Page 20 of Kept

I’m cut off by the ringing of his phone. He curses in Italian. At least, I think it’s a curse. It sounded like a curse, in any language. After a terse conversation, he drops the phone back into his pocket.

“To be continued, kitten,” he says, turning for the door.

“Gotta go whack somebody?” I clamp my hand over my mouth as soon as it slips out.

Looking over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t be ridiculous. I have a guy for that.”

Then the door slams shut behind him. I stay frozen for a breath before he returns to drop a well-used duffle bag at my feet before disappearing once again.

My duffle bag. The one I had at the theater, and that I last saw when I dropped it into the trunk of Robert’s car.

My brain goes into a revolving panic of every mob cliche I’ve ever seen.

Please don’t have a head in this I say, sliding open the zipper. It’s… clothes. And toiletries. My clothes and toiletries. From my apartment. I shiver.

He was in my house.

How the fuck does he even know where I live? I still haven’t bothered getting a New York driver’s license, so he didn’t read my address. Christ, how did he get it from Robert’s car? A whole new wave of panic rushes over me. I notice a slip of paper that doesn’t belong. It’s a note, in neat, black handwriting.

Stop worrying. Your friend is currently fine. Shower, get dressed, and remember, you’ll never make it out the front door, though it’s adorable when you try.

Great. Reassuring notes from my kidnapper. This is not my life. I start to feel the edge of panic creeping in. I take deep breaths and count to ten.

Count to ten, and then get your shit together. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

I take the duffle into the bathroom and stop cold.

Holy fuck. Anyone who says crime doesn’t pay has never been inside this bathroom. It’s all white marble and gold accents, with a shower big enough to make it a group project and a bathtub that might actually just be a recessed hot tub hooked up to the tap. It reminds me of some sort of spa or luxury resort. The towels are folded neatly on a heated shelf, conveniently reachable from both the tub and the shower. I drop my bag on the vanity, pick out my shampoo, conditioner and soap, and slip inside the glass walled monstrosity.

I stare at the mess of knobs and dials. There are two shower heads, plus almost an entire wall of jets, most of which are directional. I grab a random knob and twist. After a brief pause, I’m doused in an icy downpour from the shower head and the entire wall. I yelp and start turning dials until the water turns hot and steam begins to curl. I slather some conditioner to soak into my still bun-ed hair. It looks ridiculous the next day after sleeping in it, but the gel and hair spray are still going strong. When the conditioner has finally won the battle of wills against the gel, I slowly release my hair and shampoo it, twice, before the product is out of my hair. I work another handful of conditioner into my hair and go to work on scrubbing my body.

There is a small shelf lining the back wall, filled with an assortment of tinted glass bottles, most labeled in Italian.

I sniff one. Peppermint. Then eucalyptus, lemon, tea tree, menthol, cedar, pine, cloves.

Oh my god, the mob boss has a thing for essential oils?

I laugh—of fucking course. Why not? Then I liberally sprinkle peppermint, lemon, and eucalyptus around the shower floor and enjoy smelling like I’m in a fancy spa about to get a massage.

Not kidnapped by the fucking mafia boss and geeking out in his shower. The incredibly attractive, terrifying mafia boss that spanks me to within an inch of my sanity and makes dark threats that should shake me to my core but instead set my clit on fire and my pussy throbbing to be filled. Stretched. Fucked.

How is this my life?

“How would you even know?” I say out loud. “Oh great, now I’m talking to myself.” Crazy me has a point though, both in my virginity, and in the shit show that has become my life.

Sighing, I decide I need to try out this bath situation, because I’m still sore and achy from performing, running, and being stuffed in a trunk. You know, just another Saturday night in the big city.

I rinse off, then wrap up in one of the towels so I don’t drip everywhere. The tile floors are heated, which is amazing on my always sore feet. I open the taps and watch the water rise, swirling as it enters the tub. I notice a jar of Epsom salts nearby and add a generous scoop before carefully stepping into the piping hot water. I hiss when the water hits my bruised ass before sinking in and allowing the warmth and salt to ease the aches away from my body.

I start trying to sift through the confusing web of thoughts and emotions that are rattling around my brain. My inner voice, the smarter one that usually keeps me out of trouble, is having an absolute meltdown. It’s screaming at me to run, to hide, to fight. I like to believe it’s my mother’s spirit that powers that voice. I sniffle. All these years later, her death still crushes me.

My mother had been a ballerina, but became a ballet teacher after an injury. Her career was over before it ever got started. When I was maybe eight, I started to realize that she always wore long sleeves in the summer and heavy makeup before she came out of her room. I was sick one night and she fell asleep in my room.

I saw the black eye the next morning, since she hadn’t had time to put her makeup on yet. It was one of those things that once I noticed, I never stopped noticing. Kind of like how you’d never recognize a Toyota Camry until you had one, and then you’d see them everywhere all of a sudden. I started to notice the sharp tone of my father’s voice, the little insults he’d give her. When she’d limp and say it was because of a fall. When she’d water down the vodka. When she’d always stand between my father and me, especially after he drank.

On my twelfth birthday, I tripped and dropped the cake I was bringing to my father in his lap.

“You useless bitch!” he yelled at me.

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