There was a Smith and Wesson 9mm in the bottom drawer.
My gaze etched over every inch of the black metal. Should I swipe it and tuck the gun somewhere else? Not to use it on Vasilije, but to buy me time if he ever went for it to use it on me? I was usually so decisive, but my muscles locked up with indecision. What would happen if he checked on the gun and discovered it missing? He clearly thought I’d use a gun on him last night.
There was a quiet mechanical hum on the other side of the house—the garage door going up— which made the decision for me. I slammed the drawer shut and bolted for the piano out in the living room. I plunked my fingers on the keys and tinkered out an old recital piece I’d practiced so many times I was sure I’d forget my name before I forgot how to play it.
There was the sound of hard soles meeting wood as his footsteps approached. I couldn’t see him, even in my peripheral vision, but I tensed under Vasilije’s scrutiny. I shivered as he came close, and the temperature in the room plummeted.
“Time to go,” he said.
My mouth went dry when I turned and set my attention on him. The devil wore a navy suit, a white dress shirt, and a burgundy tie with the knot loosened at his neck. His dark eyes studied me like I was dangerous. Wasn’t he the one who was armed? The tailored jacket hung beautifully, and I couldn’t see the outline of his gun beneath his arm, but I felt its presence regardless.
“Hello,” I said, steeling my voice as I rose from the piano. When he didn’t offer any greeting, I was forced to continue. “Where are we going?”
His eyes swept over my body, and he didn’t hide his disdain. “Shopping. You need clothes.”
I wanted to point out I was wearing clothes, but then he might demand I take them off, so, as I’d done last night, I bit the inside of my cheek and stayed silent.
We didn’t speak to each other as I put my shoes on and followed him into the garage. There was a white Porsche parked close, and he made it clear this was the car we were taking when he opened the driver’s door.
I sat in the passenger seat, buckled myself in, and the air went thin as Vasilije started the car. It purred to life. Even though it wasn’t warm, I set my sweaty palms on my thighs and tried to act unaffected. The interior of the sports car was dark, the space compact, and it felt like I was intimately trapped with him. He seemed oblivious to the tension between us that was stretched as taut as piano wire.
I should have gazed at my surroundings and pretended to be fascinated with the new-to-me American landscape as he drove, but instead I studied him. He hung the palm of his left hand casually on the top of the steering wheel while his right hand gripped the gear shift. The car was an automatic, but the relaxed posture made me think he’d be comfortable driving a manual. He probably had to be, given his job.
“Where did you go this morning?” I asked. “Work?”
He made a grunt of confirmation. I wasn’t worth the effort to actually speak to today.
“What do you do?”
“I own a car dealership.”
His fingers moved to the radio controls on the steering wheel and the rap song grew loud. Too loud to hold a conversation. It was fine with me. I’d rather listen to music anyway, even if it was a repetitive loop of a simple melody, more computer than voice or instrument.
The song ended and another replaced it. I deconstructed the tracks in my head, picking out what worked and what didn’t. On and on the songs went as we drove on the expressway, flying through the I-PASS toll. The longer we drove, the more worried I became. He wasn’t talking. Yesterday he’d been demanding and curious, but today he seemed to have zero interest in me.
My heart picked up and anxiety spiked in my bloodstream. Had he gotten bored with me already? Was he going to send me on my way . . . or worse? I curled my fingers inward, digging my nails into my thighs. I had to do something. I couldn’t let him cast me aside, and I definitely wasn’t going to let him drive me somewhere secluded so he could put a bullet in my head and dump my body.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Vasilije’s harsh voice was loud over the angry rap spewing from the speakers.
I’d put my hand on his leg, high up on his thigh and an inch from his crotch. My lungs squeezed tight, making it impossible to breathe. “I don’t know,” I answered. Truer words had never been uttered. Sex was the only weapon I had access to right now. Too bad I wasn’t sure exactly how to wield it.