“Thanks,” I say. “They sound great. We’ll need a few more minutes.”
“Not a problem. I’ll get your appetizers going.” He leaves swiftly.
“Lobster mac and cheese?” Katelyn says.
“I know. It’s kind of champagne meets beer. But I have to admit it sounds pretty good.”
“I love macaroni and cheese,” she says. “It was my favorite growing up.”
“You should try it.”
“I don’t normally eat seafood.”
“Right. I remember that from last night. I’m sorry I suggested the calamari. Are you allergic?”
“No, no. I just… For a while I was for— I mean, I ate a lot of it, so now I’m kind of over it.”
I lift my eyebrows. An interesting answer. “How about the steak special, then? Wait. Never mind. You don’t eat red meat.”
Her eyes shine. “You have a good memory.”
“It was only last night. I have to tell you, though. I’m surprised about the seafood thing. You being from Cali and all.”
She blushes slightly. “I guess I got sick of it.”
“I get it. You ate a lot of it growing up and now you’re over it.”
“Yeah. That’s about right.”
There’s a story there, but I won’t push it. I want this to work, which means I must go slow. That means not pushing for information. I’ll let her volunteer it.
It also means not pushing things physically.
That will be the harder of the two.
Except it’s not, so far.
I want more information. I want to know this woman, and not just in the biblical sense.
I want to know about her childhood, about her hobbies, about what she likes to read. What plays she’s seen. What she likes to binge-watch.
I’m not a binge-watcher myself, but I do like old sitcoms. Friends and Will and Grace are two of my favorites.
“Katelyn,” I say, “what do you li—”
Katelyn’s mouth drops open, and her eyes go wide.
She’s not looking at me.
She’s looking past me.
Something grips the back of my neck. I can feel her fear as if it’s my own.
15
Katelyn
Ice Man comes to see me every other month. He looks past all the other women and zeroes in on me.
He doesn’t hunt me. He doesn’t physically hurt me.
But he’s a master at humiliation.
I never meet his gaze.
I always hope that this time, he’ll decide to try another woman.
He never does.
“Moonstone,” he says in his gravelly voice.
“Good evening.” I don’t look up.
“Say my name,” he commands.
I clear my throat. If I don’t, I may not be able to say anything. “Mr. Smith.”
It’s not his real name. A lot of Mr. Smiths come to the island. A lot of Mr. Browns and Mr. Joneses. A few Mr. Warners and Mr. Tylers. One Mr. Kovich.
But to me, this Mr. Smith is Ice Man.
I should probably be happy he’s here. I won’t be beaten tonight. I won’t be hunted. I won’t be cut or hurt physically in any way.
Instead, I’ll be told what a disgusting slut I am, how I deserve to be treated like shit. And then I’ll be urinated on. Ice Man will freeze what’s left of his urine into cubes. At least he doesn’t make me use those cubes in my drink. He uses them himself.
All fetishes are allowed here on Treasure Island, no matter how disgusting.
That’s what Ice Man likes to do.
Here on Treasure Island, nothing is off limits. Except killing. They can’t kill us. They can, however, bring us to the brink of death. I’ve seen it happen. Sapphire was out of commission for two months when a visitor broke her leg. Crystal was out for longer than that after a visitor burned her breasts. She’s scarred for life now, but she’s still expected to entertain visitors. Even with her burn scars, she’s still one of the most beautiful women here, and she never lacks for company. Some men like the scars—another fetish.
How I wish I lacked for company.
Sapphire and Crystal would probably be happy to entertain Ice Man.
But physical pain isn’t the only kind of pain.
Mental pain—humiliation—is also pain.
And I don’t want it. Not tonight. Not ever.
“Come with me, Moonstone.” Mr. Smith holds out his hand to me.
Mr. Smith always wears a mask over his eyes. Still, I know it’s him. His eyes are a light brown, almost golden—ironically close to the color of the bodily fluid he’s obsessed with.
I’ll never forget those eyes.
No matter how much I want to.
No.
No.
He can’t be here.
Didn’t they arrest everyone who frequented the island? Shouldn’t he be rotting in prison somewhere?
Ice Man.
Those eyes.
They’re forever embedded in my brain as if they were branded there with a hot iron.
My therapist at the retreat center hypothesized that Ice Man hated his fetish as much as or more than he craved it, which is why, after using his bodily fluid to humiliate me, he then used it to humiliate himself with the ice cubes. Maybe and maybe not. Either way, I don’t give a damn about his supposed self-hatred any other problems he undoubtedly has—and I’m sure there are many.