Page 47 of Antihero
When she’s close, I take a handful of her hair and lift her head. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Her face twists in ecstasy, mouth open, throat long as her head arches back. The primal movements between us become bigger and more needy, more violent. I look at her face, and feel the surge of pleasure, the need for release. Apparently, she’s not the only one who likes to watch.
Our mingled voices might very well have woken up the house by the time we’re both done, need meeting and undoing. But as Paige breathlessly straightens, letting me fall from her, and I slide her along to where we can both lean against the main body of the car, I don’t care.
I lean against her, her forehead on the top of my shoulder as she catches her breath. My legs feel weak as I rest a knee against the door. She might just drain me one day.
“Tell me,” I say with a heavy breath.
Her hands tighten incrementally on the sides of my shoulders, forehead rolling along my collarbone so that I think she’s shaking her head, denying me still. But then she tells me, “He owns the strip clubs, the brothels in Tregam. All of them.” Another breath. “Where the girls from the asylum went. Where some still are. Some he brings back here on Bunker night.”
I lull my head in a slow nod. “And he knows where they’ve come from?”
A humourless laugh. “He knows.”
“There’s nowhere left on the island for him to procure more girls?” I check.
Another slow shake. “No. Not since the orphanage burned.”
“It burned down before you could be sent to them,” I say.
She nods.
A pause. I don’t suggest thatshewas the one to burn down the orphanage. “Now tell me why you’re upset.” She opens her mouth, probably to refute the suggestion, and I add, “I know it’s not just because I’m here. Something else has you like this.” She doesn’t respond. I press on a hunch. “You took documents from Pastryachi’s place. What was in them that couldn’t be stored at the asylum?”
Lips closing, the defiance comes back to her eyes. “I…”
“Won’t tell me?” I conclude.
“No.”
I sigh. “Tell me that one day you’ll speak to me about all of this. No more secrets.”
She blinks and wets her lips. “One day. If I’m alive, and you’re with me. I’ll tell you. Everything. As much as you want to hear.”
It doesn’t take a social genius, as I look into her eyes, to know that Paige is only saying that because she thinks that will never happen. Mostly, the her being alive part. I feel cold as I take understanding from this.
Nonetheless, her words are the best I can expect so far as guarantees of the future go, for tonight at least. And I’ll do everything in my power to keep her alive for that elusive future.
Somehow, I’ve gone from nearly killing her myself to protecting her. I frown, glancing at the posters. “You said all the lecherous ones were dead.”
“Lecherous in ways I can use. He doesn’t bother with any girls outside his clubs. Why would he? He’s got them practically on tap.” She lifts her head, meeting my eye, waiting for what I’ll do next.
I press my thumb to the middle of her chin. I should stop her, I know. But all I can think of are those girls, things taken from them that they never agreed to, mistreated, mutilated. Either sterilisation or lobotomy—what odds are those? What kind of world? Who ran it all?
Then finally, of Paige as one of them. Destined for some seedy strip club or worse before the untimely demise of the home and the end of their source of fresh meat. If not for that, she would’ve been pushed into it for lack of other options. Because what else is there for a girl who went from orphanage to asylum and then back? And a man like the one who lives here, who happily took advantage of it all.
My brow softens. “You don’t need to keep so many secrets.”
She blinks up at me. “The world has known all of Needler’s secrets for years. Are you better for it?”
Fair point. I take a breath and press my forehead to hers.
I know what I’ll do next.
***
He comes down, whistling, sending a salute to the nude women on the wall as he spins the keys around his finger. A fat man, smelling of too much cologne as he passes me, unseeing.
He picks the BMW. Like we anticipated. It’s one of the three nearest the gate, and the only one with recent tyre tracks ahead of the wheels, the only one with a slight smudge on the doorhandle.
