Page 12 of Pit

“Are you married?” I ask.

He laughs. “Fuck no.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He narrows his eyes. “And why’s that?”

“Men like you don’t usually have a wife.”

“And now you’re analysing me?” he scoffs. “Tell me, pretty lady, what do you think you know about me?”

I shrug. “You said you’re away a lot. Women don’t usually put up with that unless they travel too, and I don’t see anyone with you. You love your dogs more than kids, so you don’t have your own kids.”

“I could have them. Maybe they don’t live with me.”

I shake my head. “You have no compassion or empathy. Parents usually have that. You seem like a solitary kind of guy who hates being around people, and you have no tolerance for women.”

“I have no problem with women,” he snaps. “It’s just ones who lie that piss me off.”

“I think you have a bad relationship with your mum, and your dad ran out when you were small or before you were born.”

He scowls again. “You seem like the type to fuck around,” he says. “Maybe play a few guys against one another. I bet you left school with one thing in mind, to find a rich man and have kids.”

“You’re way off the mark,” I mutter.

“Bet you were popular at school, top bitch badge for you. Bet all the boys flocked, and you loved the attention,” he continues. “A prick tease.”

“I bet you didn’t even attend school,” I counter. “You were the sort to skip school and hang out with drug dealers and criminals.”

“Now, that part you got right,” he says, winking. “I made pretty girls like you wet with one look, and then I’d break their little, desperate hearts.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.”

We eat the rest of dinner in silence. Once we’re done, I stand, and he follows me with his eyes as I take my plate to the sink. I begin to fill it with hot water and washing-up liquid, then I turn and take his plate, relieved to be doing something normal amongst all this chaos.

Once I’ve washed up, he stands. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

I almost smile. This farmhouse is beautiful, if not a little neglected. I imagine the bedrooms to be cosy, and I’m so tired, I’m certain I’ll be asleep the second my head hits the pillow.

He leads me up a flight of stairs, but we pass all the doors and go to the end of the hallway. He stands to one side of a second set of stairs. “Up there,” he says. My heart begins to race again because I’ve already guessed that beyond that door at the top of the stairs isn’t a cosy bedroom.

Climbing the steps warily, I push the creaky door. The smell of dampness is strong, and the only light is a faint glow of orange from the sunset. It illuminates piles of boxes covered in dusty sheets. “The attic?” I ask, looking back at him.

He remains on the bottom step. “Goodnight, Tessa.”

“Are you shitting me?” I snap, tiredness getting the better of me. “You want me to sleep up here in this dirty attic?”

“Like I said before, this isn’t a hotel stay.” His stupid dogs come rushing up when he whistles. “Watch,” he tells them, and they sit at the foot of the steps.

“Wait,” I say as he turns to leave. “What if I need to pee again?”

“You’ll have to call for me.”

I purposely didn’t drink anything at dinner to avoid filling my bladder, but still, I don’t want to risk being up here and forgotten about. “Well, where will you sleep?” I ask.

He grins. “In my bedroom.”

“Well, can’t I . . . erm . . . can’t I sleep in there on the floor?”

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