Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #6
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Chapter 1
It’s been dark for an hour and I’m the first one up. Usually am. I stare at the ceiling and pretend I’m somewhere else, pretend it’s all been a dream. It took about a week to get used to staying up all night, sleeping all day. We rarely get to bed before noon. That’s Doc’s doing. Nobody wants to rape a girl in broad daylight, the sun spotlighting their sin.
I turn on the lamp next to my bed and look over at the top of the stairs, where Doc puts our food. The same empty plates sit there, stacked and licked clean. It’s been like this for days. Not a crumb in sight. Being hungry is one thing, but when food is the highlight of your day, the days slow down and stretch into something tortuous, maddening. If it weren’t for Alex and Kammie, I’d have taken a broken bulb to my wrist months ago.
Doc is punishing us. Alex had bitten a guy’s neck. The guy went to Doc, demanded his money back, bitching about what the hell is he gonna tell his wife about the marks on his neck. He doesn’t know how lucky he is she didn’t rip his throat out. Not that she’s done it before, but she would. She’d love to.
“You asshole!” I yell. It wakes Alex, stirs Kammie.
Alex peeks at the stairs with a makeup-filled eye, sees the empty plates. She kicks off the bed sheets in a fit, lets out a little whine. She’s still in her fishnets. Of the three of us, she’s the only one who doesn’t mind the clothes Doc gives her. The black skirts, the leather, the Bettie Page bangs. Everything is black, goth and punk and speaks volumes about her rebelliousness. Her punk rock mentality. Whether the anarchist in her is from something else or brought on by too many years under Doc’s thumb, I don’t know. But it fits, and I envy it.
I look at Kammie. Her back is to us, her finger tracing something on the wall. Probably a flower. It’s all she ever draws. Her nightgown is covered in them. So are her sheets, drawn in multi-colored markers. I think she does it to remind herself she’s a girl. Doc dresses her as a boy, her hair kept short. She has no figure yet, not at nine. And it pacifies the clients looking for a young boy, but without feeling gay. I guess that little detail helps them sleep at night.
I head down the attic stairs with weak legs and stand on the bottom step. The door is locked. Always. I hit the door with the flat of my hand. “Let’s go, Doc! We get it, alright!?”
I listen. Nothing. I head back upstairs.
Alex is sitting on the bed, lacing her boots. “This shit stops now,” she says. “What we’ve always talked about doing but never have? We’re doing it. The second Doc shows his face.”
She’s talking about killing him.
Kammie sticks her thumb in her mouth and looks through the barred window at the beach below. The moon licks the incoming waves. Stars on a black liquid canvas. It’s a million miles away. She rocks on her heels, knees bent to her chin. Her nightgown is stretched tight, hiding her pencil legs. She hasn’t said a word since I’ve been here. Alex said she used to talk, too much even. But when Doc was ready to use her, she never spoke again. Alex said the last words she ever said were, “I love you, too,” as she was led out of the room, holding Doc’s hand. Alex’s pillowcase is covered with the stain of mascara and eyeliner from that night. She said she’s never cried so much in her life. And now Kammie spends her time near the window with her fern, a potted plant.
“Maybe he’s not coming back,” I say. “Maybe he’s done with us.”
“No. He’s pulled this shit before. You weren’t here yet.”
“He starved you guys?”
“No, just me.”
“What’d you do?”
“Scratched the shit out of somebody. He was tearing me up, Stac.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve only been here a year, been through my own hell. But not like Alex. Not like Kammie.
I stare at the shag carpet in our room. Dark yellow and matted, stained where I vomited once. It was my first time and a client made me drink too much wine. I was a virgin until that night.
I hate calling them clients. The word gives a false perception that I willingly provide a service. I have no will here. They’re not my clients. They’re Doc’s. They’re my demons, my living scars, my bane, and the subject of every murderous thought I have.
“I’m worried about Kam,” I say.
“She’ll be fine once we’re outta here.”
The room feels claustrophobic, something I thought I’d get used to but haven’t. There’s a single window in the room, covered by bars. Behind the bars is plexiglass painted white, with little scratches in the paint. Kammie did it with her fingernail, scratching in a flower with petals you can look through and see the beach. Alex said there used to be three other windows, but Doc covered them years ago with brick, then drywall.
Alex eyes the room. I know she’s looking for a weapon. She really does mean to kill him. The room is empty of all but books, our beds, and two small lamps. We have no dressers. No closets. When a change of clothes is needed, Doc brings them up based on the client’s preference. School girl uniforms being the most popular for me, sometimes an elegant gown when Doc tries to lady me up. I don’t look seventeen when I’m done up and in those dresses. I guess that’s the idea.
“What if we don’t kill him? What if we just break out?” I ask.
Murder. Other than daydreaming about it, I don’t think I have it in me. Even under the circumstances.
“What the hell, Stacia? If we could do that, I would have done it ten years ago.”
“I can’t kill someone.”
“Doc’s a piece of shit. He deserves it. Besides, it’s what vampires do.”
That’s her thing. Vampires. In some twisted way I think that’s how she copes, pretending to have blood lust, avoiding sunlight, immortality. All that. I let her carry on with the facade. Never argued with her over it. If it keeps her from losing her shit, slicing her wrists, so be it.
“Get your shoes.”
I look at my side of the room. There are two pairs of high heels in the corner. One red, one black. It’s all I have. Alex sees them.
“Never mind,” she says. “Come on.” She grabs my hand and heads for the stairs. “We’ll get him up here, then I’ll push him down the stairs. With any luck, the asshole will break his neck.”
I look at the stairs. They’re steep, wooden. If he falls, he’s not getting back up. We head down the stairs. Alex sits on the bottom step and pats it, inviting me next to her.
“We’ll sit here and kick the door.”
“No way we can break it down.”
“We just need his attention. At the count of three, kick it with both feet, like this.” Alex rests her arms on the stair behind her, grips it, then lifts her legs. “Ready? One…two…three!”
I’m fatigued from no food, and my barefooted kick is weak against the door. But Alex’s boots make up the difference, and the kick thunders through the house. The step behind me is hard against my back, and I feel it on my spine. I’ve lost more weight, I can tell.
“Doc! Something’s wrong with Kammie! She’s having a seizure!” Alex screams, kicks the door again. Then we run up the stairs and wait at the top.
“Hold on.” Alex says. She runs and fetches one of the lamps. “If he doesn’t fall, swing this at his head.”
She hands me the lamp. The murder weapon.
“Got it?”
I nod and put the lamp behind my back.
We can hear the pound of Doc’s feet heading up to the second floor and toward the attic door, then keys. The door has four separate locks. We’ve counted, hoping one day he’d forget to lock them. But Doc is too careful.
The sound of each lock opening is barbed wire in my stomach. Alex grinds her teeth.
The door opens.
Doc stands there in his silk pajamas, burgundy. They barely fit him and shimmer in the hallway light. A bloated kidney bean dipped in oil. His hair is slicked back against his giant head, a gun at his side. He never comes up without it. He points it at us and says, “What the hell is goin’ on?”
“Hurry! She’s dying!” Alex yells.
He heads up the attic stairs, never taking his eyes off us. Gun pointed. The stairs scream under his weight. Doc is huge. I’m guessing 350. If Alex means to push him, she’ll have to shove hard. I don’t think she can do it. She can’t be more than 110 herself. He’ll shove back and fire the gun. This is a bad idea.
“What in God’s name?” He’s winded, holding tight to the handrail. I can hear Alex breathing heavier. She’s growling, quietly. Doc nears the top, and Alex’s growl escalates into a full shriek. She lunges for him. A feral cat onto an unsuspecting dog. She wraps her legs around him and the gun goes off. The bullet hits the wall behind me, and Alex buries her face in Doc’s thick neck, ripping at his throat. Her thumbs find the new wound and split the fat skin, widening the gouge.
I scream for her to stop, not really meaning it. Kammie runs to me, holding the fern against her chest, her thumb in mouth.
Doc howls as blood sprays the walls, sprays us. His knees buckle and he drops, tumbling down the steps and taking Alex with him. I drop the lamp and scream for Alex. Doc’s huge body rolls over her, crushing her against the steps. But she holds on and is on top of him by the time they land. He’s not moving anymore, other than the jiggle of his cheeks as she pulls the flesh from his neck with her teeth. It’s savage. Animalistic. And I hold Kammie against me, shielding her eyes and covering her ears, while Alex drinks from the man’s neck.
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