Page 145 of Deep Cover

29

Annie

The party crept closer slowly. What had seemed like a breakneck pace reduced to a snail's crawl because all I wanted was to get it over with. At the same time, I didn't want it to ever get here.

Seemed like I was getting both those wishes. Be careful what you wish for.

Two days before Valentine's Day Cole surprised me, showing up at the door as I waited for the guards to let me out for my morning run.

"I thought I'd join you this morning." His evil smile was back.

Afraid I'd just keep running, sir?But I was learning better than to say things like that. I half hoped he'd relented in some way, that he would at least do something to me before the party so my body didn't feel quite so – clean.

I didn't have a better word. The things that Cole did to me made me feel soiled at the same time they made me feel hopeful and – oh, fuck it, I hated it and a part of me didn't hate it, so I hated that part of me.

Cole St. Martin was fucking me up as much as fentanyl ever did.

"Some company would be nice, sir." What was I supposed to say?

We set off across the flat of the valley floor, the distant mountains a shimmer of purple against the sunrise. The air wasn't as cold as it had been a week and a half ago. Spring comes faster in the Southern Nevada desert than it might up north. Or in Seattle.

"I thought I'd tell you a little about my guests who’ll be coming night after tomorrow," Cole said. He ran effortlessly, without ever seeming to breathe hard if we went at my pace.

Just one more reason to consider him a bastard. I smiled to myself, then considered what he'd said and stopped.

"Sir?"

"These guests are important to me," he said. He slowed a little so I could match his pace. "Vincent and Kie are the first couple. Vincent is the man who bid and won you at the auction."

I felt a stab of ice twisting in my gut and tried to remind myself I'm a police officer. I'm strange and strong and I can take care of myself and at its root, somewhere along the line, this is all nothing more than an elaborate game, played by –

But it breaks off there, that somewhat hopeful thought. Because it's not played by consenting adults. Many of the slaves are trapped by circumstance or contract, whether because they were a runaway or they have no money or anywhere else to go or, like me, they're dealing with an addiction or some other thing that could ruin them if their "benefactor" hadn't taken them in.

"I don't remember Kie, sir," I told him.

"No," he said and didn't further clarify. Of course I hadn't asked for names when I’d tried to lead a rebellion and get everyone to run away from the party that turned auction in which Vincent "bought" me from Cole who "bought me" from Samuels.

"There's also Claude and Chloe," he said. His sights were set on the mountains. By my count we'd already run four miles and he was still moving out, away from the compound. "He's a tenured professor and she's his slave. She's lovely, very delicate. Her skin is almost blue, it's so white. I've quite enjoyed hurting her in the past."

I shivered and stopped abruptly "Sir? Does that mean that he – "

"I'm keeping a count from now until the party is over. I'm sure you can guess what it's for. That was the first three." There was a challenge in his eyes. He was the one who decided to walk me pervert by pervert through the lineup for the damned party and now he was telling me that by asking a question I'm already three – what, demerits? Am I back in school? – to the bad.

Abruptly the challenge in his eyes, the dawn run, the fucking party, the fet, the hit, the fucking contract – all of it was more than I could bear.

Hands on hips, I shouted at him, my voice rising into the morning air. "What do you want from me? What am I going to have to do to convince you I'm fine on my own? Give me the drugs! Let me decide how and when to take them. Turn them back into capsules! Please stop doing this! Please, Cole, please – "

I broke off realizing I'd just called him Cole. He always was in my thoughts.

To his face? Mr. St. Martin at the very least, and Sir was much better.

"What did you call me?" His face was a mask of menace.

Not like he hadn't heard me. "I called you Cole. I'm sorry, sir." There was no point in saying that sometimes I thought of him that way. Obviously I did. Just as obviously, I shouldn't.

"You're at eight," he said, and I supposed I should be keeping count. And that right now I should repeat the number and thank him and call him sir.

All I did was wait for him to go on with his list of fabulous dinner party guests who for some reason were important to him.

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