Page 15 of Shattered
Another question. Another stranger wanting to get to know me under false pretenses.
What did it matter if I told this murderer the truth?
“I paint,” I said.
“Do you consider yourself an artist?”
That was a difficult question. Art, something that truly stood up against time, was the goal for many painters, one that I strived for each time I picked up a brush. But I could never give myself as much credit as calling myself an artist.
“No,” I whispered.
“Do you paint for a living?”
Technically, I could say that I did. I painted my body into murals at the Dahlia District. And when I was on stage, I poured paint and other liquids over my body to bring attention to the right places. Dripped burning candle wax onto my skin in the Terrariums, letting club members fling it off with floggers.
“I work at the Dahlia District,” I said. “It’s an entertainment club in Cresting Heights.”
A subtle nod dipped his chin. Another truth. Why was it easy to answer his questions, and hard to take anything Garrett asked seriously?
Was it the danger? That this man could take my life, so I had no choice but to obey, no choice but to be honest for once? All things considered, Garrett was a big man too, and he could have taken me out easily in the private rooms. But he never seemed like a threat. Not even when we were alone.
But this man, standing before me, the person who had killed my roommate, was clearly a threat. He was watching me from the corner as if he had no plans other than to observe and learn who I was.
Maybe he was more truthful than anyone else. Violence did that to you.
Which was why I couldn’t let my guard down.
“Have you killed again?” I asked.
“Not since your roommate.”
I bit my lip. “Do you strangle all of your victims?”
“I don’t care for that word.” He straightened his posture. “Those monsters aren’t helpless. They’re quite capable of owning their actions.” Then he nodded. “But yes, I prefer strangulation.”
“Why?”
A few seconds passed, and I would have given anything to know where his eyes were, which parts of my body he was taking in. If he wasn’t looking at me at all. Was he figuring out an exit strategy, or was he analyzing me?
“The fight to breathe is the purest show of the will to survive.”
To have your air taken away would produce a primal reaction, bucking and jerking for freedom, for that one gasp of air with the ability to will life back into your lungs. How long had it taken him to strangle me until I was unconscious? How long had it taken for Colin to become a corpse?
“Can you do it to me again?” I asked. The bravery sucked from my soul as soon as I said the words. “Show me what it feels like. I want to know.”
Despite the huge boots, his gait was practically noiseless as he stepped forward. How many people hadn’t heard him coming? How many people had been caught by surprise when he strangled them to death?
He pulled me into his grip, whipping my body around like a rag doll, pulling me into a headlock. I pushed him away, but he pulled me in tighter, his arm thick around my neck. All sound drowned out as if I was sinking below, and I realized the world had been loud, so loud, with the pulse of electricity, the fans whirring above us, the cars driving on the wet asphalt, the dogs barking in the distance, the knocks of closing cupboards next door, loud with our rasping breaths. But everything was quiet now, still, coming to a halt. My vision blurred on the sides, and he leaned his body weight into me. His heaviness wrangled me into submission, and I twisted, pulling at his arm, but he tightened his grip. His cock pressed against my thighs, and I know I shouldn’t have, but my sex clenched involuntarily. The fear made me pulse. I was being captured like prey.Hisprey.
“Sleep, Melissa,” he said, his voice muffled, quieter still, an edge of sweetness to it. “It’s just a bad dream.”
Then it went black.
