Drugs, Treasons and Other Demons

64. TEARS ON FIRE

I tried my best not to fall asleep. My eyes were heavy, but so was the pit in my stomach. I kept thinking of the things Pablo would do to me when he found out, and every time I did, the pit grew like a black hole that sucked in my guts.

I had cleaned the mud off of my legs and scrubbed the dirt from my clothes. I prayed that Pablo would believe the lie that Oscar told him and that he wouldn't notice the gash on my dress, but my tears kept washing away the makeup I used to cover the scratches on my face.

Pablo would find out, if he hadn't already, and when he did, he'd kill me. By the time the Sun came up, he would have figured it out, and he'd greet me with a 'Morning, Sunshine' and a gun pressed to my temple.

Perhaps he would drug me and quietly drag me down to the basement, where my blood wouldn't stain his nice silk sheets. Maybe he'd torture me first, break my bones, carve out pieces of my flesh, pull out my nails or my teeth with a pair of pliers until I spat out the name of the person who helped me.

I would have rather been awake when he came to find me, but once I had cried my eyes dry, I couldn't keep them open. I had screamed out any strength I had, deep into my pillow, burnt myself out with racing thoughts, and exhausted myself with a galloping heartbeat. I lost that battle, just like every other one I fought, and I fell asleep.

I gasped when I woke up and saw him sitting right next to me.

"Morning, Sunshine," he crooned.

Pablo was slouched on the bed, stretching his hairy legs in the warm sunlight. My fearful silence was interrupted by the dings and bleeps and boings chirping out of his phone.

He gleefully tapped on its screen, humming along to the annoying theme song of whichever game he was playing, until a robotic voice sounded the words "Game Over" and he turned his attention back to me.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked, as his thumb stroked the edge of my jaw.

Rather than hold a knife to my throat, he curled a finger under my chin. I held my breath as his nail grazed my skin.

"I'm fine," I said, but the words I uttered hardly made any sound.

"Are you hungry?" he chirped. "I'm in the mood for French Toast."

That means I'm toast, I thought. But what do the French have to do with this mess?

I wondered if Juan had booked us plane tickets to Paris. Maybe that's where he'd planned to go before we made our way to Budapest, and Pablo had found out about it.

Faced with my stunned silence, Pablo arched an eyebrow.

"You don't like French Toast?" he muttered.

Or perhaps I was just overthinking.

"I like French Toast," I answered robotically.

"Good," he mumbled, staring at me out of the corner of his eye. "I'll ask the kitchen to make some."

I stared down at my hands, as if watching my fingers would stop them from trembling. Even without watching him, I could feel his searing glare burning holes into the side of my face. He knew. I knew that he knew, and it was only a matter of time before he mentioned it.

He sent a text to someone - either it was about French Toast, or it was some secret message that would ultimately lead to my death. Then, with a sigh, he threw his phone onto the bed. He stood up and walked towards the window, where he stood quietly for a long while.

His husky voice shattered the silence as if it were a piece of brittle glass. "What did you do last night?"

"I had a long chat with Andrea," I replied, spitting my lines as if I'd rehearsed them all night. "Someone spilled wine on one of her favorite dresses, so she was really sad. I stayed with her to cheer her up while Oscar dropped her off at home."