Page 26 of Wild Card

Catriona

Gio knows how to touch a woman. Or how to touch me, at least.

I’d been unsure of how far I’d wanted to let things go with him. I shouldn’t be attracted to him, not given the situation I’m in, but when I felt his hard length pressed against me this morning, I knew I wanted to take advantage of the situation. Let him touch me, see that I’m a person.

Stoke that protective drive in him even further.

And his hands felt so good on me, so gentle. Interested in my pleasure without letting me return the favor.

That’s never happened with any of the men I’ve dated.

I felt the strength behind those hands, though. He won’t always be gentle, and the thought of unleashing that in the bedroom is more titillating than I’d like to admit. He’d given me one hell of an orgasm with just his fingers, and from what I could tell, his cock is big and thick too. I bet he could do wonders with that.

Okay. I need to refocus.

I clean up once he’s out of the shower as best I can. My head is still a bit hazy from the aftermath of the fever. Or maybe it’s from the orgasm. It will be a while before my strength fully returns, but it’s nice to feel like I’m improving. I wrap the robe he gave me around my bruised body and join him in his living room.

This is definitely a man’s apartment. No curtains, no throw pillows, no accent rugs. Plain white walls, brown, heavy wood furniture. I ease down on the fake suede sofa next to him, and he points to some kind of burrito looking thing on a chipped blue plate. I take a sip of water instead.

“It tastes better than it looks,” he says. “Try it.”

I pick up the plate reluctantly. My stomach is fucked up from days of not eating. I pinch a corner of the wrap off and put it in my mouth. It tastes fine, but I have trouble chewing and swallowing it.

“Have some of the eggs. You need the protein.”

Usually I can take down a burrito faster than any of my brothers. I love Mexican food, but I feel sick now.

I force down a bite of eggs, and let it sit. It doesn’t agree with me, but I don’t want to insult this man.

Gio watches me carefully. He hands me the remote to his giant television and picks up the plates.

“I’ll make you something easier on your stomach,” he says.

He rattles around the kitchen and I turn on the TV. It’s mostly local stuff. I see a commercial for the casino and stare at it, transfixed. My father smiles, welcoming people in, telling them that at Trinity Casino, they’re family.

Right.

The commercial fades into the local news.

“Trinity Casino owner James Carney needs the support of his family now more than ever. It’s been three days since his daughter Catriona was violently abducted in downtown Boston.” A picture from my Instagram flashes on the screen. It’s a good one, at least.

“Police have no leads on her whereabouts, and a disturbing video released yesterday has left friends wondering if she’s even still alive.”

There’s a cut to a clip of my friend Jenny.

“Catty isn’t like this. She’s always so lively, so vibrant. I’ve never seen her look like that. Like a corpse.”

Thanks. Glad for the support, Jenny. The shot returns to the studio, where the announcer puts on his best concerned face. Everyone knows the news is mostly theater.

“Her disappearance has authorities wondering if her assailant could be one of the many people who lost to James Carney’s successful casino bid.”

The image of the casino fades into a live shot of my father with a reporter. He’s wearing a nice suit. Looks very respectable.

“How are you and your wife holding up, sir?”

“It’s been hell,” my father says. “But Catriona’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

I’m sure it has been hell, but not because of any worry for me. I’m sure he’s been scheming about how to spin this in his favor.

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