Page 18 of CurVy 13

“You eat them!” I spurt out, wanting him to take his damn mask off and be slightly human.

A heavy pause passes between us. “I’ll eat later. Eat them. I made this for you, so be polite.”

My mouth drops open, and I struggle to hold my tongue this time. “I didn’t realise manners were still upheld in hostage-captive situations.”

Shut up, Vallie.

“Manners are always upheld.”

I look at Tyler as his smirk meets the new pizza slice, his teeth ripping into it, his throat humming a melody around the bite. “It is fucking delicious, but your pussy is better.”

Exhaling hard, I relent and take a bite of pizza.

The salt from both the anchovies and the olives assaults my tongue and cheeks, drawing saliva from them, then the cheese creates a buttery blanket and…

It’s kinda nice.

They both stare at me as I chew, so I offer, “Fine. It is quite pleasant.” Then I add, “Unlike you two.”

They both laugh, deep and gravelly, and it’s the most disturbing sound to hear bouncing around my unit only hours after I was debased, humiliated, and threatened. Ice moves through my veins, reaching my cheeks and fingertips.

I don’t want to feel normal.

“So,” Donnie says, his laughter dwindling. “Back to your family, Pup. Why don’t you speak to them.”

A hint of agitation laces through his tone as he asks this, but it’s strange and hard to figure out. Is he protective? Does he care? Is he angry? I can’t quite tell what it is.

I just clear the air.

Making me appear more human can only help my cause. It’s what the police advise in these situations: be human. Say your name. Mention your loved ones. Make yourself a real person in their eyes and grasp for compassion.

“My mum and dad are deeply religious, heavily conservative, and unwilling to see any opinion other than theirs. That’s all.” I shrug stiffly. “I don’t have an emotional story for you. I’m just a normal girl. No trauma. No poverty. I was raised well, but I don’t enjoy my family’s company. We are different. And that’s fine—”

“And the douchebag from earlier?” Donnie asks, his tone deep with warning.

A shudder rushes up my spine, knowing he has been watching me. “Who?”

“What douchebag from earlier?” Tyler drops his pizza slice. “What douchebag from earlier. Why didn’t I kno—”

“Calm down.” Donnie watches me eat for a moment; heavy thoughts play in the tilt of his head.

“So,” he finally says. “Who is he? Someone we need to concern ourselves with. He might pose a small problem this week. He nearly knocked your door down.”

Tyler’s fist thumps the table. “He what?”

“Tyler!” Donnie stands. “Stop that right now.”

He walks to the kitchen, grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water from the sink. His eyes never leave us; the mask is always directly face-on.

Walking to us, he fists a packet of pills from his jeans. He pops two from the plastic pocket onto the table in front of Tyler and sets the water down.

“Take your damn meds.”

“I want to know about the douch—”

“Take the meds!” Donnie growls, and I sink into my chair. The aggressive tone adds weight to my pelvis. Locks me in place. I don’t move or speak.

He stalks around the table to me, ducks, grabs my arm and hauls me over his shoulder, where I dangle. My stomach mashes against the hard muscles rippling through his bicep.

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