It’s been hours.
I’ve heard nothing. Not even a sound from the hallway outside my door.
What on earth is going on out there?
And why did it have to go down while I was in the middle of the most amazing experience of my entire life?
From the moment I heard that fist pounding on the door earlier, my gut started writhing with anxious worms. As afternoon light dimmed to dusk, my fear and uneasiness have only grown. I can’t explain it, but I have a horrible feeling inside.
Something’s wrong.
And I just know things are about to get worse.
If I manage to forget about my own fear, then I spend these moments spiraling through insecurity. The way Rory left…
Right in the middle of…
My stomach lurches just thinking about it.
Rory looked pissed in that moment, and whoever came to get him—his boss, maybe?—didn’t seem pleased either.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I jumped up to lay my ear to the wood, hoping to hear the reason for the harsh interruption. But only foreboding silence followed.
In my twenty-four years of living in the vicinity of mafiosos, I know that if a man comes to collect you without a single word, that means that whatever has happened is so bad that words are useless.
I’d prefer Leo scream at me within an inch of my life than endure the weight of his silent rage. That always signaled danger. I wonder what Rory’s had to endure in the time we’ve been apart. I don’t know what to think or believe or hope for in this scenario.
Will they send me back? If so, will Rory and I ever get to see each other again?
The thought of not even having the chance to say goodbye hurts my chest. So much so that I pull my hand back from the small canvas to rub the spot while I stare hard at the swirl of colors.
I’ve already gone through one of the sketchbooks Rory brought me. It would have been too sad and pathetic to just lounge around every day and wait for him to return.
Instead, I’ve been trying to lose myself in painting the way I used to as a child. That always offered me a reprieve from the shitty circumstances of my upbringing. Gave me some peace. But right now, all I see is an abstract mess of emotional chaos.
Nothing beautiful or pleasing comes from the tip of my brush. Only anxiety. Anxious stroke after anxious stroke after anxious stroke.
But slowly, the method starts to work.
As I delve deeper into my art, my mind can’t help but mull over the high quality of the materials Rory brought me.
He must have asked someone…
That’s what I keep thinking. There’s no way he went to a store and haphazardly picked all of this out. These brushes and watercolors are the kind young artists beg their families to buy them for Christmas. Unless Rory’s an artist himself, hewould have no way of knowing that he bought me an artist’s dream set of paints and brushes unless he asked someone for recommendations.
And that fact tells me how much he was thinking about me when he purchased these. He could have grabbed any old cheap painting kit. But he actually put time and thought into the gift. If I didn’t know any better, I could almost believe he cares…especially when he shows up every evening with a new cupcake.
Ugh. I need to quit allowing my imagination to run wild.
I’ll never make it out of this situation unscathed if I start to believe that anyone in this criminal underbelly gives a damn about me. Rory took me captive to use me as an informant, and I’m using him for sexual education.
End of story.
Shaking the thought from my mind, I resume painting. This canvas isn’t much bigger than my lap. I’ll be done with it before long.
My painting is half complete when someone knocks on my door.
I flinch from the weight of the fist pounding against the wood.
