Page 41 of Text Me, Take Me

It feels permanent, like I belong here. I don’t know how to feel about that.

CHAPTER 15

DOM

It feels strange walking into a mob bar after all these years. The barman flinches when he sees me. His name is Mario, and I’ve known him since I was a kid, though I haven’t seen him in almost twenty years. His hair has turned grey and thinned in the middle, but I remember his serene smile.

“Long time no see,” he says. “Drink?”

I offer my hand, and we shake. Just because I resent being here, it doesn’t mean I have to be rude. “No, thank you. I’ve got business with Rafe in the basement.”

“Business,” Mario repeats.

“The fewer questions, the better.”

“Fair enough. Wouldn’t want the Don coming after me.”

He laughs, and I force a smile. I don’t want to have this conversation. If it wasn’t for my Keepsake, I’d never step foot in this place again. As I walk out the back and down to thebasement, I think about the look of wonder on her face when she saw the studio.

During our week apart, I wondered if I’d lost my mind as I ordered the quick, expensive construction. In total, including the materials, it cost nine hundred thousand dollars… all for a studio she might only use a handful of times. Was it worth it? Hell yeah.

It doesn’t change the fact she’s my prisoner, but at least she won’t go insane with boredom.

Rafe is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette.

“Has he said anything?” I ask.

“I haven’t questioned him yet. Wasn’t sure how far you’d want me to go. Thought it’d be better if you took the lead.”

“Good, then let’s get this over with. Hang back, Rafe. Try to look intimidating.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’d you mean,try?”

As I open the door, it’s like I can pretend we’re just two stupid kids again, two balls of mayhem who just want to go into the world and make names for ourselves. He was my brother-in-arms before I had buddies in the military: the soldier at my side before I realized this was a war I wanted no part of.

When I see the young man – more a kid, really – tied to a chair in the middle of the basement, any sense of nostalgia fades. He’s got a smear of blood across his face, nothing serious, but under the bright overhead lights, it’s a stark reminder of the situation he’s in.

A rag stuffed in his mouth, hands tied behind his back. I think about the girl on the video Mason showed me, Crystal, and try not to feel pity for this kid. But it’s difficult. I doubt he’s the shot caller.

Rafe leans against the wall, stubbing his cigarette out on the back of his hand. It’s an old intimidation tactic, and it works. The kid shivers.

I approach him, taking my gun from my waistband. If I’m going to do this, I have to play my part as well as I can, even if it sickens me.

“When I remove this gag, you’re not going to scream, are you?” I grunt.

He shakes his head.

“That would be a very bad idea,” I go on. “I’ve got no desire to hurt you, kid, honestly. I can’t say the same for my friend, however.”

Good cop – bad cop. It’s a cliché, for a reason. It works.

He shakes his head even more vigorously.

I unknot the back of the gag and then let it fall to the floor. He gasps, dribbling spit rolls down his chin.

When I place the gun against his jaw and he flinches, I derive no pleasure from the act. That was one of the many reasons I left this life behind. Too many sadists, too many men who enjoyed the control and domination.

Isn’t that what I’m doing with Evie – controlling her, dominating her?

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