Page 44 of Velvet Cruelty

Chapter Eight

January Whitehall

“Get up,” a voice barks, and I jerk awake. I cried for so long after Doc left that I must have dozed off.

“I said, get up.” I jump to my feet like I’m in the army and turn to the voice. It’s a man I haven’t seen before. He must be at least sixty with a grey mustache and unfriendly expression.

He throws a cloth bag through the bars. “Put this on.”

I don’t move.

“Do it or you won’t get to wash.”

Wash? Like take a shower? I grab the bag off the floor and ram it over my head. Even if he’s lying, I’m willing to take the risk if it means feeling clean again.

I hear the cage unlock. The man takes my elbow and guides me forward. I’m unsteady on my feet, but his touch is light as if he doesn’t really want to come near me. His directions are clipped as he leads me up flights of stairs and around corners.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” he finally says, dropping his hold and pulling the bag from my head.

“What—” I say, but he’s already closing the door behind him.

I blink, readjusting my eyes to the bright lights of the room before letting out a shaky laugh. He was telling the truth. I’m standing in a beautiful white marble bathroom. There are stacks of fluffy towels, shelves heaving with body wash and shampoo and moisturizer, and toothbrushes still in their packaging.

I grab a strawberry body wash and a coconut shampoo and conditioner and strip out of my underwear in a second, practically running into the big rainforest shower. I let the hot water pound on me for minutes before scrubbing myself with a loofa. The thick white bubbles slide over my skin and it’s like a religious experience.

Mindful of the time limit, I finish quickly and step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, feeling five pounds lighter.

Beside the towels is a small pile of clothes. A pink T-shirt, white cotton shorts, white socks, and pink panties. A little girlie but much better than what I expected—I’m sure Doc would want me in a dog collar and a leather thong or something.

I brush my teeth, moisturize my face, comb my hair, and roll deodorant under my arms in a state of rapture. After being trapped in the dark, I’m beginning to feel almost normal again. The clothes fit snugly but there’s no bra or pockets for me to put my St. Christopher in and you can see my nipples through the T-shirt. I pull the socks on and look around for shoes. I knock on the inside of the door. “Hi, are there any shoes?”

“No.”

“Oh, but my socks will be ruined on the floor?”

An irritated grunt. “Are you dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Then put the bag back on your head.”

I do it, and hold my St. Christopher in my fist. The door unlocks and the man takes my arm again. When he next takes off the bag we’re in a small room, empty except for a table and chair. On the table is a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese. My heart leaps. “Is that for me?”

“Yes. Sit.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much! Mr…?”

He looks at me with his flinty grey eyes. “Gretzky.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gretzky.”

I eat fast, burning the roof of my mouth, but I don’t care. In seconds the plate and bowl are empty.

Mr. Gretzky scowls. “Done?”

I nod. “Everything was delicious.”

“I didn’t make the food.” He hands me back the bag.

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