Chapter 21

TWENTY-ONE

“Demonio,” I mumble out loud, trying to spark a memory that feels as though it’s on the tip of my tongue. “Demonio,” I repeat, this time with more vigor. I’ve heard that name before, or at least I think have, but I can’t seem to access the part of myself that’s screaming for me to catch up to what’s right in front of me.

“It’s remarkable how far you two have come. You are so close to discovering the truth,” the cryptic voice breaks the momentary silence, and their last word drives an invisible hammer through the fog I’m momentarily lost in, shattering the bewilderment that has rendered me motionless. Questions begin to surface as I attempt to piece this all together. “Ven aquí,” the voice instructs, but neither of us move.

Ignoring the command, I look past the interior of the mask, directly to Raiden. “C. Demonio?” I ask her, making sure to keep my voice down. I bring the mask in my hand closer, pointing to the embroidery.

Her mouth remains still, both lips pressed in a straight, emotionless line. I can’t tell if it’s to prevent herself from saying something or because she genuinely doesn’t know. “Raiden?” Her name, a question and a desperate plea all at once.

Talk to me.

Lips still shut, her eyes betray her. Leaking from her darkened irises is a glossy coating begging to break the barrier that her will is working overtime to maintain. I don’t take my eyes off her, trying to drink in whatever her body can signal to me, but it’s in the silence that a different voice sounds. Not out loud but within myself in the form of a memory.

Suddenly I’m transported back in time to my mother’s reading room. I would sit on the long bench overlooking the large floor-to-ceiling window and color while she read. That was her safe space and the only place in our house that I ever saw her happy or able to cry in peace without my father scrutinizing her for having emotions. So much of my youth was spent keeping my mom company in that room, so that I could have a reprieve from the chaos too, while my mom escaped our reality to places that existed amongst pages. But it was one day in particular that is coming to me now, vividly. She had just finished reading a book that brought her to tears. I remember a knot forming in my stomach, afraid that something had hurt her. I was too used to her always being hurt in some way or another. She was crying so intensely, way more than she had with any other book I’d seen her read.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, baby, I just read something that really resonated with me.”

“What was it about?”

“It was about a woman who everyone assumed was heartless because of how determined she was. But she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, tasked with saving her family. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel, she felt probably more than those who constantly expressed their sorrows. It was because she cared so deeply, she didn’t allow those feelings to overtake her when she needed to focus in battle.”

“Did she win?”

“Win, what, sweetheart?”

“The battle”

“Physically, yes. But emotionally, no. You know, Colson, sometimes it’s those who put on the toughest fronts that are actually screaming on the inside. The mouth often deflects the heart, both in its silence and when it says things it doesn’t mean. It’s the mouth that often betrays the heart, but the eyes…if you ever want to know the truth about how someone’s truly feeling, it’s in the eyes. And sometimes those same eyes can tell you who they are or what they’re feeling, even if they can’t.”

Pulled from the memory playing in my mind like a movie, my ears register the speaker, but my attention is on Raiden. “You know exactly who that is, don’t you, Raiden?” the speaker eggs her on, but she doesn’t respond.

She knows something. I can feel it, and right now more than ever I want–no–I need her to be the spitfire I’ve come to know…to want.

With her glassy stare on me, I remain unblinking, ready for her eyes to tell me something–anything–that can help us.

Please, talk to me.

Yell.

Stomp.

Say…do…something…please.

Dropping the mask, I move closer to her, reaching out my hand. The second our hands connect, her silence screams to me. Dismay tangles with exhaustion. But something amazing happens as she places her palm in mine. Her every emotion is both heard and transferred to me, with an understanding that doesn’t need words.

Raiden is a spitfire, and for the longest time I assumed it was because she’s heartless. Or that her antics are because she likes to get a rise out of people…mainly me. But I see it now. Her fire, although her default, is actually a deflection. A way that she can survive and push through the anxiety that she thinks she should be above experiencing.

I don’t need answers right now. It’ll all come together as it was supposed to, or it will crumble. Either way, we’ll figure it out together. Fate led us this far, and if we experience its consequences together, good or bad, that’s enough for me.

With the doorway open to the next round, I ignore my questions and focus on how good her soft hand feels against my roughened one as I walk us into the next room.

“That’s it,” the anonymous speaker praises. “Just a little more.” The mechanical tone is amplified, a sinister cackle engulfing the room. A flash of light fills the space before the darkness swallows us whole. It’s so dark that if it wasn’t for Raiden’s hand squeezing mine, I wouldn’t be certain she’s here with me.

There’s a pop, and harsh fluorescent lights shine overhead, acting as a spotlight in the barren space. We’re stuck in another steel and concrete mixture of a room, except this one has a wooden chair off in the corner of the room, and just a few feet from where we stand, hand in hand, is a two-way mirror. Or at least I assume it is. It looks identical to what I’ve seen in movies, where whoever is on the other side can see in but all we see are our reflections staring back at us.

All I can think as I look at how much I tower over her petite frame is how good she looks at my side and how good–or cute, as the speaker pointed out–we look together. We do.

A screech filters through the room, driving both our free hands and our connected hands to lift, cupping our ears. But we don’t let go of our handhold, so I need to lower myself a bit to meet Raiden’s almost-entire-foot-shorter-than-me height. The screech is exchanged for the sinister cackle, followed by yet another cryptic musing. “It’s so cute, how you both have all the answers staring right in front of you and still, you can’t piece it all together, can you?”

Lowering our hands at our ears, Raiden keeps her hand locked in mine, squeezing it as she audibly grumbles.

“Can we just get on with this already?” she seethes.

“Why? Isn’t this what you wanted from the moment you first saw him?”

A clammy sensation spreads on Raiden’s palm as she tears her hand from mine.

“What’s the matter, puta? Don’t try to pretend that pretty little cunt of yours didn’t ache the second you were given that surveillance picture of him,” the speaker taunts.

Surveillance picture?

Raiden charges the glass, pounding her fist against it. “How did you fucking know that? The only people who know about that are Carmine and Alex,” she shouts, slamming a now open hand at the glass before she tosses both arms up, scoffing and walking away.

It hits me. Alex. That’s the name of the private investigator turned detective friend Maddox has in the city. I would like to say it’s coincidence, but if being here has taught me anything, coincidence is merely fate slapping you upside the head, urging you to wake up.

“Ah, Alex, that loveable, corrupt fuck. We’ll get to him soon. Let me remind you both that when money and power are up for grabs, family, tu sangre, means nothing.” Their riddle sounds like foreshadowing.

“My brother would never betray me,” Raiden huffs.

“That you know of, but I know much more than you think, little girl.”

Brother? Oh fuck. This just keeps getting better…or worse.

“Call me little girl again and see what the fuck happens,” Raiden warns, approaching the glass once more. “Show yourself, you sick fuck. Let me see who I’m going to fucking kill when–”

The speaker interrupts her. “When you what? Get out of here? Pretty little stupid fucking girl, haven’t you realized, you don’t get out of here unless you play, and I am the one who determines the winner. So instead of speaking to me like that, I suggest you start getting on those knees and humbling yourself.”

“Ha, I don’t get on my knees for anyone,” she retorts, hands crossed in front of her torso.

“Not even for him?” the cryptic voice taunts.

A wave of jet-black hair ripples against Raiden’s shoulder as she turns to look at me to answer. “No, not even him,” her mouth replies but once again those eyes tell me otherwise. Just past the sadness and anger that take turns in her expression, there is lust. Untapped, unfiltered lust. Desperate to be unleashed. Refusing to be denied.

“You know, Ms. Ramos, it’s not a good look to begin the truth round with a lie,” the speaker reprimands, and I’m almost thankful.

Going right over the voice’s insinuation, Raiden does what she does best–deflect…lie.

“I’m not lying,” she announces, trying to sell her words as fact, but if there’s something that I can finally agree on with the anonymous sadist responsible for these games, it’s this.

“Honey, you were moaning for that fine piece of ass–”

“Hey!” I interrupt.

Raiden’s scoff is so loud that it practically vibrates the damn room as she whips her head around to look at me. “Seriously?”

“What?” I shrug “It’s just kind of weird to be so objectified.”

“Ha, try being a woman,” Raiden rolls her eyes.

“Valid, as you were,” I lift my hands in defeat.

“As I was saying,” the voice cuts in. “Only a liar would deny how–excuse me, Mr. Cromwell, made them come from just the tip. Ms. Ramos. That’s pathetic.”

Unleashing a grunt that rivals her scoff from earlier, she stomps her foot. “We’ve established this. Yes, he’s hot, so next time if you want to have two people fuck their way out of your torture chamber, don’t have one of them have a pierced dick. I don’t know what to tell you,” she says, sealing her tantrum with a stomp making her look unintentionally adorable.

“True. Except you haven’t fucked yet. I don’t consider a friendly game of ‘just the tip’ fucking. But I digress, and since you’re being so open and honest, I should cut the hypocritical crap also and fess up. I lied too.” The speaker’s words are sealed with the sound of gears shifting as the ceiling begins to retract, giving way to the glass ceiling again.

Our necks crank to see what’s above. “Look at that. Right above where you two lay, the patrons of Satan’s Stiletto are having the time of their lives. Dancing. Having their laps tended to from some of the hottest–and craziest–strippers on the East coast. And in some cases, as in for elite clientele, some are using the private rooms to unleash their deepest, darkest, desires. Oh, but in some extra-special cases, patrons find themselves where you two are, beneath the square footage that the building inspector knows about. In my underground oasis…where I have my fun,” the glee in the robotic voice is sickening.

This makes no sense. I’ve been to Satan’s plenty of times. Well, that’s a lie. I’ve been to Satan’s plenty of times since I found out that Raiden works there–or was supposed to work there. Declan at Oogie’s mentioned she was going to start dancing there, so until I found the sick courage to break into her place–which I still can’t fucking believe I did, much less forgive myself for–I would slink in, sit at the bar, and just wait, hoping she would show, but she never did. But in the time I was there, I never saw any shifting floor or heard anything that could indicate that the hell we’re in exists.

“You look confused, Mr. Cromwell. Do I need to spell it out for you?” the speaker taunts.

“Yea, that would actually be pretty fucking helpful,” I respond, sarcasm on high.

“She’s right. You really are a pendejo. Ha, maybe you two really do deserve each other,” the speakers snarls.

“Wait,” Raiden interrupts.

“Yes?” the voice asks.

“You said you lied too. You owe us the truth,” she reminds them.

“Ah, you are correct. Silly me. You two are just so delicious I can’t help but have my mind drift a bit.”

“Well, I think we filled your sick spank-bank enough, so get to it,” Raiden’s hand motions for them to continue.

“Fine,” the robotic voice scoffs, “keep your eyes up.”

We both stand still, necks cranked upward, waiting for god knows what. I’m about to address the speaker when Raiden gasps. “Carmine,” she shouts. Above us is Carmine in his signature pinstripe suit, walking around the main bar area at Satan’s. He isn’t alone, there’s a crowd of people, some standing, some dancing. There are also four white paws pattering about. Raiden quickly runs from the glass to the chair in the corner. Dragging it to the center of the room, she stands on it, transferring her short frame to her tiptoes, trying to hit the glass, but she can’t reach it. Frustrated, she begins to scream Carmine’s name.

“I put on the one-way speakers, so you can hear them but no one up there can hear you” the voice says. “You think with all I’ve gone through to have you here—and you, Mr. Cromwell, can’t forget about you—that it’d be that easy to let the patrons upstairs know what goes on down here? Give me a break.”

Raiden storms the glass again. “What kind of sick fuck leads someone to believe someone is dead like that?!” she shouts, chest heaving from anger instead of being relieved.

Steel rolls over the glass ceiling, blocking our view, closing us in just as a clap sounds over the speakers, and on cue the foggy glass Raiden stands in front of is transparent, revealing the hourglass shape of a woman in a black leather bodysuit, face concealed by a black skeleton mask. The woman continues to clap, inching closer to the glass. “No fucking shit, Raiden. You think I’m stupid? Of course, I had to lead you to believe your precious cousin was in danger. That was the only way your stubborn ass would play my little game.”

“You–” Raiden begins, but she’s stopped by the clicking of the woman’s tongue and her gloved finger wagging at her through the other side of the glass.

“Don’t be ungrateful. This has only benefited you. Even a perpetual liar like you can admit that you’ve enjoyed yourself so far. Isn’t that right? Or were you faking your orgasms like you did with his brother?”

Stubborn as ever. Raiden crosses her arms, refusing to respond. She doesn’t have to. I already know those moans and squeals that fed the meter were real.

“Since the cat seems to have gotten her tongue, I’ll answer for her,” the woman chimes in. “Ah, Mr. Cromwell, I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” she says cryptically.

“For what?” My question a demand, to the masked woman.

Ignoring me, the woman sways her hips, stationing herself right in front of Raiden on the other side of glass. Tracing Raiden’s silhouette, the woman rubs her hand softly at the glass. “She’s pretty, isn’t she? I wonder how pretty she would look with that fresh fucking mouth locked on my pussy while one of my henchmen over here does the honors of slitting her fucking throat as I come?”

“Yeah, I bet you’d like that, you sick fuck!” Raiden shouts, pounding her fists on the glass, but I rush up behind her, grabbing her fists and forcing her back so she doesn’t hurt herself. She thrashes in my grip as I walk her back.

“Ssh,” I whisper into her ear, “You have to chill.”

“I don’t need to chill,” Raiden fights me.

I keep my mouth at the shell of her ear. “I wouldn’t let her do that to you,” I reassure her.

An unexpected giggle vibrates her stomach. “Which part? The eating my pussy or killing me?”

“Both,” I whisper, though the volume of my hushed words don’t take away from the primal declaration laced within my response.

“Is that right?” Raiden attempts to challenge me.

Pulling her backside tighter against my chest, I lock her in place, letting my breath leak into her ear. “Yes. You’re mine, little liar. No one’s going to hurt you, and no one will eat that pussy except for me,” I rasp my claim in her ear and finally, to my surprise and much to my delight, she doesn’t fight me. In fact, that plump ass of hers pushes into my front. Her back arches, grinding her ass, drawing soft circles onto my groin as her hand moves behind her, reaching for my cheek. “I’ll tell you what, you help me get us out here, you can eat my pussy all you want, and I won’t lock your head in place like I did before.”

Pressing a nibble to her neck, I let her head fall into me where her hand just brushed against my face. “I never said I didn’t want to be trapped by your thighs or by you. When we get out of here, I want those juicy thighs draped over my shoulder squeezing me like a noose.”

“Hmm,” she hums, “you really are a masochist, aren’t you?”

“Anyone that dares pursue anything outside of a handshake with you is a masochist. So yes. For you I’ll be whatever I have to be, so that you can be mine.”

Silence meets my ears in response, but she doesn’t have to say anything for me to know what she’s thinking. With our bodies melded together, I could feel it. The second the word ‘mine’ fell from my lips, her pulse quickened and the invisible shield she totes around constantly –keeping me at a distance – lowers, giving me hope that when we make it out of here–which we will–she’ll be just what I said...mine.