Page 50 of The Trap

Going right over the voice’s insinuation, Raiden does what she does best–deflect…lie.

“I’m not lying,” she announces, trying to sell her words as fact, but if there’s something that I can finally agree on with the anonymous sadist responsible for these games, it’s this.

“Honey, you were moaning for that fine piece of ass–”

“Hey!” I interrupt.

Raiden’s scoff is so loud that it practically vibrates the damn room as she whips her head around to look at me. “Seriously?”

“What?” I shrug “It’s just kind of weird to be so objectified.”

“Ha, try being a woman,” Raiden rolls her eyes.

“Valid, as you were,” I lift my hands in defeat.

“As I was saying,” the voice cuts in. “Only a liar would deny how–excuse me,Mr. Cromwell, made them come from just the tip. Ms. Ramos. That’s pathetic.”

Unleashing a grunt that rivals her scoff from earlier, she stomps her foot. “We’ve established this. Yes, he’s hot, so next time if you want to have two people fuck their way out of your torture chamber, don’t have one of them have a pierced dick. I don’t know what to tell you,” she says, sealing her tantrum with a stomp making her look unintentionally adorable.

“True. Except you haven’t fucked yet. I don’t consider a friendly game of ‘just the tip’ fucking. But I digress, and since you’re being so open and honest, I should cut the hypocritical crap also and fess up. I lied too.” The speaker’s words are sealed with the sound of gears shifting as the ceiling begins to retract, giving way to the glass ceiling again.

Our necks crank to see what’s above. “Look at that. Right above where you two lay, the patrons of Satan’s Stiletto are having the time of their lives. Dancing. Having their laps tended to from some of the hottest–and craziest–strippers on the East coast. And in some cases, as in for elite clientele, some are using the private rooms to unleash their deepest, darkest, desires. Oh, but in some extra-special cases, patrons find themselves where you two are, beneath the square footage that the building inspector knows about. In my underground oasis…where I have my fun,” the glee in the robotic voice is sickening.

This makes no sense. I’ve been to Satan’s plenty of times. Well, that’s a lie. I’ve been to Satan’s plenty of times since I found out that Raiden works there–or was supposed to work there. Declan at Oogie’s mentioned she was going to start dancing there, so until I found the sick courage to break into her place–which I still can’t fucking believe I did, much less forgive myself for–I would slink in, sit at the bar, and just wait, hoping she would show, but she never did. But in the time I wasthere, I never saw any shifting floor or heard anything that could indicate that the hell we’re in exists.

“You look confused, Mr. Cromwell. Do I need to spell it out for you?” the speaker taunts.

“Yea, that would actually be pretty fucking helpful,” I respond, sarcasm on high.

“She’s right. You really are a pendejo. Ha, maybe you two really do deserve each other,” the speakers snarls.

“Wait,” Raiden interrupts.

“Yes?” the voice asks.

“You said you lied too. You owe us the truth,” she reminds them.

“Ah, you are correct. Silly me. You two are just so delicious I can’t help but have my mind drift a bit.”

“Well, I think we filled your sick spank-bank enough, so get to it,” Raiden’s hand motions for them to continue.

“Fine,” the robotic voice scoffs, “keep your eyes up.”

We both stand still, necks cranked upward, waiting for god knows what. I’m about to address the speaker when Raiden gasps. “Carmine,” she shouts. Above us is Carmine in his signature pinstripe suit, walking around the main bar area at Satan’s. He isn’t alone, there’s a crowd of people, some standing, some dancing. There are also four white paws pattering about. Raiden quickly runs from the glass to the chair in the corner. Dragging it to the center of the room, she stands on it, transferring her short frame to her tiptoes, trying to hit the glass, but she can’t reach it. Frustrated, she begins to scream Carmine’s name.

“I put on the one-way speakers, so you can hear them but no one up there can hear you” the voice says. “You think with all I’ve gone through to have you here—and you, Mr. Cromwell, can’t forget about you—that it’d be that easy to let the patrons upstairs know what goes on down here? Give me a break.”

Raiden storms the glass again. “What kind of sick fuck leads someone to believe someone is dead like that?!” she shouts, chest heaving from anger instead of being relieved.

Steel rolls over the glass ceiling, blocking our view, closing us in just as a clap sounds over the speakers, and on cue the foggy glass Raiden stands in front of is transparent, revealing the hourglass shape of a woman in a black leather bodysuit, face concealed by a black skeleton mask. The woman continues to clap, inching closer to the glass. “No fucking shit, Raiden. You think I’m stupid? Of course, I had to lead you to believe your precious cousin was in danger. That was the only way your stubborn ass would play my little game.”

“You–” Raiden begins, but she’s stopped by the clicking of the woman’s tongue and her gloved finger wagging at her through the other side of the glass.

“Don’t be ungrateful. This has only benefited you. Even a perpetual liar like you can admit that you’ve enjoyed yourself so far. Isn’t that right? Or were you faking your orgasms like you did with his brother?”

Stubborn as ever. Raiden crosses her arms, refusing to respond. She doesn’t have to. I already know those moans and squeals that fed the meter were real.

“Since the cat seems to have gotten her tongue, I’ll answer for her,” the woman chimes in. “Ah, Mr. Cromwell, I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” she says cryptically.

---