Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

She doesn't need to know there is no getting away from me now. Above the answers she'll give me, the craving for and connection to her has only increased after tonight.

  "Where are—?"

  "It doesn't matter," I cut off her question. "Get your things, Mei, or whatever your name is."

  Tension and unease pour off her so thick, the room starts to feel stifling.

  "Fine," she concedes, squaring her shoulders and walking to the door.

  "Be quick, dead girl." The nickname makes her footing falter, and I turn away. Bringing my phone to my ear, I call my own men—the ones waiting outside in the car we arrived in tonight.

  "Yo, Boss," Russ answers.

  "Bring the car to the rear exit. I have a guest with me," I inform him. Glancing at the now open door, a feeling of unease settles over me.

  "On it," he responds, hanging up.

  Straightening my shirt, I exit the VIP room.

  My first stop is the private restroom, where I wash away the visible blood and find a new shirt hanging in the closet. It's a half size too small, but will do until I get Mei back to my apartment.

  When I reach the dressing room, the chatter goes silent. My reputation seems to have reached the whores of this establishment. Good. They should be scared. Fear keeps people in line. Glancing at the faces, I don't find Mei.

  "Where is she?" I ask, anger burning in my gut.

  "W-Who?" a very young redhead stutters.

  "Mei," I bite out.

  "I haven't—" she starts, but doesn't finish. I follow the young redhead's gaze, finding Tricia.

  "She left," she confesses.

  "Tricia," the redhead hisses.

  "She ran out of here ten minutes ago," Tricia continues.

  "I see," I say, turning and exiting the room. My anger lowers to a simmer, the darkest part of me eager to play hunter.

  Mei

  I clean up, change into baggy jeans and an oversized hooded sweatshirt, and escape the club before he can collect me. Fear, not paranoia, makes me glance over my shoulder.

  Saint, or Dante, or whoever the fuck he is wants answers and my actions back in the VIP room, baring my dark side to him, started something I'm not sure I'll survive. I handed a dangerous man a glimpse behind the glitter and lace. A front seat view to the sick and perverse parts I work so hard to keep locked away.

  Fuck!

  My mask slipped and now he's determined to tear it away.

  Climbing the stairs to my apartment, I fight back tears of frustration as I mentally run through my plan. It will take him at least a day to find out where I live. The club doesn't have my correct address and I've never invited anyone to my place. That gives me a morning to pawn, pack, and get the hell out of this town. It's much sooner than I'd planned, but after tonight, there's no other option. This time, I'll get far, far away from here. Much farther than Chicago. Tomorrow, I'll see just how many states I can get between me and—

  Lost in my thoughts, I crash into a solid, warm body.

  "I'm sorry," a male voice says, sending ripples of concern over my skin, raising the hairs.

  "Sorry," I mumble, stepping around him.

  "I thought I was the only one who took the stairs," he says, a hint of humor in his voice.

  Nodding, I keep my head down and continue up the final flight.

  The feeling of being watched is too much, and I glance over my shoulder. My step falters when I find the unknown man staring after me. I'm not familiar with him, and he's not dressed like one of Felix or Saint's men, but my night has me on the edge of panic.

  Perhaps it's my fright, but the look on his face, his build, and features feel all too familiar, setting my raw nerves on fire. Warning bells sound in my head, and in times like this, I've learned to listen to them. Doubling my efforts, I rush to my apartment, locking and bolting the door.

  I drop my bag and glance around, taking stock of my belongings. With a fortifying breath, I empty my bag and set it on my bed along with a large backpack.

  Rummaging through my clothing, I put all the frilly and slutty items I took from the club and shove them into the bottom of the duffle before moving on to my minimal wardrobe. I've kept my possessions light for this exact reason—the ability to cut and run at a moment's notice.

  Stripping, I climb into the shower and lean into the spray. Placing my injured palm on the wall, I use my other hand to scrub at my chest, over my belly, and between my legs. There's no stopping the tears while the hot water rinses away the blood, sweat, and cum. If only it could wash away the night of allowing myself to even consider the temptation Tricia laid out before me.

  "What were you thinking?" I ask, pressing my forehead to the dingy tile wall.

  The moment he spoke, my control was gone. The instant he touched me, my inhibitions disappeared. When the switchblade pressed against my skin, want grew into need. My darkest desires rose up in reverence, spilling over as easily as the blood from our split skin.

  Wrapping my arms around my body, I sink down to the floor, the spray beating against the top of my head.

  That knife.

  A shiver rolls through my body, making me hug myself tighter.

  The cold metal across my skin. The terrible darkness in his eyes watching me enjoy what he was doing. Knowing every sick thing he did turned me on in a way I'd never let myself imagine. That his every command felt like a spell binding me to him in the worst way.

  "You're sick," I chastise. "Sick, sick, sick," I chant, accentuating each word by hitting my head against the wall.

  When the water runs cold, I drag myself out and remove my contacts.

  Looking into the mirror over the sink, I find the familiar blue eyes of my true self staring back. I can bleach my hair and cover my skin in makeup, but there isn't a lens big enough to mask what you are deep down. My eyes fall out of focus and play tricks, my hair darkening to its true color, accentuating the natural bright blue I was born with.

  The thought of revealing everything to Saint, the dark seducer, starts a burning throb between my thighs. An unreasonable certainty that he wouldn't run in fear or be disgusted by my darkness takes root deep inside me. He'd bathe in it, coax it to the surface, and wrap it around my neck like a leash.

  I rub a hand over my face, groaning. Gripping the sides of the sink, I drop my head. Shame swirls low in my stomach because my body craves to let him.

  "What the fuck has he done to me?" I ask the empty bathroom, taking deep breaths to get myself under control.

  Dressing in jeans, a t-shirt, and sweatshirt, I finish packing everything and gather the items to pawn in the morning. Running shoes on my feet, I sleep, fully ready to bolt if needed.

  Waking to loud pounding on my door, I scramble until my back presses against the wall. Looking around the apartment, I try to even my breathing.

  Bags still packed and sitting next to the bed, I glance to the door. The bolt is still in place and all the windows are closed with curtains pulled tight.

  Swallowing down my nerves, I wait for the noise to return, but it never comes.

  After five long minutes, I wonder if I dreamt it.

  Standing from the bed, I lick my dry lips and take tentative steps to the door. When I reach it, I look through the peephole. Finding the hallway empty, I sag into the door and rest my forehead against the wood.

  "I'm losing my mind," I mumble on my way to the bathroom.

  After relieving myself and brushing my teeth, I braid my hair down my back and pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. Strapping on my backpack, I place my duffle bag next to the door.

  Ready to take care of my first order of business—liquidate for cash and obtain a bus ticket—I grab my pawn-worthy items and exit the apartment.

  "Shit," I yell as my foot catches on something and I stumble into the door opposite mine. "What the fuck?" I growl, turning and looking at the floor.

  A brown package lays on its side. I immediately glance up and down the hall, finding it empty. Stepping closer, I crouch down to
the box and find a pink tag dangling from the twine tied around the brown paper shoe box.

  Fingering the pastel square, I flip it over. Elegant script spells out one word.

  Doll.

  My stomach twists and lungs stop working. Pounding in my head matches the beat of my panicked heart. A hand clamps onto my shoulder.

  "Don't touch me," I scream.

  "Are you—"

  I lash out, using my forearm to beat my attacker in the leg. A loud male grunt sends me scrambling back to the door.

  "Hey, calm down," he tries to soothe.

  Sliding up the wall, the world tilts, and I claw at my hood, trying to get more oxygen into my lungs.

  "What's going on?" a female voice asks.

  "I found her on the floor hovered over a box," he defends. "I was just making sure she was okay."

  "What is it?" At her second question, I look and find Ms. Waltman's granddaughter, Caroline.

  Slowly, my breathing starts to regulate along with my heart.

  Kneeling down, she lifts the lid from the box.

  "Don't," I exclaim, putting a hand out in warning, but it's too late.

  "It's just a rag doll," she states, irritation clear in her words. "An old dirty one at that," she adds.

  She lifts the doll by its red yarn hair, holding it up.

  My eyes focus on it as I press farther into the door at my back. I don't know how, but I sure as hell know who sent me this piece of my past. Annie, my favorite doll, dangles from my neighbor's fingers.

  "Just put it back," I order, closing my eyes.

  "Oh-kay," she drawls.

  "Put the lid back on," I snap, quick to follow with, "Please?"

  There's a rustle of paper before she confirms, "It's put away."

  Relaxing my shoulders and opening my eyes, I find two sets on me—one belonging to Caroline, a familiar annoyance present, and the other a shade of blue, reminding me of the ones I hide behind my contacts.

  They also belong to the man from the stairwell last night. Today, he wears a gray beanie cap, pulling it low and only allowing black hair to peek out around his ears. He's tall, lean, and the resemblance is there. A shiver of apprehension prickles my skin at his presence.

  I close my eyes, and in a familiar practice, mentally remind myself there are millions of dark-haired, blue-eyed men in the world, and this man too young to be him.

  "Are you okay?" he asks.

  Reopening my eyes, I nod. "Yeah, thanks."

  "Are you afraid of dolls?" he presses.

  Just like last night, I don't miss the intense way he watches me.

  "It's nothing." I shake my head and grip the straps of my backpack.

  "It didn't look like nothing," Caroline states. "Did it, John?"

  "Okay, yes, I'm afraid of dolls." It's partially true, and right now, I'd agree to just about anything to get away from here. "It's just someone's sick idea of a joke."

  Bending at the waist, Caroline picks up the box, holding it out to me.

  "Here," she says, almost gleeful.

  "You can have it or get rid of it," I tell her.

  "You're just going to throw it away?" the man I now know as John clips out. His lips press into a thin line and a muscle in his jaw ticks.

  I furrow my brow, not understanding why he's so angry.

  "John," Caroline hisses.

  "I mean," he gives a small shake of his head, "don't you want to report it to the cops or something?"

  I shake my head again, the thought of the police getting involved sending a new fear through me.

  If he can find you, it won't be long before the authorities find you too.

  "No," I blurt. "Like I said, just a bad joke."

  With trembling hands, I take the box from Caroline's hands, unlock my door, and I toss it inside before locking it back up.

  When I turn, they both stand watching me, John's hands in his pockets and Caroline's arm wrapped around his. The unwanted memory of their late-night sex sounds flashes in my mind and heat crawls over my chest.

  "Thank you for checking on me, but I really need to get going," I tell them, hoping they'll turn and leave. They don't.

  "You sure you don't want to call the cops?" John mentions once more, only this time, it's with more curiosity, while Caroline studies my face a bit too intently.

  Everything about these two confuses me. I don't know what they want from me, why they react in odd ways, but I don't have any more time to waste. Nor will I have to deal with them after tonight if everything goes as planned.

  "Very well," he finally concedes. "If you need anything, you know where we are." He motions to their door with a lift of his chin.

  "Thank you, but I'm sure I'll be fine." As soon as I can get the fuck away from this place.

  I get even less at the pawn shop than I'd planned, leaving me with minimal funds after purchasing the bus ticket to Vegas. But surely the hotels are cheap and the stripping gigs plentiful in the City of Sin. The next obstacle in my plan: my bus doesn't leave until tomorrow morning. I could've hidden out in my apartment until night, then crashed at the bus station, but after the special delivery today, there's no fucking way in hell I'll wait for him to come for me. There is also the possibility of Saint showing up.

  With my bags strapped over my body, I exit my apartment for the last time and mentally go through my plan. I'll move from place to place around town, starting with the used bookstore, until it's late enough to hide away at the bus station.

  "Going on a trip?" John's question surprises me, and I jump.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you." He smiles, leaning against the open door to Ms. Waltman's apartment.

  "Um, yeah, I'm gonna go stay with a friend for a while.” I force a smile to accompany my lie. "We've been thinking about moving in together, so this is sort of a trial run."

  The pleasant smile drops from his face.

  "Boyfriend?" His voice sounds tight, restrained.

  "Yeah," I lie again, watching his face flush.

  "I see," he clips, pushing to his full height.

  "Well, I should get—"

  The sound of the elevator draws both our attention, but it's the men stepping off that silence my farewell.

  Saint's eyes locate me with practiced accuracy. My flight instinct makes every muscle twitch in anticipation. He lifts one dark brow, like he's challenging me to try to run.

  Glancing to the stairwell door, I mentally calculate whether I can make it before he reaches me. Or perhaps back to my apartment and down the fire escape.

  "Mei," his deep voice calls to every dark fiber of my being. "I'll catch you."

  The sick side of me revels in the promise, wanting to be caught. Swallowing hard, I fist my hands around the straps of my bags.

  "Hurry, inside," John orders.

  Grabbing my forearm, he pulls me toward his apartment door, and my duffle slips from my arm, landing with a thud at my feet.

  "I advise you to take your hands off her." Saint's voice is closer, accompanied by the sound of a gun click.

  John's hands tighten on me, causing me to flinch.

  "This is the last warning you'll get," his deep baritone threatens.

  John's eyes come to mine as a familiar arm wraps around my waist.

  "Let go," I whisper in defeat. Saint has me now. And his touch tears down any defense I have—calling to my depravity with the promise of stripping away my secrets and lies, cracking me open, freeing the darkest of my sins.

  One of the men accompanying Saint presses the barrel of the gun to John's temple. The moment he releases my arm, I'm dragged toward the elevator and away from my escape.

  "Grab the bag," he calls over his shoulder.

  In the elevator, he turns to me, pressing my back to the fading brown wall.

  Jaw flexed, his eyes bore into mine, and he asks, "Do you love him?"

  Lost in the ferocity of his gaze, I can only shake my head. Cupping the side of my head with his large hand, he runs a calloused thumb ove
r my cheek.

  "Does he love you?"

  "What?" I blink, breaking the trance between us. "No. He's just a neighbor who lives with his girlfriend," I rush to explain.

  I don't feel any loyalty to John and Caroline, but I also don't want to be the reason these men make any special visits.

  "Boss?" one man asks, holding the doors from closing us in.

  Twisting his body to face the two men, I take a moment to look at them.

  One wears a suit like Saint's, but doesn't fill it out the way he does. He's at least a head shorter with paler skin. The other, the one who spoke, is tall, lean, and wears a light gray suit. He's the same height as Saint, but leaner.

  Turning back to me, Saint runs his hands over my body. Upon finding my keys, he removes them from my back pocket and tosses them over his shoulder. The taller man catches them and waits.

  "Collect her things," he orders.

  "On it." The man moves. "We'll meet you at the penthouse," he says before allowing the door to slide shut.

  I tense, but finally find my voice.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  Caging me in with his arms, he lets his eyes roam over my face.

  "Tell me who you are," he counters.

  Straightening my spine, I let anger and fear strengthen my resolve. "I'm Meissa—"

  "Don't lie to me," he cuts me off, pushing away and standing to his full height. "Meissa Winters is dead. Found by utility workers fixing a sewage issue."

  I flinch at the memory of Mei's attack, but lock it all away before I get to the worse part.

  "You don't look like a dead girl to me," he states, crossing his arms over his chest.

  "What does it matter?" I ask on a humorless laugh. "I'm on my way out of this town, so just give me my bag and—"

  He snorts. "You think it's that easy, do you?" A grin parts his lips. "You've seen too much, dead girl."

  "I haven't seen anything."

  "You've also revealed too much," he adds, ignoring me.

  "I haven't—"

  Dropping his arms, he takes my face in his hands, pulling me to him. Leaning down, he crushes his mouth to mine before biting my lip. At the nip, I jerk, but when his tongue invades my mouth, and the tang of copper mixes in the kiss. Fisting his jacket, I bite back.