Page 6 of Dangerous Games

Nanette doesn’t move. She stares at her plate as I unroll my silverware and drape my napkin over my knee. If she won’t eat, I won’t force her, but I’m not going to abstain simply because she’s refusing food. I take a bite and moan out my enjoyment. The more I eat, the more irritated Nanette looks. She huffs and glares at me, then fidgets with her cutlery and huffs more.

“Who are you?” she asks. “And how do you have so much money? What job is Jimmy doing for you?”

I’m patient with her questions, though I don’t answer a single one of them. I prefer to eat my food when it’s hot, not chatter on like a ninny while it grows cold. So, I continue eating, glancing at her now and then. When I don’t give her the response she is looking for, she asks more questions.

“I know Jimmy is a hitman; he’s been doing that since he was nineteen years old. Just tell me what sort of hit it is. Is it dangerous? Is he going to be killed? That’s why he won’t tell me what it is?” She wrings her hands in her lap.

“Worry doesn’t look good on you, Nanette. You’re such a beautiful woman. You should smile more.” I pierce a bit of chicken and bring it to my mouth, plucking it off the fork with my teeth.

“Stop avoiding my questions. I have a right to know what I signed up for.” She pushes her plate away and nearly spills the glass of wine sitting next to it. I swallow my food and wipe my mouth.

“I told you in the car to stop asking questions, didn’t I?” I lay my napkin on the table next to my plate. I’m content to stop eating, though I would have liked to have finished my food.

“What are you? Some sort of banker or something? How does one person own a place like this?” She looks around and gestures. “This has to be a billion-dollar home.” She shakes her head, and her glare returns to me. “So, what are you paying him? And how dangerous is this? Because if he’s going to get hurt, then I am leaving. I won’t be your collateral. I’ll tell him to—”

“Enough!” My shout freezes her in place. Her eyebrows rise, fear in her gaze.

“I just…”

“Go back to your room. I prefer to dine in peace, not with a contentious woman.” My hands are fists. Her incessant questioning is infuriating. I won’t answer any of her questions, and she will learn that.

“I won’t. I want answers.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I see that as a clear sign of rebellion, which I will not tolerate. In a flash, I’m on my feet, stomping over to her. She fights me, swinging and kicking, but I turn her away from me, gripping both of her arms to her torso in a tight hug until her feet are off the ground.

“Fucking let me go!”

“I think you need to spend some time in your room until you learn manners. I tried to be nice, but you clearly do not get the point. You are until Jimmy does his job. You do what I say. And when I say enough questions, I mean enough.”

She flails and screams as I heft her up the stairs. The way her body squirms against mine as she fights me is arousing. I briefly think about bending her over the end of the bed and showing her what it means to be punished by me but change my mind. When I pluck that fruit, it will be sweet and ripe, not fighting me and tart.

“You bastard!” she shouts, the minute the door is shut and locked. I hear her pounding on it as I walk away, but I don’t heed her cries. I head to my office and park myself at my desk, watching her over the closed-circuit television. The camera hidden in her room was a perfect idea. It allows me to watch her melt down, show her true colors. She is hurting, not angry. Scared, like a little waif. It’s all an act. She melts into a puddle of tears, and I turn and look at the portrait of my mother on the wall.

Nanette’s questions only stirred my anger. Jimmy’s task must be completed, or I will never have peace. If the hit is accomplished, I will die knowing my mother was never avenged. And someone has to pay for that. The way they hurt her, the life they stole. I shake my head and reach into my desk drawer and pull out my whiskey and shot glass. After a few drinks I will calm, but now my blood runs hot. Finding out who is at the root of this plot to kill me will also uncover the truth about how they got to my mother.

I cannot die without making sure her life is avenged. So, I drink. I drink to drown that anger. I drink to calm the beast inside me. And I drink to make sure I do not go back up to Nanette’s room and do something I may regret.

No, when I do that, I will enjoy it.

So tonight, I drown that beast, because otherwise, I’ll lose sight of my goal.

4

NANETTE

My hand hurts. Banging on that door was a bad decision, but he has no right to lock me up like I’m a prisoner. This is so wrong, even if I did somewhat volunteer to be here. Jimmy had better do his job fast because I won’t be caged up like a wild animal. I can’t stand being alone. The silence is—well, I can’t do it.

Tears come hard and fast, reducing me to a literal puddle. The front of the dress is damp, and I hate it. The color, the style, they belong to a far classier woman than me. I am not this woman. I wear tight skirts and leather, dark colors, not pastels and flouncy chiffon. I tear at it, ripping the thin straps right off the dress before shedding it completely and screaming. “You bastard!”

Something rises up inside of me, an animalistic urge to claw his eyes out. I tear the bedding off the bed, leaving it in a pile before turning over the nightstand. The lamp crashes to the ground in a satisfying sound and splintering glass. It only fuels my rage. “I’m going to tear apart your entire house piece by piece. You can’t treat me like this. I am a human being, not an animal!”

I race over to the closet and pull the dresses out, throwing them across the room. One by one, the pastel garments fly through the air, launched by my hatred of men and my utter disgust for Dominic. He has horrible taste in women, horrible manners, and absolutely no heart. The dresses blanket the floor like carpeting, but I’m not finished. I reach up to the shelf, where stacks of slacks and jeans, still with tags on, call to me.

Each of those gets thrown out of the closet too, and then I turn my rage on the dresser. In one sweeping motion, I bring my arm across the top, scattering pictures, the alarm clock, another lamp, and a vase of flowers. Water from the vase soaks into the clothes on the floor near the dresser and the flowers spill out. If he thinks flowers are going to make me feel more at home, he clearly doesn’t know me.

I turn a chair over, then eye the dresser drawers. I haven’t even opened them, so I do. I find shirts and socks, panties, all in my size. All brand new. How long does he think I’m staying here? He either doesn’t have any faith in Jimmy, or he is overconfident in his ability to convince a woman he is boyfriend material. Or maybe he just never intends to let me go. That thought makes me angrier.

I pull the drawers out one by one, throwing them too. Their contents scatter amongst the mess until I’m too tired to continue. I collapse onto the bed, curled up in just my panties. Even if I wanted to put on my own clothes, they’ve been taken. I will either have to concede and wear something he bought and put in this room, or I will have to walk around naked. Giving him the satisfaction of either doesn’t appeal to me, and I devolve into more angry tears.

Only once have I been in a situation like this—where I feel powerless. And that one didn’t turn out well for me. I need to get to Jimmy, to see that he’s okay, that Dominic hasn’t hurt him. I need to know what job he’s doing, that he won’t be hurt. It’s my responsibility to protect him, after what happened, he needs me. He’s never done this without me there, at least for advice, and now I can’t even reach out to him, not a call, not a text message. Why would Dominic do this? Can’t he see I’m not happy here?

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