Page 85 of Devoured
An old tape recorder sat on a tripod, aimed in front of the couch. I glanced at the kitchenette area; another tape recorder was to the side of the kitchen, behind Jake, this one already recording. The knife was gone now, but he had left the gun on the counter in front of him, out of view, as he mixed drinks. Jake wasn’t the smartest guy I had met, but he was different now. Filled with hatred. Roland’s words popped into my mind, from that day in the courthouse:I wouldn’t underestimate a person who’s been wronged. He was right. Again.
But still, I had to try to see if I could talk my way out of this.
“This isn’t like you,” I said. “You’re not violent. You’re better than this, Jake.”
“Please,” he laughed. “You’re the authority on me. Tell me how I’m not violent.”
A chill swept through me. Did he know that I was the one who got the servers to speak up against him?
“Let me go,” I said. “You haven’t done anything yet. So there’s nothing for me to report. But if you do something, you won’t be able to take it back.”
He handed me a green drink, drinking a shot of amber liquid for himself.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. We clinked glasses, but I didn’t take a sip of mine. I knew better. “I need your help. All I want is for you to drink that cocktail,” he forced a smile, “my special recipe, and then we’ll have a good time. I’ll record all of it. Show the judge how much you liked it.”
“That won’t get you out of jail.”
“No. But it will be satisfying,” he said. He placed the gun in his pocket and stepped towards me. I stepped back, bumping into the couch. He snickered, then clicked a button on the recorder. A red light flashed by the lens.
“You were never like this,” I said. “You might have done bad things, but this?” I shook my head. “This is bad, Jake.”
“It wasn’t bad,” he said, stepping forward, our toes meeting, “None of it was bad. Until you came in.”
He brought the back of the gun down on my face, a deep pain that threatened to shatter my bones, coursing through me, making it feel like I would never stop shaking. I held my face in my hands, the burning sensation intense. Blood covered my hand. It stung to touch.
“Drink it,” he said.
I picked the glass up from the table and drank all of it in my mouth, packing it in my cheeks. He smiled to himself, the stupid prick. Then I spit it in his face, all of it. He howled, and I ran across the room, but I couldn’t find the knife. He pointed the gun at me again, cocking the hammer. I closed my eyes tight. Fuck.
In three steps he was across the RV, wrapping his arm around my throat, squeezing me tight until my vision blurred red.
“Let’s try this again,” he said. Flashes of light sparkled around the edges of my vision, and the sound started to dissolve, weightlessness going to my head the tighter he held onto my neck. “I want to play nice. I swear I do. But you’ve got to play nice too.”
I collapsed to the ground, blacking out, but when I woke up a few seconds later, he had a foot on my throat, the dirty end of his boot on my neck.
“Get up,” he said. “Crush that pill.”
He backed away, the gun aimed at me as I pushed myself up to standing. The pill was already in the mortar, the pestle on top of it, as if he knew he’d need more. My stomach wrenched, but I crushed the pill. Men were like this, taking advantage of the situation. His size over me. But there had to be another way. There had to.
What would Roland do? Jake gestured with the barrel. “Add it to the vodka.”
I didn’t move. He shot the gun, the bullet going straight through the back of his RV. The sound rang in my ears. Could they hear it at the Dahlia District?
“Now,” he said, his voice muffled by the ringing.
I added the powder and the vodka to an empty plastic cup. The world began to shift around me, like I had already consumed the drink. The pill dissolved into the drink, making it green.
“Drink it,” he said. “Or the next bullet is yours.”
If I did this, I knew what would happen. I couldn’t let myself become another one of his victims.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered.
“What do I have to lose?” he snarled. “What do you have to lose, Mama Bear?”
I swallowed the drink, the bitterness clinging to my throat. A tear escaped my eyes, sliding down my cheek.
“Aww, Mama Bear,” Jake said, the gun still aimed at my forehead. “Do they still call you that? Mama Bear? Well, well, Mama Bear. Don’t cry. You’re going to have a good time. Trust me,” he slid an arm around me. “Jake will take care of you.”
