7. Tati

CHAPTER 7

TATI

My eyes slowly unstick themselves, but my mouth is so dry my lips don't have a chance of parting. I'm not sure if I'm dreaming, but my head feels far away. Lights flash Halloween shades of orange, purple, and black. Are they pretty, or do they make my head hurt worse?

It takes me a minute to put together that I'm staring at the flashing lights of the Funhouse at the carnival where Katie wanted to meet. The lights throw heat all around me, and sweat drips down my skin. Shit, am I naked?

I try to move, get away from all this heat, cover my exposed body, but I swing and flail instead. Am I tied up? Long strips of hot pain cover me and wrap my limbs. The burns worsen as I struggle against the binds. Who would do this? Adrenaline and terror spike my blood.

Another frantic minute later, I remember Dante, then the bank, and finally the car. The pinch at my neck still stings. What did he do? How long have I been unconscious? Why did he bring me here? But there's only one spot in the Funhouse that looks like this, with lights surrounding a platform. My heart drops as an idea of what he's planning forms. The setting is similar in so many ways to the club where I agreed to sell him out.

My vision blurs. Whatever he drugged me with was strong. I hang from the ceiling, suspended above the ground. If I stretch, one big toe will scrape the concrete. My arms are folded and tucked behind my back, farther than my joints can accommodate, and they're screaming from being stuck in this position for only Dante knows how long.

My cunt is spread wide open, and I realize the burning is from rope. Thick, rough, intricately tied, and almost beautiful looking if not for the facts: he drugged me and I didn't ask to be here.

Knowing what usually happens in this room, as I come to this Funhouse every year, I'm glad I'm hung with ropes and not a hook through my meat like they do to the pigs. I can't breathe as I understand the implication of hanging me here. He plans to gut me. Fuck, that seems like a painful way to die. A quick series of sharp breaths tighten the ropes around my lungs.

I whine without meaning to, then quickly shut my mouth, not sure if I'm alone or surrounded by people. What time is it? Is my hearing affected? I'm panicking about what attention I might bring myself in this state. Dante has already used my body twice without my consent, and letting him have his revenge without complaint seems like the least I can do, but I don't feel the same about every pervert who comes to the carnival.

My pussy seems wet and stretched, alluding to the fact I was fucked while unconscious. The texture of Dante's cum is distinct from my arousal. I hope it was him, anyway. I couldn't stomach some other guy doing the same to me. It's na?ve to think he might prevent that after everything I've done, but I don't want him to share me.

It's not that I have feelings for Dante, I'm not that stupid, knowing how disgusted he would likely be by my affection, but my guilt and longing for him to be alive have merged into something powerful. His life has taken on a nearly religious connotation, like he was raised from the dead to torture, fuck, and absolve me.

I was secretly thrilled when he broke that guy's foot after he flashed my pussy at the party. That sentiment is foolish though, given he's got me tied up naked for the world to see and will spill my guts for them. I swallow hard. It doesn't matter to him that my soul feels bound to his. It shouldn't matter.

"Dante, I'm sorry," I whimper the words from the bottom of my heart.

I say it because I mean it, but also because I'm tired of waiting. I'm about to face my death, and find I want to be close to him. For some sick reason, we're as attuned to one another as I feel, and my regret summons him to my back.

"Not yet, Little Backstabber, but you're going to be by the time I'm done with you." His body soothes me as it blocks the heat of the lights and offers my back some modesty. His presence is such a deep relief it's hard to explain. His life is the shreds of hope I'd given up on. His lips touch my ear as he speaks, his voice unsettlingly intimate. "I have so many plans for you."

Chills run up my spine, along with fear and arousal.

"I really don't mind if you want to fuck me. It's the least I can do after everything." I want him to fuck me, with how close he is and how good he feels. Him fucking me feels like winning. "You don't need to keep knocking me unconscious. I might be more fun awake."

People rustle, talk, move, and a line of spectators form outside at least one of the doors. Their wordless excitement is its own presence next to my anxiety. At the height of the evening, people will come and go through every entry.

"Don't flatter yourself, Little Backstabber, I fucked you because you're a warm, wet hole." That stings but doesn't feel true. There are plenty of warm wet holes out there that never set him on fire.

"I must have been confused. Felt like it might be more to me."

After an intense moment of silence, his hand moves, then something cuts into my thigh. My scream rips through the room. A wave of laughter and whoops of excitement echo from outside. The shock is almost as intense as the pain as he slices me further.

"Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare say shit like that. There's nothing but revenge between us," he grits, his denial so full of pain I feel it too.

"There's at least one other thing. You like my cunt, Dante. That's why you can't stop yourself, isn't it? It's okay. I want to fuck you too."

Another cut, but I barely whimper this time. I'm too overwhelmed by sensations. There's too much pain.

"I'm going to enjoy killing you in front of them, Little Backstabber. You're going to die regretting that pitiful fake apology most of all."

"Stop it, listen to me, please." The fittings creak and my body helplessly sways. I'm not lying. This absolves nothing if he won't believe me.

There are seconds before I'm exposed to them all, and it's not my dignity I'm rallying for. I need him to understand I'm so fucking sorry before I die. I wish I could change what I did.

"Listening to you destroyed my life the first time. Why would I do it again?" The ache in his voice is bone deep. I did destroy his life. I sent him to a failed death, a life of pain. I knew exactly what was waiting for him.

The door opens and people file in. I barely breathe as I try to ignore them and plead my case to him. Even if I wanted to, I can't see their faces with the spotlights on me. The paths lead in all directions, but I assume very few will choose the path where his body covers mine.

"This time I don't want anything from you. There's nothing for me to gain here. I've already sold my soul for money. I know I'm going to die. What would be the point of lying now?" I tell myself the people are not here. There's no murmuring and gasps of shock as they fill the room and see me hanging. It's Dante and I alone in my imagination.

"Maybe you think you can save your life."

"I'm not stupid, Dante. I know you can't let this go, but I am fucking sorry. You can take my life, but you can't take that."

"Oh shit, this one's performance art," a male voice comments, breaking the illusion I had worked so hard to build. I can't see the people for anything but silhouettes with the angle of the lights.

"That's hot," another says.

"You don't have to believe me or forgive me, but I've been sorry for a long time. I've regretted what I did to you the moment you rolled away." It's probably sick, but part of me is deeply gratified that I'll get to pay for my sins, that I have an audience to the bearing of my soul. I'll pay for some of what I've done before I die.

Dante's body is flush against my back, and I feel and hear his gasping breaths as he processes my words. It's like the people around us don't exist for him.

"Oh my God? Is that the girl from English lit?" a female voice asks. "This is gross." The voice isn't one I recognize, but I glow red in my humiliation.

"Maybe you should watch your fucking mouth," Dante growls at her. "You're not half as pretty as this backstabbing whore."