Page 9 of Dark Knight
“You aren't going to lure me into a fight and distract me from what we're talking about. Your judgment has been shit lately, and you're here because you're hiding from an asshole who probably thinks you killed his son. Now is the time to stop being stubborn and get real.”
“Yeah, and the way to get me to go along with you is to act like a dictator instead of trying to compromise.” Her sarcasm always hits the spot.
“This is not a situation where compromise is an option.”
“Says you.”
“That's right. Says me. In case you forgot, I'm the guy who's here to protect you.”
She couldn’t look me up and down with more contempt than she is at this very moment. “You’re my bodyguard, not my boss. I'm going to do what I want.”
Turning toward the door, I call out, “Within reason.”
Her voice is barely audible when I reach the porch. “Yeah, we'll see about that.”
She’s right. We will. She’s going to be gravely disappointed when she finds out I only got as close as I have to her father because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get shit done.
This means not even she will get in the way of me doing my job, no matter how determined she is to destroy herself.
CHAPTER4
TATUM
Stupid, spoiled little bitch. You're only good for one thing, anyway.
My eyes snap open at the sound of a gunshot. My ears ring as if the gun was shot right beside me. Darkness surrounds me. Suffocating me. I’m frozen, every cell in my body clenched in terror so profound it’s wound around my limbs like steel bands squeezing the life out of me. No matter how I fight to suck air into my lungs, I can’t breathe.
I'm going to die here, in the dark, all alone. This is it. This is how it ends.
Light splashes across the ceiling, coming through the windows to my right. A car driving past with the headlights shining. Because I'm on a street, in a neighborhood. This isn’t an apartment in Paris or a hotel room in Venice. Kristoff is nowhere near me now. He can’t ever say those ugly things to me again, and I’m no longer in that warehouse.
I'm in Romero's house. It was just a dream.
And all at once, my muscles unlock, and my lungs fill with air.
It's okay.
I'm safe.
I'm not being held somewhere against my will, and Kristoff isn't going to hurt me. He's not going to hurt me anymore.
Breathe.In, out. I take my time, making each breath slow and deliberate. I'm fine. Everything is fine. I'm safe. There's no one with a gun, nobody throwing me into a car. I'm in bed in my new room. It's not a bad room, and the bed is pretty comfortable. From the feel of it, it's also brand new. Like practically everything else in this house.
That's what I need to think about. Anything else, so long as I can distract myself until the nightmare loses its power and fades to nothing the way most of them eventually do. I can think about how strange it is that Romero owns this house yet never visited. How strange it is to smell the lingering fumes of fresh paint hanging in the air. Did he have all of this done for me?
I run my hands over the satin duvet cover and focus on how it feels to ground myself in the present. It’s one of the many things I learned in my online therapy sessions. Soon, the uncomfortable sensation of being covered in cold sweat makes me wrinkle my nose, so I sit up, tugging at my T-shirt to pull it away from my damp skin. I’m too sweaty to get comfortable. There’s no way I can lay back down, not with everything damp and disgusting.
What's the point in trying to go back to sleep, anyway? My nerves are frayed. Another car drives past, and the sound of it makes me jump. I freeze again, holding my breath, afraid they'll stop in front of the house. As if they're coming for me, as if Jeff sent somebody to grab me—or worse, to pay me back for whatever he thinks I did to his precious little boy. The dread and fear gnaw at my insides.
I can't live like this. I don't know how much more I can take before I crack. There's a storm in my head, lightning flashing, thunder rumbling. I can't take the pressure. I can't stand hearing Kristoff's voice in my mind. And when it's not him, it's the men Jack Moroni sent to kidnap Bianca and me.
I wasn't even supposed to be there—they were only supposed to take her, hoping to use her to get money from Dad. Her and the baby she's carrying.
“What is she doing here? She's not supposed to be here.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it's no use. There's no blocking out the memory of my mother's sharp and clear voice when she realized there was a mistake. It's sick, but there have been times in the weeks since that terrible night that I have thought to myself at least she cared enough to say that. She started raising hell before they knocked me out, and I didn't hear what happened after that. I'm glad I didn't, because whatever it was killed her.
All these emotions, pain and sadness, are locked inside me. I carry them with me wherever I go. No wonder my feet are heavy when I stand and cross the room full of furniture nobody had ever used before I arrived three days ago. Three of the longest, most boring days of my life. It's not like I did much this summer, locked in my room most of the time, but that was my choice. And yeah, it was my choice to leave home, but that's the last choice that's been really mine ever since. I'm right back where I was before, at the mercy of people who think they know what I need better than I do.