Page 10 of Nine

“Bones.” I hear the elevator guy’s voice say almost in a warning.

“C’mon Trig. I’m just playing with the chick.”

Mental note taken. Elevator guy’s name is Trig and the red-haired douche is Bones. Police will need that information if I ever make it out of here alive. As if I would even go to the police, but it’s still good to know.

“Out, now! This was my contract,” Trig yells.

“Yeah, but who helped you clean up,” Bones shoots back.

“Get out,” Trig barks.

Bones turns and winks at me, and then slowly backs up, until he leaves the room. He shuts the door behind him.

Trig walks farther into the room carrying a plate of food. I can smell eggs and bacon. He sits down, takes his gun from his lower back, and places it on the table. He then presumes to nibble at the food in front of me.

“Hungry?” he asks, and points down to the plate. Just the smell alone makes me sick. I look away and quickly place one hand over my mouth. Once my stomach settles I slowly turn and look at him. He’s glancing over at the puke-filled wastebasket.

“If you’re not going to eat, at least drink some water,” he adds.

He springs up from his seat and comes closer. I watch as he grabs the basket and walks it outside. He enters the room again, closing the door behind him. I continue to stare as he sits down. He pushes his chair away from the table and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His thighs are spread apart and it feels like an interview is about to take place. He points to the water on the stand next to me. I pick it up to amuse him. He continues to stare at me so I unscrew the lid and take a few drinks.

“Happy?” I say.

“I’d like to know who you are. Give me a first name at least,” he says.

“It’s Nine. Can I go home now?”

“What type of name is Nine?” He arches his eyebrow and licks his lips.

“I don’t know. What type of name is Trig?” I say through my teeth.

He nods. “Touché, Nine. Let’s try this again. What’s your real name?”

“What’s your real name, Trig?” I fire back. He smiles again in frustration.

“You do realize I have a gun?” he calmly asks.

“If you wanted to kill me you would have done it already.”

“Or maybe I’m waiting for the right time.” He cocks his neck back.

I stay silent. He’s right. I’m acting as if I have the upper hand and I don’t. I’m damaged, sitting here in pain, in some tore up old basement, on an old mattress in my underwear, with some complete stranger. I should be scared, but as usual, I’m in bitch mode. Maybe it’s the pain talking or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.

“How long have you worked for Victor?”

“Who?”

“I don’t have time for games. How long have you worked for the guy at the hotel?” I stare blankly at him. “You know, the prick that did that number on you.” He waves his hand out in front of him.

I freeze up as a memory of Mr. V. backhanding me strikes. It’s followed by another memory of a boot to my face. I gasp and then stare up at Trig.

“You didn’t think I did that to you, did you?” His face is stern.

“Victor is Mr. V.,” I say to myself, as I continue to try to piece things together in my head from last night. “I don’t work for anyone,” I mutter.

“Why the beat down then?”

“I don’t…know,” I say, embarrassed. “I just remember him smacking me and then his boot kicking me in the face. Right here.” I reach up and feel my cheek.

---