Page 80 of Cruel Pleasures
Imani returns a few seconds later clutching an assortment of supplies, like a damp towel and some bandages. Sliding onto the bed, she sits up on her knees at my side and begins carefully peeling away the collar of my coat and shirt.
That snaps me out of my trance. I jerk away from her touch, my glare dark and reproachful.
Don’t touch me.
Most would heed the warning and stop at once.
Imani Makune isn’t most people. She merely pauses a second longer, then tries again. Her fingertips brush against the base of my throat as she cautiously tugs at my shirt collar. When she realizes she can’t clean up the wound this way, she eases back on her haunches and implores me with her big, brown, curious eyes.
Please, they say. Can I?
My hand knots into a fist, my skin warming, and I give a silent nod.
She pulls off my coat one sleeve at a time before reaching for the hem of my black V-neck shirt. I’m left bare chested as both garments are set aside and the deep gash on my shoulder is revealed. For as nauseated by blood and violence as she’s behaved in recent days, she doesn’t cringe or give up.
Her eyes flick over my torso. Up and down in a quick study that’s inexorably visceral. She’s noticed the ink tattooed on almost every inch of skin I have. Dozens of pieces of art that signify different things and hold their own unique meanings.
A colorful dragon that takes up the entire expanse of my back and curls up my left arm. It breathes fire that’s depicted in vivid flames and possesses a menacing stare in its eyes. Koi fish along my abdomen, swimming along rippling tidal waves that transition into the sun and clouds. If studied closely enough, Asami’s face can be found among the intricate detailing.
Imani dabs at the gash on my shoulder that’s still leaking blood.
Seconds pass where she cleans at the wound and I sit detaching from the moment. I tune out how hot my flesh has become and how her touch seems to soothe it like a healing balm. Though no words are said, a conversation begins.
Unspoken thoughts we trade back and forth.
The silence is peaceful. Agreeable.
It’s what prompts me to put an end to it—provide her with what she needs in the way she has just done the same for me.
“Your friend is never coming back.”
She stills in the middle of applying the bandage. “That can’t be.”
“That can be. It is the circumstance.”
“She’s alive?”
“The truth would damage you. You never should’ve come here.”
“So she’s alive,” she says, disappointment dimming her tone. “But she’s never coming back. I saw her notebook. It seemed to be from years ago. How did it get here?”
“Does it matter? She’s not here.”
“Then someone planted it for me to find. Was it the Hostess?”
I grab her hand and clench it within my own, finally meeting her eyes. “Listen very carefully. You have walked into a situation you’re unprepared for. I don’t know what notebook you’re referencing or if it was the Hostess who planted it, but I can tell you that you’re not welcome here. You’re being used as a pawn. It won’t end well for you.”
“Then what should I do? I’m here, Ryu.”
“You lie low for the rest of the games. You stay out of matters that don’t pertain to you. And, most importantly, you stay off the spice and any other mind-altering substances. There’s nothing she would love more than for you to lose your grasp on what’s happening around you.”
“Whose side are you on? You’re a part of the club, aren’t you? You work for her?”
I let go of her hand as if I’ve never grabbed it in the first place. It flops down into her lap. “I’m on my side. The only side I care about.”
“Then why are you warning me?”
I fail to come up with an answer in time. I face my head toward the front and pretend Imani’s not inches away, waiting on me to help her make sense of things. Her closeness presents a problem for me.
