Unearthed Page 2

  Anthony blinked, his eyes adjusting slowly back to the darkness. There was a shadow, a shape, something vaguely like a person, right fucking there in the middle of the hall.

  He squinted, stared, tried to see features. Was it Early? Was it Mike? His eyes focused, showing him a slim figure. Way too skinny to be either of those idiots. Too short, too.

  Anthony raised the gun. Just like last time he’d had to do this, then. “Don’t move.” Steely calm was half the battle.

  The shadow held. It didn’t move, didn’t stir. Just loomed there, like the four-poster bed, a big fucking hole in the world. No sound, no sight, nothing.

  Anthony waited, gun held out. The silence was maddening, the lack of motion disconcerting. “What the hell are you doing?”

  When a voice answered, it was high and smooth. A woman’s voice. “You said not to move.” She was just a little too coy, a little too playful.

  “Yo, Early!” Anthony said, calling down the hall. “Mike!” He didn’t even want to say their names out loud, but there was no doubt this lady was going to die here tonight. What she heard wouldn’t amount to a spilled cup of a piss—just another mess he wouldn’t have to clean up. He refocused on her silhouette. “Where are they?”

  She didn’t move. “Who?”

  “My boys,” Anthony said with annoyance. He brandished the gun, pointing it at her harder.

  “Oh, them,” she said finally, like it was humorous. “They’re in here.” She pointed toward the closed door.

  What kind of crazy bitch with a death wish would think it was funny, being held at gunpoint?

  Anthony took a breath, and sweet perfume flooded in through his nose, so heavy it almost made him want to spit it all out, like he could taste it on his tongue. “Show me,” he said. This lady was getting the bullet, and soon. He had no patience for rich, but rich and crazy was even worse.

  She moved, slow and easy, and he saw the crack of light appear as she opened the door to that room he’d tried earlier. It had been locked, hadn’t it? Had she been in there then?

  The door swung open a few inches and light came out, red like a neon sign. It hadn’t come through the crack at the bottom of the door, hadn’t seeped through the frame like water spilling into the hallway, not until she’d opened the door.

  Anthony moved closer as she stood there, framed in the light. She was the woman from the photo with the mayor, long blond hair up in a bun. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses, though; she was just wearing a severe look. He couldn’t see her eyes, the light shadowing dark pools under her brow. She had sharply-defined features, though, like a hard point to her nose and a chin that was pronounced. Old aristocracy, Anthony remembered reading somewhere once, maybe. They had the pronounced features. Considered it a mark of their particular, irrelevant species.

  This whore, she was one of them. She stood in the light of the doorway, still a shadow, and held it open invitingly for him. Playing games. Like she was in control here.

  “Get in,” Anthony said, pointing the pistol at her. She shrugged expansively and stepped closer into the light, opening the door a little further. He was only a few feet away from her now. She was still playing it cool. “Go on.”

  “Waiting for you, dear,” she said in a hushed whisper. She pushed the door open a little wider, let a little more red light spill out. It imbued the dark wood floors with an evil tinge, made them look like they’d soaked in blood. They glowed, that red light pouring out onto them like spilled Merlot.

  “Bitch, you better be listening to me if you want to live through this,” Anthony said and cocked the hammer. That was the sort of move that inspired fear. She’d have to be shitting herself by now, pissing in her lace panties. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, her eyes still covered in darkness and her lips a thin line. “Do you want to live to see the morning?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Then get … in there,” he said, and took a couple more steps forward. “Get on the floor. I’m gonna tie you up.”

  “Okay,” she said, amusement just dripping from her words.

  Anthony felt a violent surge of anger and came the last few steps forward to take her by the elbow. He shoved her inside. She fell to the ground, to the stained tile floor that lined the inside of the room. She hit with a crack, head to ground, and did not stir.

  Anthony stood there, looking down at her fallen form. She wore panties, only, cotton and comfortable, with zero sex appeal, and a bra that did not match. No amorous visitors staying overnight, then, not in that getup. He stepped in, looking her over. He hadn’t noticed she was near-naked in the hall, he’d been so focused on getting her to open the door and get inside, to show him where Mike and Early were. Now he was noticing her, skin up and down her legs laced with veins. Anthony figured maybe they were the kind even a good plastic surgeon couldn’t fix.

  He stepped deeper into the room and blinked at the light around him.

  At what he saw around him.

  This wasn’t a bedroom. This wasn’t a bathroom. It wasn’t an office, or an art gallery with a fainting couch for clutching pearls.

  It was a goddamned dungeon.

  The walls were covered with toys, with—no, not toys. With implements. Tools. Chain whips, manacles bolted to the floor, shiny metal surgical equipment taken straight out of a hospital. All that and so much more, things Anthony didn’t have names for, all crammed into a fifteen by fifteen space with a tile floor, all centered around a—

  What the hell was that?

  It looked like a chair in the middle of the room, heavily padded, with legs that split off like—what the hell did they call them? Like at the woman doctor, when they did an exam? Stirrups? It looked like the most padded chair for one of those exams he could have possibly imagined, that’s what it looked like. And below it was something else, something metal and painful looking, with chains and steel platforms, something that—

  “What the … fuck?” Anthony whispered. It was a like a low buzz in his head, bees crawling in his ears as he stared at that thing. He took another step closer and saw the tile stained, a drain installed in the floor like the entire room was one big shower.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned, gun up, ready to pull the trigger. He kept himself from shooting just barely.

  Bound to the wall, with a red ball gag in his mouth was Mike. His eyes were wide, but he said nothing, that big grin of his covered up by the gag. Anthony followed Mike’s gaze down, down to—

  Oh, shit.

  Anthony felt his legs kicked right out from underneath him, felt his ass hit the ground with a crack of bone that sent pain screaming all the way up his back. He cried out, eyes tightly closed by instinct when the pain hit. Something slithered up him, pulling him to the ground. Another crack filled his ears, and the breaking of his right index finger made him cry out this time. He could feel jagged bone splinters trying to rip their way out of the skin of his finger. It was pain in a place he was not used to pain. It was of a kind he’d never felt. The gun was gone from his grasp.

  Anthony screamed. His cry echoed in the chamber, and he thrashed, rolling his head back on the hard tile. His eyes fell open and rested on another figure on the other side of the door. It was Early. In chains and slumped, unconscious, bound to the wall.

  “You can scream all you want now.” The lady was standing over him in those cotton panties, leering down at him from above. She put a foot on his chest and shoved him down, hard. His head knocked against the floor sharply, and it hurt. Anthony felt a moan escape his lips. “This room is soundproof.”

  “Who the fuck … are you?” Anthony asked, staring up at her. Her bun was askew, blond hair streaming down onto her shoulder.

  “Why … I’m your victim, clearly.” She sounded almost serious up to the end, then she let a giggle escape. It was a terrible sound, bereft of any actual joy. “You had a gun on me.” She twirled a long finger, and the pistol rolled around it. “I fucking hate these things.”
br />   Anthony just stared at her, mouth trying to move. He pushed against the pressure of her bare foot against his chest, and she pushed back even harder, heel digging into his belly and her big toe pointed down right under his sternum. It dug in and drew another cry out of him, sharp pressure like a drill boring in. “Ahh! Ah! Stop!”

  She grinned and pushed a little harder, making him yell even louder. When she eased up, he opened his eyes and looked into hers. She was looking down at him, her nose slitted with long nostrils that reminded him of a devil. Looking at her from this angle, there was nothing soft about her at all. She looked harsh and angry, amused at his pain. He felt the weight of her on him and did not struggle. Not now. “You’re really just a pathetic little …” She sighed. “See, the time was, I’d say ‘bitch.’ But that’s kind of a slur against the female gender now. I’d argue that calling someone a dick or cock is kind of the same thing, but right now it’s a linguistic argument I’m losing with my so-called friends.”

  She leaned down, bending her leg at the knee and sliding closer to his face. “I bet you’ve called a lot of girls bitches in your time, haven’t you, Anthony?” His eyes widened at the use of his own name. There was a subtle increase in pressure from her toe, and he wondered if she was going to break right through the skin and stab him in the fucking heart with it. “Haven’t you?” He nodded as quickly as he realized she was waiting for him.

  “What about ‘cunts,’ Anthony?” She looked so cool, so … joyful, as she pressed harder. “Do you call women cunts?” It was like a dagger just under his breastbone, like someone pushed a letter opener up under there, ready to crack him open. “Do you, Anthony? Don’t fucking lie to me. You have, haven’t you?” Waited for him to nod. “Of course you have. You’re a misogynist prick, Anthony.” She smelled so fucking gawdawful sweet, it was just drowning him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight.

  “You ever rape a girl, Anthony?” His eyes snapped open, found hers looking at him. She still had the gun in her hand, just playing with it. Her skin looked … sallow in the light, almost yellow, against the red background of the room. The veins up and down her legs were almost pulsating in the red light.

  “It’s okay,” she said, playful again. “You can tell me.” He clenched his teeth together tight, willed his jaw to stay shut. “You will tell me, Anthony. You will fucking tell me, you should know that.” There was a clatter as she tossed the gun, and dropped to her knees astride his abdomen, a weight across his belly as her ass hit him in the gut with the force of ten punches. He almost vomited, coughed up bile and whatever dinner he’d had hours ago. It fucking hurt.

  She put her face right up in his, like she was going to kiss him, but there was nothing sexy about this. Her breath stunk, stale, like she’d had a gallon of coffee on an empty stomach and started burping it up immediately. She breathed, and he felt like he was going to wretch, the pressure of her body weighing him down. “Anthony.” She snapped fingers next to his cheek, a crack of thunder in his ear. “Have you ever raped a woman, Anthony?” He watched her run a hand down her back, behind her, and felt her grab hold of his crotch like a fucking robot claw had him. “Tell me. Tell me, or you lose your balls and dick, right now.” She squeezed like it was pliers on his piece, and he threw up right in her face.

  “Oh, that’s some kinky shit right there,” she said, staring at him. She had not a drop on her, even though she’d been right there in his face when he’d blown. The strong taste of acid, the smell of bile was all over him, dripping down his cheeks where she held him to the ground. His hair was sticky where it had caught his vomit, where it trailed down his face. He’d felt her move, subtly, and she’d gotten away in time? Fast. In the blink of an eye, the time it took his gullet empty in a fountain into the air above him. She snapped a finger in his ear again. “Have you ever raped a girl, Anthony? Your balls are awaiting your answer.” She squeezed again, but more gently this time. He didn’t throw up, but goddamn did he want to.

  “Yes,” he said, breathing in gasps, like he’d gone for a sprint. Anthony hadn’t sprinted in years, but he felt like he’d been on one now. His mouth was full of the taste of his own sick, all he could see was her cold eyes, yellowed, smooth skin, that mismatch clash of tan bra with purple cotton panties a shade lighter than the veins in her legs, and the red of the walls around him.

  “Yes, you have?” She asked, looking at him seriously. He nodded, unable to get another word out. “Mmm. See.” She slapped him gently, playfully, along the bile-soaked cheek, and it snapped his head aside. “Tell me about it.” He felt the pressure loosen on his crotch.

  Anthony flinched. He could see her staring at him, eager, interested. She was totally focused on him, peering into him, and all he could feel was the residual sense of nausea and a sudden sense of shame about confessing to something he’d bragged about many times to Mike, Early, and others. His face burned, his tongue moved inside his mouth, trying to wet a mouth gone dry and sticky. “I … uh …”

  Her veneer broke and he recognized it for what it was, nothing but a show. She cackled, right in his face, with that horrible breath wafting down on him like fog drifting out of one of those machines that makes it. “I’m totally fucking with you,” she said. “I don’t care what you’ve done. All I care about now …” she stared into his eyes, and he felt a chill, “is what you’re going to do for me.

  “This is how we’re going to do things. I ask for something, you do it. I ask a question, you answer. Simple, right?” She ran a hand across his forehead. “No need for threats, or yelling or … vomiting.” She looked at him with disdain, smacking her lips together. “You think you can handle that, Anthony?”

  She was so strong. He couldn’t even move her. The squeeze of her thighs against his ribs was like being caught in coils of thick wire as they extracted the breath from him. “Anthony, are we having a meeting of the minds here?” she asked. “A concordance? You on my wavelength?” She slapped him against an already burning cheek, and he felt a tooth fall out in the back of his mouth. “You with me here, fucker?”

  “I—yes.” Anthony nodded, back of his head scraping against the tile. It felt slick back there, like his head was bleeding. “I … yes, I am … with you.”

  Her whole manner changed in an instant. Her legs loosened from where they’d squeezed in his sides, and he could draw breath more easily. “Good,” she said, and hauled him to his feet. “Let’s start with something easy. Who told you about my place?”

  He stood there for a moment, dazed. Bitch was strong. Holy shit, strong. He looked at her again, saw her eyes studying him, watching him for his next move. She did that for all of a second and then she clamped a hand around his wrist and jerked him forward toward the center of the room. “Jake,” he said, without even a thought. “The night doorman. He’s my … cousin.”

  “Excellent,” she said, nodding at him with approval. “You’ve done well, Anthony.” He shook his head, like that would clear it. Had he really just sold out Jake, that quick? If it had been the cops, he never would have rolled.

  This lady wasn’t the cops, though. She was … man, there was something about her that was … different.

  Dangerous.

  “All right, Anthony,” she said and yanked him toward her. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s move on to more important things.” She paused, and he wobbled, legs unsteady. “You know what? It’s easier if I just do this,” she said, turning him around as she pushed him down, slamming his chest into a metal platform, knocking the wind out of him. His chin hit the top of it. It ran down his front to his waist, a little oblong rectangle a foot wide and maybe two feet long. It kept him propped up like he was a dog, on all fours.

  “What the f—?” He didn’t get to finish before he felt something cutting the leg of his jeans all the way up the side. He tried to sit up, and she shoved him back down like he was a weakling, like he didn’t work out, didn’t press. He tried again and she slammed a sharp punch into his ribs that buckle
d his legs.

  “Don’t fucking push me, Anthony,” she said, voice quiet and low. “You told me you were with me. If I find out now that you’re not, I will cut your dick and balls off and fry them in a pan in front of you.” She slid down so that she was looking him in the eyes. “Then I’m going to eat them while you watch, and if you’re really unlucky, I’ll feed a couple bites to you.” He felt her grip like steel on his neck, pushing his chest into the corners of the metal platform. “Do you believe me?”

  He stared at her. He didn’t believe it. Not for a second. This bitch was just some spoiled c—

  She hit him so hard the lights went out for a minute, and when he started to stir again, her voice tinkled lightly over him. “I saw it in your eyes. You were mentally calling me a cunt, weren’t you?” She only paused for a second. “Don’t answer. I fucking know you were, and that is such a bad idea for your continued ability to draw breath, Tony. Do you mind if I call you Tony? Anthony is just so … formal. Considering I’ve stripped you naked and now I’m strapping you down.”

  He felt movement beneath his knee. She was doing something there, something that made a sound like a seatbelt snapping back into place. He tried to move the leg she was working on and couldn’t. He tried to turn his head and she cuffed him in the back hard enough to drive the air from his lungs again. “Don’t move,” she said pleasantly. He felt another tightness as a strap locked his upper thigh into place. “It’ll go easier on you if you don’t move.”

  She did the same for his other leg, then his right arm, then the left. He didn’t dare look up, not again. She pulled the straps tighter and he felt metal on his crotch, too, his cock and balls strained through something cold and steel. “Stupid clothes get in the way,” she said from behind him, and he felt her lay two more straps under his armpits that belted him tight to the plate, then he heard her stand up. And felt it.

  It was like she’d tied a chain around his junk, a small chain like the kind you put on a necklace, and yanked it as she stood. It set him groaning until he felt the pressure loosen. He looked up toward her face as she stood there, right in front of the doctor’s chair-thing with the stirrups, and he got a real bad feeling about where this was going.