Page 140 of Deep Cover

25

Annie

He bought me from a man who had no right to "sell" me.

He's beaten me and had sex with me, he's given me lifesaving cures and he's forced me to eat fish. Not that it's not healthy, but still – fish.

On a less humorous side than food choices, he's bought other women, and he's hurt them at least as much as he's hurt me. Since my arrival in the Southern Nevada compound, he's brought other women here and done things that made them scream. Some of them undoubtedly liked it.

Some of them, I'm convinced, did not.

He's experimented with my psyche and just because, so far, he seems to be right about much of what he's done doesn't excuse a billionaire pharmaceuticals CEO who isn't a psychologist or psychiatrist for playing with my head.

But the thing that bothers me the most is the next time I speak to my father I discover that there have been more deaths from China white in Seattle. A young, promising musician, black and male and incredibly talented.

A young mother who suffered from postpartum depression.

An older man, a teacher who was much adored by his students.

An eleven year old boy.

I don't know what it is I expect him to do. He's done plenty. He's doing plenty. And I no longer expect him to let me out of my contract so I can run off pell-mell thinking I'm going to make change, all by my lonesome.

But something needs to be done.

And he's obsessing about a fancy dress dinner party.

Eventually January drizzled into February, the last of the rainy days dwindling out. As the calendar turned, Cole's obsessions became mine.

It was like getting ready for prom, or something. Or a wedding, which is a thought that makes me feel a little breathless and giddy. Not because I want to marry Cole. He hasn't messed with my head that much. I'm not even sure I want to marry Mark.

But the preparation for such rituals was always awe inspiring. Before she passed out of my life and into a much more girly life than mine, my best friend from high school dragged me through her wedding. I was maid of honor and privy to all the white lace secrets and blue garter adventures. I loved and hated it, all the fittings and buffings, the totally unnecessary weight loss, the spa days, the stress, the wild schedules. It was like planning an invasion, D-Day became W-Day for Wedding. The timing was precision. The level of importance was world-shattering. It was exasperating and it was fun.

My best friend's wedding ended in an event that didn't require me to wear any garments that were see-through. There was no chance of waking to find myself tied naked to a post, being auctioned off. The most I could expect was a hangover the day after the shower when I woke to discover I'd taken the stripper back to my place and that no, it hadn't been the low lighting that made him look perfect.

As January dead-ended into February and the dinner party drew nearer, I found myself looking back at that wedding and wondering how long after Stacey's nuptials my life had diverged so completely from normalcy that I wound up in the dungeon of a mad billionaire philanthropist, counting down with dread the days until a dinner party-slash-orgy.

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