The Bad Guy

Jeeeeeez. I sank into a side chair with a view out the windows. Not because my legs had gone weak from the mental image of me sitting on his face. I was just tired. “Never mind. You ruined it.”

He laughed. “You’re only saying that because my plan appealed to you.”

“Suffocating you, yes. Sitting on your face, no.” A blush crept into my cheeks at the lie.

“You can admit your desires to me. I’m the only one who would never judge you.”

“That’s reassuring. I desire to be free.”

“You are. With me.” He swiped a wide tablet from the ottoman and, with the click of a few buttons, the music turned off and a large television rose from what had been a bare patch of wood floor. “Since you’ve yet to start your grand escape, how about a movie?”

“A movie?”

“Yeah.” He patted the couch next to him. “I have some calls to make this afternoon, and we’re going out tonight, so let’s watch a flick while we have down time.”

“I don’t know…” I glanced to the doors leading to different parts of the penthouse.

“I’ll show you around after, and you can work on your bedsheet rope while I’m on the phone. All right?” His smirk both infuriated me and temped a smile from my lips.

“I suppose a movie would be okay.” I didn’t move to sit next to him.

“You have to make things attainable, remember?” He patted the sofa again. “Please”—he said the word as if peanut butter coated his tongue and made speech difficult—“watch a movie with me?”

I had promised to try. And a movie was well within the bounds of what I was willing to give. I rose and sat next to him, leaving a few inches of space between us.

“That’s all I’m going to get?”

“You said you wanted a movie. Here I am, ready to watch a movie.” I tucked my feet up under me on the couch and stared at the blank television screen.

He grumbled, but clicked something on the touch screen again. Curtains fell from the ceiling, covering the windows.

“Leave them.” I put my hand on his. “I love the light.”

“If you keep your hand on me during the movie, I’ll leave them open.”

I squinted at him. “That sounds a lot like a deal.”

“Not a deal, just a request.” He tapped the same button on the remote, and the curtains stopped falling.

I should have removed my hand. I didn’t. There wasn’t a transaction between us, but an understanding. If I took my hand away, I wouldn’t lose anything. If I left it, I wasn’t giving in; I was making my own choice.

He tapped a few more buttons, and the TV clicked on, sound pouring through hidden speakers all around us. The Lionsgate insignia flashed across the screen. Music played—the notes of a piano that I knew by heart. A hallway appeared, the walls stark white, the furniture sterile, as if recently bought and never used. Then the flash of a perfect man wearing white briefs. When the narration began, goose bumps erupted down my arms and legs. American Psycho.

Sebastian turned his hand over and entwined our fingers. “I know this is your favorite movie,” he whispered.

On paper, my favorite movie was Pitch Perfect. But, in truth, Sebastian was right. Christian Bale’s portrayal of Patrick Bateman had enthralled me from the first moment I heard his opening monologue. I’d never bought the book or borrowed it from the library for fear of someone seeing it in my collection. And also for fear that I’d love it even more than the film. But it was just a movie, right? Enjoying an entertaining film that millions of others had enjoyed didn’t say anything about me.

“Stop thinking and enjoy it.” He squeezed my fingers as the psychopath on the screen told us “I simply am not there.”

32

Sebastian

I finished my phone calls as Camille continued her search for an escape from my penthouse. Once she’d exhausted all avenues—except the video surveillance room I’d locked—she reappeared in my bedroom and flopped down on the bed.

“No luck?” I locked my tablet and stood.

“None, you sadistic prick.” Her mouth had grown steadily worse the longer she stayed with me. It was precious as all hell.

I smiled down at her. “I’m beginning to sense a little anger. But only a little.”

“What’s in the locked room? Severed head collection?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I grinned. “That’s where I stack the dead hookers.”

“That’s only funny if a non-psycho says it.” She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the white duvet. If she called me more names—and I was certain she did—they were too muffled to understand.

“Come on. It’s almost time to go out.”

She rolled onto her side as I knelt at her feet.

“What are you doing?” Propping up on an elbow, she watched my fingers slide up her ankle.