Page 2 of Festive Fugitive
“And do you feel you’ve earned one this year, Cesar?”
It’s so condescending I want to grab his gray head and smash it into the sink, sending teeth and brains flying into every corner of this restroom. How’s that for Christmas decorations?
But I won’t. The power this man holds over me is greater than the strength of his muscles could ever be. I won’t be free of him until he takes off my leash.
“I’m ready each day with the exception of Fridays. My loyalty is flawless,” I say without thinking, because it is not my fault he chooses not to use me for any job of note.
“My Dobermans don’t need days off.” He chuckles, but his eyes remain cold. He’s comparing me to dogs. Is it a slight? Or is he telling me to do better? Despite the compulsion to keep him happy, I won’t give up on the one evening when I can roam free and bury myself in handsome bodies, so I stay silent. “The holidays are a busy time. I will see about it in the new year.”
Bile rises in my throat. That means another year in his service. Twelve more months of wasted time. Have I not done enough? Don’t I deserve to finally start living for myself and breathe air rather than the smoke of my master’s cigars? I’ve got this planned out. A house off the Alaskan coast, freedom to see people or not. I could fuck someone every day if I felt like it, and even hunt, if my instincts need to be sated.
“What are you keeping me for, if you don’t plan to use me? Give me a job worthy of that tattoo, and I’ll do it before the year’s over.” I look straight into his eyes, something I was taught not to do, and step closer to show him how much bigger I am.
Sullivan stills, but I notice the single drop of sweat beading on his temple.
Yes, motherfucker. You nurtured a beast, now deal with it.
He straightens as if that can make him much taller. “I will give you a job whenIchoose to. You don’t call the shots here. Or should I usethe wordsto remind you? Unless you actually want to kill me and test whether the implant in your heart is real or not?”
I step back as if he’s tazed me with a cattle prod, eyes back on the floor.
I hate myself for being like this, but I don’t want to risk my life, or have him ever usethe wordson me again. I shake my head, mouth dry as I move until my back hits the wall.
“No. Of course not. But I want to be useful. I want to be active.”
I don’t dare look up, but I cansensehis gaze. Full of disdain.
“I will find something worthy of your talents in due time,” Sullivan says coolly.
It’s a compliment. A pat on the back after a slap, but it doesn’t cheer me up. He means to keep me for another year. Maybe he wants me to die on the job, so there’s no loose ends.
I don’t get to answer. He walks past me and exits the restroom, leaving me with the ghost of his peppery scent.
For several heartbeats, I remain still, my gaze pinned to the sealant between floor tiles, but then I’m at the sink and dunk my face under the faucet. Icy water splashes the back of my head, forming rivulets through my hair. There’s so much anger in me, but not being able to express it makes me numb.
Will this always be my life?
I walk out as if on autopilot, then find my way back up the stairs and to the mezzanine where I’mon standby. Like an outdated gaming console you’re not using anymore, butmaybeyou’ll want to pick up the joystick at some point, so why not just keep it indefinitely?
Since I’m not required to do much, I let my gaze follow a man in a sharp burgundy suit. Slim, with a neat haircut and pretty lips, he glances my way as well, and I consider an act of rebellion against Sullivan’s rules. It’s not Friday, but maybe I could sneak away with this stranger and fuck his brains out to forget tonight’s disastrous meeting. Imight appear silly with wet hair and water dripping onto my glitter-infested suit, but couldn’t that serve as an easy conversation starter?
Some animals bond for life, but my heart isn’t capable of love, so I make do with lust, taking whatever I need for the brief moments I get to hold someone in my arms.
I look straight into the man’s eyes—something I enjoy doing a little too much. Probably because I’m not allowed to be so direct with Sullivan.
But then a gunshot resonates through the room, the stranger screams and crouches, but I, like Pavlov’s dog, turn back toward the danger to find Sullivan in the crowd below.
He stumbles into Lyle’s arms, knocking him over while guests crouch, shrieking so loudly I can barely hear the second shot.
A bloom of red spreads over Sullivan’s white shirt, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
The shooter is wearing a Santa costume. He’s just feet away from Sullivan, his trembling hand still extended with the gun in it as people shriek and run, tripping over each other.
Impossible.
This amateur stands there, looking around as if he can’t believe what he’s done. As if he has no escape plan. I catch a glimpse of his eyes and pull out my gun. I have a clear shot. I could take him out and put an end to this now.
It’s a split-second decision, yet my whole life manages to flash through my mind. All the pain Sullivan caused me, who I’ve become because of him, the invisible collar I’m wearing.
