Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel (16 page)

“No.”

“If you don’t put on Sex and the City, you won’t get your money,” I say.

The remote nearly explodes under pressure in Freddie’s fist, and so does the vein throbbing in his neck. He slowly turns his head towards me. “One more word…” His lips press thin. I keep pushing his buttons. I know I’m playing a dangerous game, and my life is in Freddie’s hands. But I’ve worn my other options thin, and I know Freddie’s weakness: his temper.

It’s a common trait with criminal, careless temper. When people are angry, they make mistakes. If I’m going to survive—if I’m going to escape—I need Freddie to start slipping up. I need an opening. It might mean taking a beating, and it might mean dying, but that’s no different from sitting around, hoping Freddie gets his territs back.

“And what?” I ask, immediately breaking his rule.

“And I drop you off at Pesconi’s front door.” Each of his words is its own sentence, complete with heavy emphasis and ample pause. His eyes don’t blink.

“And never see your money,” I remind him.

“I’m trying to remember why I care,” Freddie says through his teeth. His face is red, and not just from the bruising.

It’s time to use my trump card. “So you don’t end up like your sister.”

His expression drops, his eyes widen, his muscles tense, and I immediately regret my comment. It’s the reaction I was looking for, but I didn’t think it would make me feel like shit.

I part my lips to speak, but words refuse to form on my tongue. “I—I’m sorry,” I say.

His face is red; his gaze is inwards. He’s either revisiting the apparently traumatic memory of his sister, or he’s envisioning a fantasy in which he’s brutally murdering me. Or both.

He stands up, walks over to his bag, and pulls out a pair of handcuffs—the same pair responsible for the dark bruises around my wrists.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond as he walks towards me with the cuffs.

“Wait—I didn’t mean it—”

He remains silent. He grabs my arms and yanks me across the bed. A cold, sharp pain shoots down one of my arms, and reverberates in my shoulder. The “Ouch!” that escapes my lips doesn’t faze him. “Wait!” I say again. My resistance is hopeless.

With my hands securely cuffed to the bedframe, Freddie starts towards the door. My plan backfired. So much for escaping now, with my hands locked above my head.

“Where are you going?” The cold metal digs into my already-bruised wrists. I squirm, but the solid oak, never-been-used bedframe is too dense, too rigid to budge. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be back. Don’t try to yell or call for help. Mel’ll hear you.”

“Where are you going?”

The only response is the slam of the heavy hotel door, and another series of explosions on the television.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A NIGHT AT THE HOLIDAY INN

The cool pain in my wrists keeps me awake. Eyes heavy and body exhausted, I try to let myself sleep—sleep for the first time in… I can’t even remember how long. But between the pain, the seemingly endless marathon of crappy action movies, and the lingering anxiety—anxiety from knowing this could be my last night alive—falling asleep is out of the question.

My insomnia isn’t helped any by the giant pair of leering eyes outside the hotel room window—the eyes of Crazy Dave, plastered on the billboard above his used car emporium.

Freddie returns late, and his return is anything but subtle. The moment I hear him coming, a fluttering anxiety surges in my gut. He’s had time to brood, time for his anger to fester. And here I am, awaiting his return like a punching bag, chained to the ceiling. The heavy door slams against the wall as he enters, rattling the whole room. Within seconds, an invisible cloud of cheap cologne, cheap beer, and cheap cigarettes washes over me. As the door closes behind him, he drops the little backpack, and all of his winnings spill out onto the floor.

He’s drunk.

He jumps when he sees me staring at him, having already forgotten I was left in the room—imprisoned in the room. What a relief. If he forgot about me, that means he wasn’t out brooding over me. He wasn’t out, building the courage to come back and shoot me in the head.

“Ya scared me,” he says. He stares at me, as if awaiting an apology.

I don’t give him an apology. Instead, I stare back, unimpressed. My hands have gone completely numb, but somehow, the pain continues to linger through my arms and shoulders.

“Why aren’t you sleepin’?”

I give him the same response as his previous question—nothing but an unimpressed glare.

He looks over at the television, which has been looping infomercials for well over two hours. He looks back at me, with a pinched brow and narrowed eyes. “Why you watching infomercials?”

“What can I say? It’s a guilty pleasure.” The sarcasm is thick in my monotonous voice.

It takes him far too long to notice the remote at the foot of the other bed, where he left it before storming out. I receive no sympathy. Instead, he scoffs. “Oops,” he says, going into the bathroom to wash his face. On his way, he grabs a cigarette and a match from his bag. The smell of cheap beer, cologne, and cigarettes is so potent now; I worry that lighting a match would ignite the whole room.

“Can you untie me?” I ask.

“Huh?” he yells back, over the splashing of the bathroom sink.

“I’m not going to run. Can you
please
untie me?” I mean it, too. If he’s nice enough to untie me, I will follow all his stupid rules. I just want feeling back in my hands. I want to be freed from this awkward, uncomfortable position.

He emerges from the bathroom, patting his face with a hand towel. “No can do,” he says with a grin. He grabs a candy bar from his pile. “Want one?” he asks.

“Please. My wrists hurt.”

“Mine too,” he says with a mouthful of chocolate and caramel. “I think that Giles guy might’ve sprained it when he threw me into the ground, the third time.” He takes another chocolate bar and continues stuffing his face.

I give up. Nothing’s working. All of my schemes only seem to back me further into a corner. I’m ready to make the gamble. “The coins are at the No Hold Gold,” I say. I look down at my feet, away from Freddie’s face. I don’t want to see his reaction. I don’t want to know my fate. All my money’s on red and the spinning wheel’s about to stop. I hear the little ball click into its slot, but I don’t look.

Freddie stops chewing. The room is silent, save for the Miracle Iron infomercial on the television. “What?” he says.

“Your dumb coins—the territs, or whatever they’re called—they’re at the No Hold Gold, three blocks up Main Street.”

“The No Hold Gold?” He questions it as if it’s a mouthful of gibberish.

“They give you cash for your gold. No hold. One minute, and it’s sold—you know the commercial.” I’ve heard it a dozen times since he left on his drinking bender. I still can’t look over at him.

“You took the territs to a pawnie?”

“It’s not a pawn shop. It’s a No Hold Gold. They’re all over the place—”

“—You took three hundred thousand territs to a pawn shop?”

I consider correcting him again, but I think he gets the point. Instead, I say, “It opens at seven. With the cash we won today, we could easily buy the coins back. I didn’t know that they were worth anything—I really don’t know what they are—”

“—You took three hundred thousand territs to a pawn shop.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I finally look up at him, expecting to see steam rising up from a crimson face. Instead, he’s biting his lip, moments away from bursting into laughter.

“Oh my God, you’re so stupid.” As predicted, he erupts into laughter. He falls back onto his bed and rolls from side to side, his eyes watering. “Oh, fuck—that’s rich.” He tries to speak multiple times, but he can’t stop interrupting himself with laughter. “How much did you get for them?” he finally asks.

“Five hundred…”

“Dollars?” he says, biting his lip again.

“Yeah.”

I have to sit through another minute of Freddie’s laughing fit. “Three hundred thousand territs for five hundred human dollars—my God, that’s the funniest fuckin’ thing I’ve heard all week. That’s the funniest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard—ever.” He slaps his leg and grabs his side. “Oh—that’s funny.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I have nothing to say.

His laughter finally subsides. “Where did ya say this place is?” he asks, wiping the tears from his bruised cheeks.

“It’s a few blocks down the road—on this street. It opens at seven. I’ll get your territs back, I promise—”

“No, no—Mel and I can handle it. Maybe I’ll grab ya some dead old lady’s necklace while I’m there. It can be a gift.” Freddie snorts when he laughs.

“How are you going to get them back?” I ask.

“We’ll just rough the guy up. He’s not gonna risk his life for five hundred human dollars.” Freddie keeps saying ‘human dollars,’ as if his precious territs aren’t human. He says it casually, like there’s nothing strange about what he’s saying, as if he’s some kind of alien. Or, more likely given his overwhelming ego, Freddie sees himself as superior to the rest of the human race; that, to call himself human, would be an insult to his perfectness, to his superiority.

What better way to boast your assumed perfection than to disassociate yourself from the other seven billion inhabitants of the planet? ‘Citizen money’ wouldn’t cut it, because Freddie doesn’t just see himself above citizens; he thinks he’s above everyone: political leaders, kings—he probably thinks he’s a god.

“There’s always an armed security guard on duty,” I say. Unsurprisingly, this only evokes more laughter from the tattooed gypsy. How could I have forgotten? Freddie is a god. Bullets can’t hurt him.

“I’m not too worried,” he says between bouts of laughter.

Once his laughter finally settles, and I build up enough courage, I ask, “So, can I go home now?”

“No,” he says bluntly.

“Why not?”

“Because ya might be lyin’ to me, and I won’t know until we knock over the pawnie.” Freddie unwraps yet another candy bar. “Don’t get me wrong—I believe ya. Ya can’t make shit like that up.”

“Can you at least untie me?” I ask.

Freddie waits to finish his candy bar before responding with a grunt. He walks over to my bed and looks down at me. His lips curl in; he’s still holding back residual laughter.

“What?” I say.

“You really are human, aren’t you?” he asks. Again with the ‘human’ business.

“I guess I am.”

“Well, you had me fooled.” Freddie stumbles as he plants his knees down on either side of my body. It takes him a moment to find his balance before leaning over to fiddle with my handcuffs.

The smell of his cheap cologne is strong, burning my nostrils—burning my eyeballs, making them water. I try to look back at my wrists, but a simple glance up is met with his chest. He tugs and rattles the handcuffs, but they remain tight around my wrists.

“What’s taking so long?” As I ask it, it dawns on me that he’s just trying to get a rise out of me, and he just got one.

“Hold on. They’re stuck,” he says, leaning in closer to the cuffs. Another series of rattles and tugs send jolts of pain down my arms. His sits his butt down on my sternum and leans down closer, getting his face right up to the apparently stubborn cuffs. I turn my face away, smothered by his chest.

The cuffs loosen, and feeling trickles back into my hands—but my hands remain trapped.

“Better?” he asks, sitting upright and looking down on me, his butt planted on my stomach.

“They’d be better off.”

“They don’t wanna come off completely,” he says with that smirk growing towards his ears. He stares at me, as if waiting for the ‘magic word.’

“Please,” I say bluntly. A shudder passes through me.

“Lemme see what I can do.” He’s basking in my plea. He leans forward again and continues to fumble with the handcuffs, rubbing his abs in my face. I can feel the bulge between his legs against my chest. I can feel it too well, as if he forgot to put underwear on, under his black track pants. “How’s that?” he asks again, the cuffs still around my wrists.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t I?” He’s like a schoolyard bully, getting a kick out of my pain and discomfort. He stares down at me, waiting again for more ‘magic words,’ more pleas, more begging. The swelling around his eye has subsided, and his bruises have begun to transition from purple to yellowish-brown.

“You look better with a few scars on your face,” I say, and I mean it.

“Oh yeah?” His eyes drift down to my chest.

“Yeah. You look less
girly
.”

He releases the rest of his residual laughter. “It’s too bad you’re a human,” he says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I try to wiggle my torso, but the weight of his body leaves me immobile.

“You’re spunky. And you’re kinda hot.”

“And you’re a pig,” I say.

I can feel his bulge move; I hope it’s just in my head.

“I’m a pig, and you’re a bitch,” he says. He stares down at me. For once, with all of his cuts and bruises, he looks like a glimmer of a man, and not just like a Gucci model.

“Just undo the handcuffs.”