So now I not only subjected Marnie to a night with my father but my entire family. Fucking great. Oh well. I suppose we could look at it like a practice run—time to see how good of an actress my Little Bird was.
An alarm went off on my phone, reminding me of another problem. One that my old man could possibly help with, and it would get him out of my hair.
“Hey.” I tipped my chin. “You busy today?”
He shook his head. “Why? What’s up?”
“I got someone in the west wing who’s a little lonely.”
The little lonely part was a slight exaggeration. Tico’s mood was more along the lines of fucking pissed. The last time I went in there, he kicked the TV over after demanding to see Marnie again. I had to slap him around a bit. A good hard fuck might knock some calm back into him. And my old man seemed intrigued, at least.
The curl in his mouth deepened. “Oh, yeah. Well, why don’t you introduce me to this friend.”
I didn’t say, friend. “He’s down the hall, third door on the left.”
That was all he needed to hear.
My old man pushed off the island and skipped away like a kid on Christmas morning.
“The code is 1117.” Lindsay’s birthday.
Next thing I knew, I heard a loud crash followed by Tico’s voice. “Oh, hello, sir.”
“Sir? I like it. Keep calling me that,” my old man said before closing the door.
I’d never been happier for soundproofing in my life.
The definition of suffocation was: the state or process of dying from being deprived of air or unable to breathe. Or a feeling of being trapped and oppressed. Both of which applied to my current state of mind. I wasn’t living in a cage anymore, but the bars were still around me. Each breath I took tasted more stagnant than the last.
Don’t get me wrong, compared to my other accommodations, Preston’s room was an improvement. Or at least I assumed it was his room based on the familiar jean jacket draped over a black armchair, but that was the problem. That denim material sat across the room, mocking me.
Every time light glinted off one of those silver buttons, my stomach would churn. I couldn’t explain why my teeth gritted whenever I looked at it. The jacket never bothered me before, but the longer I sat here, the more I hated it.
If I weren’t trapped on this bed, I would’ve destroyed it. I told myself it was because Preston was attached to it, but it was more than that. There was something nauseatingly familiar, and I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I’d been wracking my brain trying to figure it out. Had I seen that jacket before? Perhaps in a movie, I didn’t care for or on someone I didn’t like besides the obvious choice.
Fashion wasn’t my thing, but that jacket…I loathed its very existence. The why was driving me crazy, which was precisely why I occupied myself with other things. Like snooping around Preston’s room.
My chained foot restricted my free reign. That didn’t stop me from inspecting what I couldn’t reach. The furniture was about what I expected, based on the rest of the house: a big California king bed with silky sheets and blankets, chair, desk, laptop, and a flatscreen hung up on the far side that was perpetually playing an infomercial. For only three easy payments of $99.95, I could get a knife that cut through a soda can. Personally, I’d choose the twenty-dollar department store version, but hey, to each their own.
The color scheme was a little different. Unlike the neutral tones I’d seen in the rest of the place, this room was flooded with dark hues. Mostly navy and black, which seemed fitting given who slept in here, though I did admire the little decorative touches. Like the slight splashes of brighter colors on pillows and throw blankets. My favorite was the cream chair rail cutting across the center of the navy wall. It was so intricately carved in the shape of an ivy vine that I could see the veins on each individual leaf.
Yet the closet was full of regular clothes that could be bought at any department store. Preston Whitley was a conundrum that I didn’t understand. There were no staff in the house or people to take care of things like yard work and cooking. All of that he did himself. I knew this because I watched him for years, and not once did I see someone other than delivery people come to this place.
Even the giant terrarium taking up the entire right wall confused me. It was clear and clean, filled with plants, rocks, and a little pond in the left corner. Who cleaned that, and what was it for? At first, I thought maybe the plants were unique.
Then a tiny green head poked out of a plant as a turtle charged the glass. And I meant charged. He or she came bursting out and slammed against the pane with so much force that I cringed. And he didn’t stop there. His mouth continued to snap while he tried to get out.
I decided to ignore it and search through Preston’s drawers. Most of the contents were mundane things like magazines and small bottles. I didn’t want to think about what I found in the bottom drawer, but Bubba, the purple dildo, no longer seemed threatening. I did find two knives, one of which I tucked under a pillow for future use.
Afterward, I sat back on the bed, intent on waiting for my captor’s return. What happened was a stare-down with a turtle. At first glance, the creature was cute. Stumpy legs, a colorful shell, and a tiny little body that could probably fit in the palm of my hand. It was the attitude that sucked.
The instant my eyes were on the turtle, it started throwing itself at the terrarium again. As if it thought it could break through. Animals with rabies had a better disposition than that thing.
“You know, vicious animals are usually put down.”
It answered me by snapping at the glass.
“What exactly are you trying to accomplish? You’re not getting through that glass, and you’re way too small to do any permanent damage, so you’re just wasting your time.”
