INIQUITOUS

CHAPTER V

He slapped a hand over my mouth, my screams became muffled, my eyes widened, I was in a cold sweat. I began apologising for all the awful things I've done in my head; for throwing up when giving head and not telling Andre Jackson that his wiener was covered in vomit, for stealing a case of beer from the old, partially deaf Jewish man while my friend distracted him, for the murders, the lies, the cover-ups. Everything.

In the midst of my pleas for forgiveness, a thought occurred to me: who was the dumb sonafabitch that didn't put a background check on this psycho!? Was I going to die because of a computer error or laziness? I was mad. If I was going to die, I wanted it to be passionate and dramatic. I wanted the attention on me. Preferably, it was going to go something like this; I was the breath-taking, raven-haired beauty men and women sought after, the night was dark and dusky, I was in a dimly-lit bar, sitting on a stool, drinking cheap whiskey, a man approached me, he was charming, we conversed in murmurs and throaty laughs, his gaze was smouldering, the bartender watched as he placed a hand on my thigh, leaned in to whisper, I smiled, we leave and that's the last anyone saw of me. I was bludgeoned to death, thrown off a cliff. The man was never caught. My death was a crime of passion, of lust gone wrong, a romanticised Hollywood made-into-a-movie story.

Right now it was going to be a black and white front page for three days, moved to the fourth page, then a small article and then forgotten. It was going to be dull. Old people would shake their heads over brewing coffee, "It's a shame, poor girl." They'd say for lack of anything else to voice. No-one would care. People would move on. I wouldn't be a star.

"Quiet," Frank Rider yanked me to his chest, fingers and thumb pressed painfully into my cheeks, his voice was a low rumble.

My heart was doing manic jumps in my breast, trying to leap out and run for the hills. My voice box (if such a thing existed) died. Silence. Heavy breathing. Intently listening for running footsteps or curious teachers. Once he was satisfied that we weren't going to be interrupted, he dipped his head in the crook of my neck, mouth to my ear. "That was a stupid thing to do, Cleo."

I wasn't facing him. My gaze flitted around the room, wondering if I could make it across and grab anything to bash him over the head with. Just as I was contemplating the usefulness of a heavy textbook, I felt him sniff me. I wouldn't have noticed it if my senses hadn't been trained on him. He inhaled me and honest to God, it had to be the creepiest shit a man has ever done to me and I've had offers to piss on low self-esteem mongrels.

His free hand grazed the length of my side; gliding from the side of my breast, around the inwards curve of my waist to rest on my hip. I didn't like his touch. It was far too intimate. I understood he was an intense man but this...this was way out of my comfort zone. "Can I trust you?" he whispered, nuzzling my neck.

I tried leaning away from him, he pressed a hand on my stomach, forcing me closer to him. Tingles danced on my spine, and I wasn't sure if it was the good kind or the bad. It felt bad. Most definitely. Like the instinct type. Run-for-your-fucking-life-you-idiot sort of feelings. "Yes!" I tried, it didn't sound like a yes, it sounded like a loud noise. Just that: a loud noise.

"You're going to make me do bad things to you, sweetheart."

I wasn't going to make him do jack-shit. Men really were unable to own up to their actions.

"I don't want to hurt you," he continued, "but if you don't listen to me, I'm going to ruin you. You'd wish you never met me. Is that what you want, Cleo?"

"No," despite his hand, the word came out clear.

"Good girl, Cleo."

I didn't know I was a fucking dog.

"I like it when you listen to me," he said softly. "I'm going to take my hand away. If you scream again, well, that'll be the last thing out of your mouth. You got that, sweetheart?"

I nodded, I think I shat my pants.

His hand fell but not before his fingers scraped across my lips. I took a step away from him, another, and then turned to face him. He watched me with the gaze of a predator. This was a fucking nightmare. I opened my mouth, intending to do – I don't know what, I sharply inhaled.

"We're going to keep this between us."

"I'm not in the habit of keeping secrets."

He scoffed sardonically, eyes alight with malice, and he took a step towards me. "I'm sure you aren't. Do I really need to threaten you about what will happen if you don't listen to me?"

"No, I got it, dude." I quickly back-tracked around a couple of desks. Hands held up in surrender. "Um, so," I sucked in my bottom lip. "The hour is over. What are the chances of me walking out of here unharmed?"

He tossed me my phone, walking to his desk. "You can leave."

"Really?" I started for the door, quick strides, eager, hopeful. I was going to call the cops, the FBI, the mayor, anyone who would listen and snitch. I wasn't going to let this bitch get away with assault.

He sat behind his desk, eyes on the papers in front of him, shuffling through them. "Goodbye, Calla."

My hand was reaching for the lock, a chill settled in my bones, I suddenly couldn't breathe. "What?" I spun around, stared at him, petrified. "What did you call me?" My mind was in a panic. My body was in a cold sweat. It was safe to say I was spooked.

"I said, goodbye Cleo," he frowned at me, glancing my way. "What's the matter?" His face was carefully constructed, the concern buffered for a split second, revealing his true nature: malevolent and malicious. He was lying.

And he knew.

My hand fumbled with the lock, tremors shaking my nerves, I ripped open the door, he called for me, I didn't look back and I ran. I needed to get away, to put as much possible space between us.

He knew.

***