The fire in her belly lures me into a trap. And now, I’ve sampled my emancipation in the very thing I’ve captured.
11
A tornado of glorious flesh and strong tendons secures the cap back on his head and covers his hands. Dangerous green eyes fix onto the lips that tingle from his brutal kiss.
I’m a bundle of jitters and misery. Insidious butterflies die an inglorious death in the acid roiling in my stomach. For a harebrained second, my fight ebbed. The fury deep inside of me combusted with scorching heat, not revulsion. His lips conjured a longing within me that whispered immoral desire. My distorted, perverted soul craved him. A slick heat was the telltale sign I was wet—for him. In a beat of insanity, I parted my lips to savor the exotic flavor of sin and hot summers, then my fight-or-flight response kicked in.
My dignity crumbled in the ashes of my soul. His attack was lightning in the dark. A roll of thunder from afar crackling through intense muggy heat. It brought relief and devastation.
Those feelings of mania are wrong. So very abnormal. A tangy tinge of iron mingles with saliva. I was the one who drew the first droplet of blood, yet he didn’t match pain for pain. Not this time. Instead, he reared back with a glare of pure disgust. The cold, hard stare both depletes my hostility and fuels contempt.
With my spine pressed rigid, I coast downward, spiraling in the aftermath. Burnt orange particles from the broken lamp crunch to a chalky powder, staining the cool floor. He returns the dark glasses to his face, hiding lustrous green eyes. Neither of us speak. The only movement are muscles flexing under his T-shirt. Taut fabric covers every solid curve like a thin layer of seduction, leaving tanned, sinewy arms bare.
After what feels like a lifetime of silence, he stalks around the bed. No second glance. No apology. No estimated timescale of imprisonment.
Only bad blood and a hammering heartbeat louder than jungle drums.
The noise of a door clicking shut echoes through the lonely paradise suite. Similar to his employees, the man exits in stealth mode. Except he hadn’t been quite so unobtrusive during his visit. Flawed palms weren’t aimed at choking out my last breath. They carefully secured, angled and owned. He didn’t kill me; he sought satisfaction and found discomfort.
Shaky thighs transport me to the mattress where I crawl on my hands and knees, curling up in the center of the bed. Tears sting, not because I’m upset, it’s more than that.
I’m ashamed. Utterly distraught.
What woman yields to her jailer, albeit a fleeting flash of temporary insanity? Now he’s aware of my reaction. It was there. He sensed it. I felt it.
I crave him.
I deplore him.
Huddled in isolation, I can only assume it’s a consequence of loneliness. A sick syndrome that smoothers a sound mind. The aftermath of a tropical fever.
* * *
I’m wokenat dawn with a tap on the door, a baseball cap, and a uniform twice the size of the last one.
“Hurry and get changed.” Sal lets himself in and plonks down by the transparent patio door. Slashes of flamingo pink and flushed coral streak over navy blue, gently announcing another day in the afterlife. “It'll be light soon, and I have to escort our new guest to the medical suite after breakfast. Tomorrow you can make your own way to the staff cabana.”
My head falls back on the pillow. Despite having an enormous bed, the sheets are tangled around me in loops from wallowing in the aftermath of el Fantasma. The last thing I want to do is move from my linen hideaway. It's the one place where I’m alone. To think. To remember. To seek refuge. If I’m honest with myself, I could easily barricade the door and never leave, except that would be giving up.
I haven’t come this far in life, to only get this far. For all to end here.
El Fantasma will let me leave, someday. He said so himself. The golden carrot of “one day” hangs out of reach, dangling in plain sight.
Traipsing into the bathroom, I dip under the waterfall shower head, going through the motions. Vanilla essence lingers in my towel dried curls and a fruity cocktail moisturizer takes care of stiff shins. I’m careful not to irritate the mending gash on my cheek, aware of how ugly it must be. Dressing in men’s trousers and a boxy shirt, I’m thankful for the lack of mirrors.
I try to push away thoughts of Emmie, my parents, and Bruce’s accident. My brain naturally plays out visions of their inconsolable grief. As months pass by, their tears will dry and their sadness will mellow. The world will continue to rotate in a glorious galaxy, and normal day-to-day living will resume.
One day they will learn to smile again.
They will carry on.
I’m destined to become a faded memory. A woman they once knew. A character in a framed photograph. A lost soul. All but forgotten until a snapshot reminds them of a moment we shared. The cruel facts unfold under the same rising sun that shines on my family.
I gather twisted strands into a low bun and conceal them beneath the baseball cap. My belly twinges in apprehension, pleading for a day without el Fantasma. A ravenous rumble reminds me I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Not that I have much of an appetite.
Joining Sal, my attention lands on professionally tucked sheets and plumped up bolster cushions.
“Make your bed every morning. It sets the standard for the day ahead.” He fixes the last cushion with a perfecting karate chop.
