Page 11 of He Should Be Mine
The door swung open and I ushered him inside. The hallway was dark, but light was spilling out from the living area.
Molly tossed his head up high and strode towards the light, swaying his hips. I trailed after him.
Riccardo was sitting on the sofa. He stood up as soon as he saw Molly. His eyes lit up and a wide grin stretchedacross his face. I was annoyed at the surge of pride that flashed through me. Pleasing Riccardo was business not pleasure.
Molly sashayed right up to him. Leaving me alone in the shadows.
“Well, hello Sugar. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Molly breathed huskily in his porn voice.
Riccardo’s face lit up even more. Like a kid on Christmas morning.
He ignored me completely. No thanks, not even a well done. Molly ignored me too. They both stood there grinning at each other and acting as if I didn’t exist.
It shouldn’t have hurt. It should not have mattered. It definitely should not have felt like the hugest mistake of my entire life.
Scowling, I slunk silently backwards. I crept into the empty guestroom and flopped on the bed.
This very bed that I am lying on now. In the guest room that became my room. Because Riccardo decided one night wasn’t enough. So six months later, here I am.
Still here. Still acting as Molly’s pimp. Still trapped.
Perhaps Molly has done it on purpose. Perhaps he has used every ounce of skill he has to keep Riccardo enamored of him. Maybe Molly is trying desperately to live, despite his claims of, ‘Whatever.’
But it can’t last forever. Nothing ever does.
Chapter four
Dario
As I blearily open my eyes, the smell of decent coffee registers in my mind. As does the sound of pots clanking and Molly humming in the kitchen.
Midday light is trying to escape around the heavy curtains. Seems I did eventually fall asleep, after all.
My stupid knee protests as I get out of bed. I ignore it and stumble into my shower. At some point in the night, well, more like very early morning, I stripped my clothes off.
I wonder if Molly prefers to sleep naked?
I slam the shower on with far more force than is necessary. What an absurd question to float through my mind. It’s not something I ever need to know. I don’t understand why it popped into my head like that. It must be a strange effect of being half-awake.
The shower heats up quickly and the water pressure is good. Two things that make this awful apartment slightly more bearable.
I take my time in the shower. There is no need to rush. I have nowhere to be. The only person I’m likely to talk to today is Molly.
My jaw clenches. My hands soap my stomach a little more vigorously. I’m not avoiding Molly. I’m a man of many flaws, but cowardice is not one of them.
Besides, there is nothing to be fearful of. Or ashamed about. I’ve done nothing wrong. He is the one who chose to run off. He made me punish him.
My snarl echoes around the fake marble walls of the shower cubicle.He made me punish him.Exactly what an abusive boyfriend would say. Except I’m not Molly’s boyfriend. I’m his keeper. His pimp. His jailer.
I’m not supposed to be nice to him, so there is no need to feel guilty. And guilt has never held a place in my life. It never can. Morals are luxuries for other people. I can’t afford them.
I slam the shower off and vigorously towel dry. Hard enough to turn my skin red. Then I throw on some clothes. A pale linen shirt and some light-colored slacks. Crisp black socks and a pair of tan Oxfords. It’s as casual as I ever go, because while it seems as if all I have stretching before me is an endless day of being cooped up with Molly, life is rarely predictable.
If something were to happen, if I end up fighting for my life, I want to be dressed for the occasion.
Shoes safely tied, I stand. Pain grinds through me. I allow myself to pause and catch my breath. Then I stride forward with purpose and confidence.
It’s bright in the living area. Molly has opened all the blinds and the huge windows are displaying a blue summer sky, and far below us, the sprawling cityscape of London.
