CopyCat

by Shannon West

  I made a little sound of surprise, and an amused chuckle sounded in my ear. “Come, darling, you must have known how much I wanted this ass all evening.” A shift of his hip and he was pressing harder into the crease of my jeans. “You want this too.”

  “No,” I said. “Let me go. I don’t want anything like this.”

  “Now you’re lying, pequeño. I know you want me as much as I want you.” His teeth sank down in my neck, and I felt a trickle of blood. “That’s right, niño, don’t fight me.”

  He yanked my jeans down around my ankles and then picked me up and hauled me over on my back. I tried to get away but he captured my wrists in his hands again and smiled down at me, his teeth shining in the soft light. He let go of me long enough to tug my jeans down over my feet and throw them on the floor. “Now, sweet one. You’re going to give me what I want.” He picked me up as easily as if I’d been a child and sat down with me, pulling me on top of him. Still holding my numb wrists captive in his hand, he fumbled in his pocket for something and came out with a tiny tube of lubricant.

  “A good thing for you I carry this with me, pequeño. You’re very tight, I think.” He quickly freed his cock from his pants. His hard hands pulled me up onto his lap, and he used one hand to squirt lube on his big dick. Then he picked me up and pushed me down on top of him and laughed as I screamed out my pain and distress, trying to pull away—“You’re not going anywhere until I say you can, beautiful boy. Not until I finish with you…”

  That was the beginning of it all. The madness that had continued for the next two years, a never-ending cycle of sex and debasement. He was my master in every way. I was too frightened, too intimidated by him to ask anyone for help. He convinced me that no one would believe me anyway. It would be my word against his. Besides, by that time I was already in his thrall, and I wasn’t sure anymore if I wanted to get away.

  It was around that time that Miguel asked me to create the paintings and I’d agreed. I was happy to do whatever it took to please him by then, and Miguel explained to me that I was doing the right thing. He helped me understand how it wasn’t wrong to create the copies, and as soon as I finished a painting, Miguel came and took it away. I never asked where he took them—didn’t care, really. The painting filled my days so Miguel could fill my nights.

  I did things with Miguel that I’d hardly even heard of, things that disgusted me in the light of day, but at nightfall I crawled back for more. And Miguel had a never-ending supply to give. I did whatever Miguel required me to do, whenever, wherever he wanted it, no matter how it made me feel, and I’d hated Miguel almost as much as I craved his touch. The passion for his arms around me, his cock burning in my ass, consumed me from the inside out, leaving only an empty husk.

  He was careful never to draw blood and to leave only an occasional outward mark that faded in a few days’ time.

  When it got to be too much, or if the pain was too great, I’d retreat to my house and my studio until Miguel came for me again, oozing charisma and corruption in almost equal measures, explaining to me that I wanted the pain and that I’d goaded him until he had no choice but to give it to me. No matter how many times I promised myself I wouldn’t, I’d always go back. I began to think there really was such a thing as the devil.

  ****

  I wasn’t sure what woke me up, but when I glanced over at the clock, I saw that it was three o’clock in the morning. I saw an article online once that claimed three o’clock in the morning was the devil’s hour. According to this article, occult beliefs hold that turning something upside down corrupts and perverts it. Since legend has it that Jesus Christ died at three pm, the opposite of the time would be three in the morning.

  In the light of day that never made much sense to me, because of the different time zones between America and Jerusalem or wherever. Not to even mention daylight savings time and all. But in the dead of night, things don’t have to make sense. They just have to be, and your mind takes over from there. My mind was plenty active as I glanced around at the shadows in my room. It was then I heard a soft sound from downstairs.

  I sat up, not turning on a light and listened in the darkness. There it was again, a surreptitious sound like a footfall coming slowly up the stairs. Easing from the bed, I looked wildly around the room for a weapon of some kind, but found nothing. My room was at the head of the stairway, so if someone was on his way up, I had only seconds before he came into the room. Casting my gaze desperately around, I spotted a heavy glass vase by the dresser and grabbed it on my way to the door. Standing behind the door, I raised the vase over my head, intending to smash it down on anyone who opened it, but the soft footsteps reached the top of the landing and moved stealthily past my room and down the hallway.

  Barely breathing, I strained to listen and heard what sounded like the door to my grandfather’s old room softly opening and then closing back. The room was unchanged in some ways from when my grandfather still occupied it, since I’d never had the heart to clear away the items littering his dressers. There was nothing of any great value left, simply some flotsam from his travels as a Merchant Marine, and various family photos and trinkets. His clothes and various personal effects had been given to the away to charity shortly after his death, and the few valuable items he’d owned like his watch and wedding ring were locked up in a safety deposit box. Steven Oswald had handled all those details for me.

  I opened the door to my room and stole softly down the hall. I thought I could still hear quiet sounds coming from inside the room and paused outside to press my ear to the door. Almost immediately I heard a series of soft bumps and clicks and then silence. Gathering all my courage I threw open the door to the room, flipping on the light switch at the same time—and found the room empty. I looked in the entirely barren closet and even under the bed, but found nothing at all. Could I have imagined the whole thing?

  I turned back to the closet, wondering if there might be an opening in the ceiling leading up to the attic, like you sometimes found in old houses, but the ceiling was smooth and unblemished, not so much as a crack around the moldings. On a whim, I began feeling around the paneled sides as well. When he first bought the house, my grandfather had done some research on the history of the old place and found that it had once been owned by a prominent abolitionist by the name of Sebastian Brooks. In the time of the Underground Railroad, abolitionists sometimes built secret rooms and passages into the walls of their homes to aid the slaves in their escapes.

  My grandfather had actually had a long look at the blueprints of the house, and had found what he thought might be some anomalies, he said, but never had a chance to look into any of it. Soon after, he was diagnosed with cancer, and other priorities took precedence over such concerns. Still…

  I pressed, gently at first, all around the old paneled walls and then more firmly, but found nothing. I knocked softly on the walls, and thought one of them sounded a bit more hollow than the others. Next I began feeling for some kind of switch or device to open it. Just as I was about to give up, my fingers found a tiny lever hidden up under a piece of molding. I pulled it down and the panel swung open on oiled hinges with only the softest of clicks. I stuck my head inside, but the darkness was absolute. A musty, moldy smell wafted on a cool breeze, and when I listened I could hear a faraway sound, almost like a scraping.

  I pulled my head back and let the panel swing back into place. What I should do was find a flashlight and investigate, but I was frightened. It could only be rats in the old passage, but what if it weren’t? Why would such an old passageway be oiled, like it was used frequently and needed to be in good repair with no telltale squeaks? Who on earth could be using it and why?

  So many questions were buzzing around my head that I couldn’t think straight. I got to my feet and closed the closet door, shoving a chair back under the doorknob. I went back down to my room and reached in a pocket for my cellphone. I had to call someone, but who?

  I could call the pol
ice, but I didn’t exactly feel friendly toward them these days, and the feeling was no doubt mutual. Besides, what would I tell them? That I had found a secret passageway in my old house? That I suspected…what? That someone had somehow gotten in and was roaming this secret passage at night, knocking on the walls? I could imagine how they would respond to that idea, considering my history with them. One of their interrogation sessions had to be interrupted when I went catatonic on them and had to be hospitalized for a possible mental breakdown. Yeah, voices and knocking on the wall wouldn’t go over so well.

  When I pulled out my cell phone, Connor Todd’s card came with it, and I fingered it now. Could I call him? Would he believe me or would this give him even more reason to think me crazy? I glanced over at the clock—ten to four in the morning. I’d been creeping around the halls and crawling on the floors for almost an hour. Maybe he was right to think me crazy.

  I would wake him up in the middle of the night calling like this. I had a sudden image of his room at the hotel with Connor Todd curled on his side in the bed, his arm hugging a pillow, like he’d done the night I left his room without waking him. Or would he be alone in bed after all? Had he gone back to the bar and picked up a handsome companion to warm his bed? The idea caused a hot twist of jealousy to curl through me, even though I was still angry at him.

  I picked up the card and the phone and punched in his number. The phone rang several times before he picked up. “Hello?” His voice sounded sleep-rough and sexy as hell.

  “Connor, this is Gavin.”

  “Gavin?” He sounded instantly more alert. “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

  “Why would anything be wrong?” I asked, my voice as cool and distant as I could make it.

  “Uh, maybe because it’s God-only-knows-what-time in the morning?”

  “Oh. Sorry if I woke you.” Then, because I had to know, “Are you alone?”

  An exasperated sigh. “What? Yes, of course. Why? Did you have something to tell me?”

  “Something to confess you mean? No, I’m fresh out of confessions at the moment. Sorry.”

  I listened to him huffing as I pictured him sitting up in bed. Finally, after a brief, irritated silence, he said, “Did you call for any particular reason or just to annoy me?”

  “Are you annoyed?”

  “Gavin, so help me…”

  “Okay! I called to tell you someone was in my house tonight. I heard them come up my stairs and go down the hall to my grandfather’s room.”

  “What?” His voice took on an excited tone and I heard rustling, like he was throwing off his covers. “Is the intruder still there? Have you called the police?”

  “No, to both questions. I heard him leave—at least I think I did. He went out through a secret passage in my grandfather’s closet. And I’m pretty sure he’s gone now—though I’m not positive. It’s okay though, because I put a chair under the doorknob on the closet door to make sure he doesn’t get back out that way.”

  A long drawn-out silence greeted this remark, so long I thought for a moment that he’d hung up. Then, “I’m coming over.”

  “No, it’s the middle of the night. Just go back to sleep.” Another silence followed, one that I felt I needed to fill. “Look, I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  “Gavin, I think you should call the police.”

  “No. Good night, Connor.”

  I started to press the end button on my phone when I heard him say, “Gavin, don’t hang up!”

  I put it back to my ear. “Look,” he continued. “Promise you’ll call the police if you hear anything else. Anything!”

  “All right. But I think it’s over for tonight.”

  I could almost hear the thoughts tumbling through his head. Was I hallucinating? Should he take this call seriously? A little silence, then, “Meet me for breakfast in the morning and we’ll talk about it, okay? Can you come here to my hotel? The restaurant downstairs has great pancakes.”

  “Well, I guess I could do that. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock? Should I come pick you up?”

  “I’ll get a cab. See you then,” I said and hung up before he could change his mind. I locked my door and put the vase on the floor by my bed. Then I climbed back into bed to try and sleep a little more. I left the lights on, though, and I lay on my back for a long time listening for noises behind the walls.

  ****

  The next morning when I walked into the lobby of the Excelsior Hotel, Connor Todd was there waiting for me. He came toward me, and we stood together awkwardly for a moment before he motioned toward the dining room. “Let’s go get some coffee. I had the devil of a time getting back to sleep last night.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have called.”

  “No.” He gave me a sideways glare. “I didn’t mean that. I’m glad you called—it’s why I gave you my card. But why wouldn’t you call the police?”

  “I was afraid they’d just laugh at me. We have a history, you know.”

  “Gavin, they would’ve come.”

  I shrugged, not wanting to talk about the police anymore. We were at the dining room entrance and the hostess came to seat us. Connor Todd touched my elbow, but then walked a few paces behind me as we were seated.

  I pushed the menu aside and smiled. “I want pancakes as promised.”

  Smiling at me, he leaned back in his chair as a waitress came to the table to pour his coffee. I shook my head at her. “Just milk, please.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, “You don’t have your special cup, huh?”

  I felt my face grow warm. “No. Well…yes, that’s it, but I had a cup of coffee at home before I came. And I like milk with pancakes.”

  He shook his head, unsuccessfully trying to smother a smile and studied the menu for a moment. When the waitress returned, he ordered for both of us, getting eggs and bacon for himself.

  “Where’s your partner, that man that came with you to my house?” I asked.

  “Jim? He’s around. I talked to him this morning, as a matter of fact, and told him about your experience last night. He suggested I go back to your house with you later to take a look, if that’s all right?”

  “Oh yes, I want you to—we’ll need a good flashlight, though. The batteries in mine are probably weak.”

  “I can handle that. I’m sure there’s one in my car.”

  “Is your partner coming too?”

  “No, he’s been talking to known associates of Santiago’s. Some of the people who used to fence for him. Investigating possible buyers.”

  “Oh. I wondered if he would be eating breakfast with us.”

  Connor Todd gave me a long look. “No. Jim’s not at the hotel. He lives here in the city. And he thinks you respond better to me anyway.”

  I glanced up at him, surprised that he would tell me that. “Oh, really? And do you agree?”

  He stared steadily back at me. “I’ve found you to be very responsive so far.”

  Blushing, I tried to glare at him, but couldn’t hold his gaze. “Asshole,” I muttered and he smiled as the waitress set our plates down in front of us. He must have seen me eyeing his crispy looking bacon, because he slid his plate over toward me.

  “Want some? I’m sorry. I should have ordered you a side of bacon. Let me call the waitress back.”

  I picked up a piece off his plate and bit into it, letting the bacony goodness melt onto my tongue. “No, this is enough. I just wanted a bite.”

  Smiling, he put another piece on my plate, and I dug into my pancakes happily. Slathering butter all over them and pouring on a lot of syrup, I put all of my attention on my plate for a few minutes. It had been a while since I’d had anything that tasted so good. When I had cleaned up most of my plate and drank all my milk, I looked up to find him watching me with a smile.

  “I’ve never seen anyone enjoy his food so much.”

  I shrugged, a little embar
rassed.

  “Seriously, if I ate like that, I’d weigh three hundred pounds.”

  “I’ve never had a weight problem. Fast metabolism, I guess.”

  We’d both finished eating by this time and the waitress came back to clear the table and then bring Connor Todd more coffee. I declined another glass of milk.

  “Okay,” he said. “Tell me about last night.”

  “I woke up around three in the morning,” I replied, leaning across the table. “Something must have woken me up—I don’t know, but then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.”

  “And you’re sure you weren’t dreaming?”

  “No!” I said, affronted that he’d think I didn’t know the difference between being asleep and being wide awake and half-frozen with fear. “I was awake. I got up and got a heavy vase from my dresser to hit them with and hid behind my door.”

  “Jesus,” he said softly. “Ever think of dialing nine-one-one?”

  “I didn’t then. No time anyway—they were halfway up the stairs before I got behind the door.”

  “Go on.” His voice was terse, and he was frowning at me.

  “He passed my door, though, and moved on down the hall. I heard him go into my grandfather’s room and then I heard a few clicks and…nothing. I gave it a few minutes and went down the hall to investigate.”

  “And if he’d had a gun, what then?” His voice was tight and his frown deepening.

  “There was no one in the room. I looked in the closet, under the bed, everywhere, but nothing. Then I looked back in the closet, thinking there might be a passage to the attic. There wasn’t, but…I found a lever that opened up a panel in the wall.” I sat back, pleased with myself, and waiting for him to praise me, but instead he scowled at me.

  “Of all the stupid, harebrained…”

  “What? Was I supposed to scream and run out or something? I wanted to see where he went!”

  “Whoever this intruder was, he was obviously up to no good, Gavin. You had to know that. He could have killed you and no one would have even…” he broke off and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Okay, go on. Tell me what you did then. Did you go exploring like Scooby Doo and Shaggy or what?”