Then again I’m not sure what possible instinct could make him send all the cards back.
I pick up my three new cards, along with my original two.
The first two dealt are spades, exactly what I would have needed to complete a flush. No additional pairs or jacks, which means I’m left with my original single pair.
My heart sinks. I struggle to keep my expression blank, not to reveal anything even though this is the only hand we’ll play. It seems important that he not know my weakness, whether I win or lose.
Oh God, what if I lose? What reckless impulse possessed me to agree to this game?
Actually you’re the one who suggested it.
“What do you have?” Damon asks, all politeness now.
“You first,” I say, pushing off reckoning as long as possible.
If he has three of a kind or a straight, I’ll never forgive myself. I could have had more, if only I had risked more. Is this how Daddy gets in deep, always chasing a bigger pot, hating himself when he plays safe?
Damon turns over his cards one by one. An ace of hearts. A queen of clubs. A ten of hearts. A three of spades. So far the cards make nothing, but if he has an ace or a queen in his hand I’m done.
I’ll be sleeping in this house tonight. Maybe even in his bed.
Bile rises in my throat, because it doesn’t matter how handsome his face or how strong his body. Ownership would be the ultimate loss. It doesn’t matter if he brings my body pleasure, not if my mind’s trapped in a cage.
He flips the card. A ten.
The breath I’m holding rushes out. “Oh, thank God.”
His expression is even as he says. “Let’s see them, baby.”
With shaking hands I let the cards tumble over, all at once. My pair of jacks beats the tens, but not by much. Everything feels over sharp, the quiet hum of the house outrageously loud. Adrenaline, I realize. This is the rush. This is why Damon plays the game. Why he loves it, even when he loses.
He curses softly. “Call me the moment you see him. Don’t serve him coffee. Don’t bring him pie. Don’t do a damn thing but pick up the phone and call me when he comes back.”
Chapter Thirteen
It’s on the next Thursday night that I hear it—the tumble of a pebble on cement.
Someone’s following me in the darkness, the streetlamps busted long ago. It’s a strange feeling to wish to be mugged. To long for a faceless villain in a city full of them.
Anyone but Jonathan Scott.
I’m halfway between the diner and home. I weigh the options between one breath and the next. The diner is more public, more lighted, more known. But the apartment has a lock.
Footsteps echo mine, and I know he’s getting closer.
I move faster over the broken sidewalk, keeping my head low as if I’m in a storm. It rained earlier that night, but it had cleared up. There’s no storm except inside my mind.
Don’t fight them. It only makes it worse.
A shiver takes my whole body, despite the muggy night air.
The devil himself is behind me. Even if he’ll catch me, I have to fight. I have to run. I sprint down the sidewalk, not even pretending anymore. I don’t think he’s close, not when I reach my building, but it doesn’t matter. He must know where I live.
I reach my apartment and slam the door, relieved to have made it in time.
In the kitchen I grab the cream-colored phone with its tangled spiral cord. The number comes to me by heart. I only had to see it once to remember it forever.
He answers on the second ring. “Penny?”
“He’s here.” Only then do I realize I’m out of breath, my lungs burning. “He followed me home.”
“In your apartment?”
“No,” I say on a harsh breath.
A knock comes at the door, loud and hard enough to shake the walls.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
“Stay there,” Damon says, his voice as sharp as a blade. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”
Daddy blinks at me from his recliner, clearly woken from a nap. His eyes are cloudy, as if he took the pain meds for his knee. As if he took too many pain meds. “Who is it?”
I don’t know whether he means the door or the phone. I shake my head, clinging to the receiver with both hands. “How far are you?” I whisper.
He swears. “Farther than I should be. He must have planned this. He left breadcrumbs out of the city.”
“You’re not close,” I say, the note of finality harsh to my own ears.
Damon says more about how he’s on his way, about holding on. It all mixes with the chaos in my head, the sound of rising water, the sound of currents swirling around me. The line goes dead. There’s no help. No time.
Another knock, at almost the exact same volume.
“Penny?” Daddy says, his face gone pale.
“It’s Jonathan Scott.”
Surprise flickers across his face. “He’s here?”
Blood pumps through my veins. My body fights what’s happening as much as my mind.
Don’t fight them. Except I can’t seem to stop.
“Open it,” Daddy says, his voice fearful now. “It will be worse if we don’t.”
I leave the chain in place while I open the door, a feeble defense. A sliver of Jonathan Scott appears, as slick and as smooth as ever. “You,” I say, surprised my voice doesn’t tremble.
“Me. May I come inside?” It’s not really a question.
“Who are you?” I say, because I’m stalling. I want Damon to magically appear in the dimly lit hallway, but he won’t. He won’t make it in time. What will happen without him?
What will happen to bait when the trap doesn’t work? It gets eaten.
“The owner of this building.”
I swallow hard. He’s the owner? Which means that he already has access to my apartment. He can come inside. He can burn the place down for all that the law can touch him.
“You’re not the super,” I say, still stalling.
“He works for me.”
The super is a disgusting human being, which suits this place perfectly. Hurry, Damon. “How do I know I can trust you?”
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
He smiles. “You definitely can’t trust me. Run and tell your daddy that Jonathan Scott is here.”
I slam the door shut, staring at the peeling white paint on the door, the rusted metal chain. “Oh God,” I whisper. “What do we do?”
There’s a brief but potent fantasy where I fling myself out of the window. Three stories down. That would be enough to end things, wouldn’t it? That would be enough to save me?
Bodies want to go on living, no matter what happens to them.
It only makes it worse.
“Open the door,” Daddy says, his voice panicked.
“Help is on the way. We just have to let this play out.” I take deep breaths. My voice comes out even. Only my blurring vision gives any hint to the turmoil inside. “Everything will be fine.”
It doesn’t even sound like a lie.
A sound of an animal in pain fills the room. It’s coming from Daddy. Not me, not me. “I’m sorry, Penny. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t think he’d come here.”
There’s a wrench in my chest. A horrible turn of grief already tight. “What did you do?”
“I entered the poker game.”
I’m not even a person anymore. Not flesh and blood. None of the soft curves the men would want. I’m clockwork, made of metal and wood. Unfeeling. Unflinching in the face of familial betrayal. “How is that possible? How could you do that without my permission?”
How could I mean so little to you?
That’s not what I’m asking. I want to know the mechanics of it.
Which gears turned to make this beating heart.
He uses his damp T-shirt to wipe his forehead. “I told them you agreed.”
“And if I open the door and tell him I refuse?”
H
is face turns pale. “Then I’d have broken my word to Jonathan Scott.”
And we both know what that would mean. Death. A particularly painful one.
The irony is that I would probably still be part of the pot. That’s the merciless version of justice he used to rule the streets. It would mean the end of us both. Mutually assured destruction. Neither of us have a choice now.
Then I’m opening the door, inviting the devil inside. “Come in.”
He stalks into the apartment as if he owns it, which he does. His cool grey gaze takes in my father and his broken knee with a single, disdainful glance.
Daddy struggles to stand. And fails. “Mr. Scott,” he says. “What can we do for you?”
What a sad attempt at valiance. That makes my heart squeeze in a way his apology never could. Who am I to blame my father for his addictions? He couldn’t control them anymore than I could make my brain into something else.
Jonathan Scott gestures to the lumpy armchair as if it’s a gold-plated antique in his palace. “Please sit down, George. Don’t strain yourself on my account.”
Daddy shudders a little, his good leg already failing him. I move quickly to help him. There’s no point in overexerting himself. Nothing he does would stop this.
Jonathan Scott takes the maroon corduroy sofa. Somehow his presence makes it seem like a throne. “I understand my son has been to visit you.”
My heart stops. Damon Scott was here, in our apartment? Daddy didn’t tell me that. Was that before or after I went to the Den? He might see it as a kindness to harass my father instead of me.
“I told him we’d get it,” Daddy says, breathing hard. “I swear.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Jonathan Scott says, his voice underlaid with steel. “There’s no way for you to get ten thousand dollars. Little Penny could serve a hundred pies a day, and you’d never be able to pay.”
I’ve had enough.
“Stop it,” I say, because I’m the reason he’s really here. “Leave him alone.”
A flash of excitement crosses Jonathan Scott’s face, sending a shiver down my spine. He likes it when I talk back, when I fight. That’s what Jessica told me, but I told her the truth. I don’t think I can let him. Like I’m underwater. The body will fight to breathe.
His voice is mild. “I could. Leave him alone, I mean. If you want me to.”
It was always leading to this. I try to keep my voice steady. “What do you mean?”
“Ten thousand dollars.” He pulls out a thick envelope. I can guess what’s inside. Money. It’s his gamble. In this rundown tenement, his odds are good. “Would you like this, Penny?”
“No, leave her out of this,” Daddy says. “She didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
“You’ll have to give the money to Damon yourself,” Jonathan Scott says to Daddy, his dark liquid gaze still trained on me. “Do you think you could manage that? Or would you gamble again, hoping to turn it into twenty or thirty thousand?”
We may not need to give that money to Damon Scott, but Daddy doesn’t know that. It still hurts to think he might trade my life for one last gamble. Then again isn’t that what he always does?
“I’ll make sure he gets it,” I say, imagining myself waiting in the apartment for him. How safe I would be. It’s enough to make me laugh, if I was capable of smiling. What an illusion, safety. The impressive thing isn’t what I can do with numbers, with lines and curves in my head. The impressive thing is that I ever believed, even for one moment, that home would be safe.
“You won’t,” Jonathan Scott says, casual in his dismissal.
“Why not?” I say, almost a whisper.
“You’ll be with me.”
With him, where Damon can find me. Where Damon can save me.
At least I hope so.
“No!” Daddy fights to stand. And fails. “You can’t do this.”
Jonathan Scott gives me a smile that’s almost handsome. If I didn’t know how evil he was I could have been fooled. It’s enough to prove he doesn’t have to force girls. With his smooth silver fox looks and his money he could have anyone he wanted. He prefers to force.
“It’s up to you,” he says.
“You’re a monster,” I tell him, this one statement sincere.
“That’s right,” he murmurs. “Fight me.”
Don’t fight them. I’m shaking with something—maybe fear, maybe anger. I prefer to be angry. Some part of me thinks it might seem more realistic, but the truth is I am angry. It’s not pretend. “How dare you do this?”
“Offer you money? Well, sure, call the cops. Tell them how horrible I am for paying your daddy’s debts.”
“Aren’t the police in your pockets?” I ask bitterly.
“Or you can take your chances with Damon Scott. He has quite a reputation.” He glances at Daddy’s broken leg. “I suppose you’re already familiar with it. What did he promise to take next?”
Daddy looks at me, his eyes helpless. It doesn’t matter who broke his knee. Doesn’t matter that the debt to Damon Scott has been won, because that was the deal I made. To be bait for this man. This dark king.
“Tick tock,” the king says. “Would you like the money?”
He shifts ever so slightly on the old lumpy sofa, revealing a flash of silver in his coat. A gun. Will he use it if I refuse him? It doesn’t matter, because this is my purpose.
“I’ll do it.”
In a graceful move he stands and strides from the room, leaving the money on the sofa. It’s too much to hope that he’s changed his mind as soon as I’ve agreed. No, he expects me to follow him. I’m not even worth a basic command. I’m a dog, trained to heel by poverty, trained to obey by circumstances.
“Wait,” I call after him into the hallway. “I’m coming.”
There are only minutes to run back, to hold Daddy’s trembling hand. To squeeze.
“Damon Scott will come,” I whisper, breathless. “I’ll try to leave a trail. Tell him to follow me. Tell him what happened.”
His eyes are wide, helpless. I don’t even know if he’s hearing me.
I grasp a handful of coins from my tip jar, mostly pennies left after digging out the quarters and dimes to spend. A few nickels. And that’s what I need—dark copper pennies made green and blackened from use.
I run down the stairs, the coins clutched in my sweaty palm. It’s only on the street that he stops, as motionless and contained as if he had been standing there all along. I’m out of breath, still wearing my old diner uniform. A handful of loose change he can’t see.
“I don’t wait for you, little girl. That’s not how this works.”
Go to hell. That probably isn’t going to help my position any.
And that’s not what I really want to say. Please find me, Damon. He’s the only one who can solve this for me. He’s also the reason I’m in the middle of this, a twisted game of tug-of-war between father and son.
“Okay,” I say softly. “I’ll be good. I swear.”
“Do you really think Daddy is going to use the money to pay off the debt?”
I don’t care about the debt anymore. Don’t care about the money. What I care about is that Daddy tells Damon Scott what happened. “He knows what I’m giving up.”
Silver eyes gleam in the dark. “Do you?”
I glare at him. “You want to have sex with me.”
“Wrong.”
Goose bumps rise on my skin, despite the warm night. It only makes it worse. “What, then?”
“I want to break you down into parts—into hope and despair. Into love and fear. I want to consume your humanity, feast on you, until there’s nothing left but a small, jagged core at the center.”
What a bastard. “Why?”
He laughs. “Do you ever think about how mechanical sex is? Men so desperate for something warm and wet to fuck. A purely physical sensation. We might as well be automatons.”
I’ve never thought about sex like that. I never think about it at all.
&
nbsp; That’s a lie, Penny. You think about Damon.
He continues, his expression severe. “I learned to block out physical sensations as a child. Pain. Sex. Hunger. They only touch our bodies. Not our minds.”
I swallow hard, remembering how that wild boy had left home. Something had been done to him. And something had been done to the man in front of me. Men turned into monsters. “What happened to you?”
He holds his hand out like I’m a little girl crossing the street. “Come along.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, little peach. I’m the only sane one in a world full of rabid animals.”
Please find me, Damon. Find me in time. I put my empty hand in his. He squeezes gently, as if to comfort me. It’s a strange sensation, to be consoled by my enemy. Less strange to be led by the king. I drop a single penny near the curb, hoping it will be small enough to escape notice, hoping it will shine enough to bring Damon to me.
He takes me down two streets with a familiarity that shows he’s used to walking the west side streets. Every few steps I drop a penny, leaving a trail for him to follow.
As long as he comes in time. Please, Damon.
The sign for the Midtown Asylum has long since crumbled, leaving only a large, plantation-style building. On either side, there are houses falling down. It’s dark inside them. Empty.
We’re alone. The last coin falls into the overgrown weeds.
He unlocks the front door and steps inside, finally releasing me.
Leaving me to stare at the pictures spread over the floor. The insides of senators’ houses. The interiors of city hall. Windows into our twisted little world.
“The desk,” he says, hanging his coat on a hook like this is a five-star hotel instead of a broken down mental hospital.
I take a step forward, horrified to find my bedroom in a photo. “You watched me.”
My faded quilt and my kitten poster. The room I had undressed in and slept in. The bed where I had touched myself thinking of Damon Scott.
As if he can read my thoughts he smiles. “Sometimes at night, I’d hear you breathe faster. See your hand moving under the covers. It’s so beautiful, the way you love yourself.”
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