Page 115 of He Should Be Mine

He sent him away an hour ago with a few choice words. Dario didn’t look at me as he left. But I felt his dread.

This whole horrible evening is a drastic come down from the high of filming our little porno. Maybe the secret,‘Fuck you’,we sent Rick, wasn’t so secret after all. Maybe he is onto us and this is the consequence.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Rick says, cutting into his steak with perfect precision. “Withdrawn. Sad, even. I don’t like it when you get like that.”

My heart stumbles over itself.

I pick up my fork and try to eat, but my throat closes around the first bite. I chew and swallow and pretend it doesn’t feel like broken glass.

Rick keeps smiling. He really is unhinged tonight. I can’t tell if it is drugs or a more organic form of insanity.

“Tell me something sweet,” he says. “Something that will make me forgive you for being so distant.”

There’s nothing I could say that would fix this. But I try anyway. “You’re very generous.”

His eyes glitter. “And?”

I reach for another compliment, something flattering but safe. But I must hesitate too long, because his hand darts across the table and wraps around my wrist.

The grip is light. Gentle.

But I freeze.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says softly, leaning closer. “Maybe it’s time we made some changes. Moved you somewhere else. A pretty cottage in the country, perhaps. Somewhere miles from anywhere. A place of no distractions.”

My stomach flips. Does he mean no Dario? Or somewhere no one could hear me scream? Maybe it’s both.

I want to run out of the apartment, but I smile instead. “Of course.”

He lets go of my wrist like the violence of his hold never happened. He offers me morewine. I take a sip.

“Did you miss me?” he asks lightly, swirling his own glass.

“I’m always happy to see you, Daddy,” I say.

He tilts his head. “That’s not what I asked.”

I freeze. He sets his glass down.

I smooth my hands over my thighs beneath the table. “Yes,” I say softly. “I missed you.”

His eyes search mine, looking for cracks in the performance. I don’t give him any. I’ve had years of practice.

He smiles. “Good.”

He talks while we eat. Or rather, he monologues. About business. About a man who tried to steal from him. About what happened to him.

“I kept his hands,” he says casually, cutting into his food. “Sent them to his girlfriend in a gift box. Beautiful ribbon.”

I smile. A small, quiet thing. Not because it’s funny, but because he wants me to smile.

He watches me carefully. I think he can tell I’m forcing it. But he lets it slide. My fear is probably just as pleasing.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he says after a moment.

“I’m just tired.”

He tilts his head. “Still sick?”