MarianaThe ride had been h.e.l.lish. With no reference to time or indication of how far we had left to travel, I had no choice but to hold on to Dornan or let go and smash myself to pieces on the highway behind the bikes. Not being able to see anything was the worst part, and it made me feel ill, but I couldn"t be sick in the narrow confines of the helmet. I doubted they"d stop to let me clean myself if I threw up, so I clenched my teeth and swallowed down my nausea for what seemed like hours.
And then, finally, the bikes slowed to a stop. Dornan patted my hand and someone else hooked their hands under my arms, pulling me off the bike. I stood on legs that threatened to dissolve underneath me, supporting myself against the bike with one shaking arm. I was sore, I was tired, and the only thing I"d eaten since I had arrived in the States — a greasy burger and fries — sat in my stomach like a rock that wanted to come back up.
My hands itched to pull up the visor, but I didn"t touch it. A cool chill settled on my skin and I guessed that it must have been evening wherever we were.
"C"mon," Dornan said, taking my wrist and guiding me up a flight of stairs, into what I a.s.sumed was some kind of building, and back down another flight of stairs. My stomach flipped nervously as I wondered where we were going and what was about to happen.
What did happen to slave girls, anyway?
Was he going to beat me? Force himself on me? The shock of Este"s death and the past twenty-four hours were still clinging to my consciousness and making me act in a kind of weird, detached way that was completely foreign to me. I was normally feisty, determined and demanding. Not a meek, quiet girl who let herself be blindfolded and led into the pits of h.e.l.l.
Este. I ached to weep for him, to unleash my anger with fists to the walls, to smash my knuckles into something until they bled. I wanted to hurt something, or someone. I wanted to hurt my father. But he wasn"t here, so maybe I could hurt Dornan, instead. A door slammed and the helmet was finally removed.
"You didn"t tell me you were taking me to the Hilton," I drawled, turning my head to take in the small room we were in. Dornan set the suitcase Murphy had purchased and filled with clothes in my size on the ground. I guessed one of the other bikers had brought it. "I gotta take a p.i.s.s," he said, turning to leave the room.
"Nice," I replied, my eyes burning under the single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. "Thanks for the information overload."
He smiled, one hand on the door k.n.o.b.
"Wait," I said, sounding much too desperate for my liking.
He stopped, but didn"t turn around.
"Will you … will you come back?" I didn"t want to be with him, but I wanted to be alone even less. And I figured I was going to be here a good long while, so I"d better start off on the right foot with Dornan before Murphy reappeared or Emilio decided I was better off dead.
There was something about Dornan, something different. I was afraid of him, but not in the same way that I was afraid of Emilio or Murphy. It was a different fear.
How silly I was. I should have feared him the most, because he would be the one to destroy me in the end.
But I was silly, and foolish, and grieving. I didn"t want to be alone.
"Do you want me to come back?" he asked.
I did. But why? Because I liked him? No. I hated him and everything he stood for.
But I was afraid. Of the dark. Of the quiet. Of the possibility that once he left the room and slammed the door shut behind him, I"d be forgotten, clawing at the walls for days and weeks until my throat stopped being able to scream and I lay down and died. What if they just left me here to rot?
"Yes," I whispered.
He let his hand drop from the door handle and turned slowly, meeting my eyes with what could only be described as a predatory gaze. He had something on me, even if it was as insignificant as my terror of being alone, and he knew it. He trailed his eyes down to my chest, over my waist and down to my feet, before repeating the journey in reverse.
I stood rooted to the spot as he dragged a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit up, drawing in a long, apparently satisfying breath. He took two steps, bridging the gap between us as he offered me the cigarette, blowing smoke in my face.
He grinned, rolling the cigarette between two fingers in front of my face.
"You know," he said slyly, "I"m not here to save you, Ana."
Devastation squeezed at my chest as I accepted the cigarette, my skin burning where it touched his. n.o.body can save me now.
Placing the cigarette to my lips, I took a long, steady drag and blew a cloud of smoke right back at him.
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"That"s okay, Papi," I replied, tapping ash onto the ground as unexpected spikes of something ran down my spine in a shiver. "I"m not here to be saved."
He took the cigarette back, smiling at me in the dark.