Nixon nodded slowly, understanding why Hobbs would think that way. “I’m not that far gone.”
“You went through a very violent past, and you lost a lot. I think…she is all you have left, and you’re trying so hard to keep her, but… the harder you try to contain her, the harder she will resist. You’re doing it wrong, Nixon.”
Nixon nodded again but said nothing this time. He had already had this talk to himself before. He wasn’t totally oblivious of what he was doing, but…he did try to comfort the girl as much as possible. He renovated parts of the hotel just for her. Had put in a library for her to get lost in, had employed a teacher to give her French lessons when she was interested to learn a second language, and he’d even demolished a hotel room on the same level as their apartment and made it into an art studio for her because she loved to paint and craft shit. Last month there’d been a pottery course and she made the silliest looking shit he’d ever seen, but she’d been proud of the ugly looking pots, and they were just collecting dust now in that room.
See, this was why they needed the house. She could decorate it with that ugly shit.
She’d already been outspoken about the holidays, too. She loved to decorate, hang lights up. Last year she was adamant about a Christmas tree, and he fetched the fullest one he could get his hands on. The way her face bloomed when he put it together in front of the tall windows was forever seared into his mind, never to be forgotten.
Vixen and her fucking festive spirit.
Her smile had left him breathless.
Having this house was imperative.
It could be their festive nest of paintings, ugly pottery, French literature and books – she loved her fucking books.
And, sure, he understood what Hobbs said to a tee. She was contained, but that was the way Nixon liked it. He liked to know where she was, what she was doing, who she was talking to. He liked to know that she could never be too far from him, that she could never look too far into the horizon, that she could never flee without him knowing about it.
He was not going to set her loose.
It was simple as that.
His phone vibrated just then with a text message. He glanced briefly at the line on the screen from Dr Sullivan.
Appointment finished. I tried opening up to her like you asked me to, but she didn’t seem happy about the things I said. I’ll be back in a couple months. The seaplane has been delayed, so I’ll be hanging around for a bit in case you need me.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and stood up.
“Where are you going?” Hobbs asked.
Glancing briefly at his bruised palm, Nixon said, “I was in the middle of gutting one of my guards. You still the queasy type, Hobbs?”
Hobbs’ gaze flickered to his hand and he stiffened. He didn’t respond, not that Nixon waited for one.
He returned to one of the backrooms, to the horrified Tyrone who stood waiting in front of the bound guard that had let the bum through.
“Still hasn’t said anything?” Nixon asked him, kicking the door shut behind him.
Tyrone shook his head slowly. “He doesn’t know who paid him off, Nixon. It was done in the dark. He doesn’t know a thing.”
Nixon saw the pitiful look Tyrone shot the bloodied man as he sat helpless and afraid. Nixon shook his head. “Don’t look at him like that, Ty. He doesn’t deserve your pity. He let the man walk in with a gun. He knew what he was doing. He put us all at risk for a small bit of cash and then he took off running. Caught him hiding in a ferry.”
“I know that,” Tyrone whispered, still appearing disturbed. “I just don’t know how you do it.”
Did what? Hurt people?
Nixon scoffed. He wanted to tell Tyrone hurting people was the easy part. It was the feeling after it was said and done that Nixon couldn’t hack.
The…dirtiness of it all.
He felt like his skin was flaying along with the man he was cutting with the blade of his knife. It left him burning, itching, trembling everywhere.
He preferred easier kills.
Ones he could forget about.
“Well, don’t you worry,” Nixon murmured, rolling his sleeves up. “If you close your eyes tight enough, you can forget monsters like me exist. Seeing is believing, Ty, so get the fuck out before I finish him off.”
Tyrone didn’t flinch. He left the room, casting his pitiful eyes at Nixon this time.
Right before he left, he said, “Try to keep the darkness out, Nixon. We don’t need more bloodshed.”
Bloodshed like the mountain?
Bloodshed like the One Percent ravaging one another in the wake of what he and that crew was responsible for?
Bloodshed was all Nixon knew.
16.
.
Vixen…
I forgot hair appointments also included hair removal. My pussy was waxed, my brows were touched up, my moustache and sideburns were gone.
I was such a hairy alpaca.
But it felt good. I’d never have tried these services had I never been kidnapped. There was a silver lining to this fucked up mess, I guess.
While Alessa, the hair specialist, had trimmed my hair in that usual awkward silence (she never spoke to me, I was bad juju), I’d stewed over what the doctor had said.
There’d been another girl before me.
With health problems, sure, but she was no longer a captive. Nixon either let her go or she was dead in a ditch somewhere and…Well, Nixon didn’t strike me as the kind of guy that killed what he fucked. He’d never laid a finger on me. I just…couldn’t believe he had it in him to murder me so far into our fucked-up relationship. If the same M.O. existed before me, I had to assume the girl was let go.
This was purely wishful thinking. I was aware I could be totally wrong. Maybe the girl flung herself out of the window and Nixon knew better with me to have the windows upgraded.
After I changed into the pretty pink dress Nixon had laid out for me before he’d left, I walked to the floor to ceiling windows and stared out. It was mid-afternoon now. I’d decided to stay in the apartment because I couldn’t trust myself not to lose my shit at him.
It was becoming a bad habit – no, he was the bad habit. My meltdowns were escalating. I was thoroughly reaching the limit of what I could endure. I wasn’t just rattling the cage I was in. I was fucking shit up, and I couldn’t seem to stop once I’d let go.
At some point, Nixon would need to realize he couldn’t keep this up. I couldn’t be locked up forever. There had to be an end to this.
I stared out at the endless ocean abyss. If it meant swimming to freedom, I’d do it. I just needed to leave the hotel undetected.
And if the opportunity presented itself, would I? If it meant I might get caught and locked up in this room for a month straight, would I still try?
In that moment, I didn’t know. I feared isolation. I couldn’t go back there again.
And for some sick Stockholm Syndrome reason, I couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on Nixon’s face if I tried and failed.
I didn’t even know how I could handle it myself.
The phone rang. When I answered, Jenny from the front desk happily chirped, “Good afternoon! Friendly reminder, Nixon’s reserved a table for two at five o’clock in the restaurant on the ground level –”