Page 40 of Shame

“What kind of a name is that?”

“It’s Russian, miss. Now go. Your car is waiting.”

I put my hand on the door handle. “Ivan Sokolov, your master is a monster. You know that, right?”

He studies me with his usual unreadable gaze, then something dark flickers through them.

“There is more to Mr. Salvatore than you see. Good night.” He puts his hand on mine and opens the door for me.

I was stalling. I know that. When the door swings open, the limousine is waiting, but there’s no sign of Lucas. The early morning air is slightly chilly, and goosebumps erupt along my naked legs. I throw one last glance at Ivan. It’s almost as if I want to clutch to him and beg him to not let me go back out there. Facing Lucas, facing the house and the girls, trying to heal yet again almost feels harder than just staying in this house of horrors. I wonder what Ivan means with ‘there’s more to Salvatore’? He’s a power-hungry sadist and a psychopath. That’s all I see.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lucas

I hold it together as I leave Carmen at the mansion, passing the gate guards. I hold it together a few more minutes, then I pull up by the side of the road and scream and hit my fists on the dashboard over and over until my knuckles bleed. The gravel squirts behind the car as I speed off, down along the serpentine road, an I-don’t-give-a-fuck-anymore voice in my head telling me to just turn the wheel to the right, fly over the steep edge and get it over with. Instead I hit a bar downtown. A seedy bar, filled with lowlife criminals, wannabe cowboys, and hookers.

After two beers and three shots of tequila, I feel invincible. I also loathe everyone around me.

“Dude, you’re in my way.” I shove at whoever stands next to me. My sore fists itch to hit something. Someone. Anyone here will do.

The man is in his thirties, tall but gangly, with a face only a mother could love, and has unsuccessfully been hitting on one of the hookers the whole night. He wears a checkered flannel shirt, no-brand jeans and cheap, well-worn cowboy boots.

“What the fuck’s your problem?”

“You’re in my face. That’s my problem.”

The fist comes flying, but he shows his intention from a mile away. I’ve practiced Krav Maga three times a week for the last two years. It pays off. I block it and hit his solar plexus, making him bend over and gasp, that’s when I throw an uppercut to his chin. He falls straight back, like a log, hitting his head on the floor. I’m about to throw myself over him when someone grabs my arms from behind. Turns out there are two, bending my arms up on my back. I consider making a backflip and a toss, I can totally take them, but then the fight drains out of me and I let them steer me out of the venue. Their grip hurts, but I welcome the pain.

I’m shoved face first onto the pavement, hitting hands and knees, scraping them pretty badly on the uneven surface.

“Get some fresh air, kid. And don’t come back. Ever.”

I spin around and fall down on my butt. My mind spins. Fuck. What time is it? How many hours until I pick up Carmen? How drunk am I exactly? It’s like something hits my stomach and I double over in pain. What shape will she be in? The memory from last time, of a little nose peeking out from under the yellow blanket, big pained eyes, her beaten body, is burned onto my retinae.

Nausea rises in me as I get to my feet. I try to walk on a line, to see if I’m sober enough to drive. I’m not a small guy, I can take some booze before it impairs me. It works fairly well and I hop in the car, confident I won’t kill anyone.

On the way home, I call Christian Russo.

“Yeah?” he grunts. It’s clear I woke him up. His voice is raw and raspy. “What the fuck do you want?”

“It’s Payne.”

“I know who the fuck you are.”

“You gotta take me on your next hit, man.”

He laughs. I hear him move around, water flushing. “Kid, you vomited last time.”

“I’m ready.”

“For anything?”

“For anything.”

“Well, fine. We’ll let you know. Now let me get the fuck back to sleep.”

He disconnects in the next moment. If a cell phone could be slammed down to end the call, he just did the equivalent. My heart jolts. I’m ready. I don’t care anymore. It’s all fucked anyway. I know I have a soft spot somewhere deep inside, a weakness that shouldn’t be there. I need to burn it away, and it can only be done with blood, with pain, and grit.

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