worried. Calder's family, they're pretty powerful. He'd make a good hostage.”

I bite my lip and make a sour face. “But isn't that assuming they were watching him closely enough to see the opening, and take it? Wouldn't he have noticed someone following him?” I can't let on that I
know
he would be the one making that observation, not Calder.

“No one saw anything, as near as I can tell, so maybe they just got lucky?”

“Honestly, and I hate to say this, but this neighborhood's got some
real
problems. Maybe he got mugged or something, and fought back? Have you talked to the police to see if they might know anything?”

He shook his head. “Truthfully, I hoped he'd just taken off. His mom died recently, and he hasn't been handling it all that well.”

I huff, as though torn between my dislike of drunk Calder and sympathy for him at losing someone.

“
Please
, Camilla, can you tell me what happened? Anything?”

I grudgingly give in. “Okay.
Fine
. Like I said, he was a prick, and I was most of the way toward telling him to just sleep alone on the couch. But he grabbed my hair
really
hard, and shoved me against the wall. I was scared, so I slapped him. And he said 'you like it rough,' and grabbed me
harder
. Ripped my dress off me. So this time, I didn't hold back, and the moment he released me, I got my pepper spray and cell phone. I told him to take off before I called the police, or went to get my gun. He laughed like it was nothing, tried to kiss me again, and when I shoved him away and raised the spray, he stormed out, grumbling that I was a cunt, and not even that pretty anyways. If he'd been a little
less
of a bastard, I'd have maybe let him ride in the back of the truck and taken him somewhere more public to wait for a ride home. But at that point, there wasn't a way in hell I was letting him anywhere near me again.

“I debated whether to go to the cops over it. I mean, he seemed well off enough that I can't imagine they'd really turn over many stones to try to press charges or anything, but it scared me pretty damn bad.” I swallow, telegraphing my anxiety clearly. “In the end, it just felt like it was only gonna be a lot more frustration and heartache, and judgment. After all, I
was
drinking with him. I
did
take him home. So at the very least, I'd have had a lot of stupid questions about my sex life. And what's the point in undergoing more severe violations to expose a minor one? It's not like he actually raped me or anything.”

“That
really
doesn't sound like him.”

I grit my teeth, and drop the last bit of leverage I have to prove that Calder has the potential for violence. “After I slapped him the first time, when he said I liked it rough? He said the safe word was
red
. And then I said 'red', and he ignored it. Do you want to see the
dress
, too?”

Evan's eyes widen, confirming that Calder talked with him openly enough to share his safe word. Maybe Evan's heard encounters in the backseat of Calder's limo, or has stepped in on a threesome. Or maybe it's just guy-talk. Either way, he knows I'm not bullshitting about Calder's aggressiveness. And his face falls, imagining his closest friend as a wannabe rapist.

It's a dick move, but it worked.