Bad Games

52



The bedroom door across the hall was open a crack, so Jim Fannelli nudged it all the way open with the toe of his shoe, his hands pre-occupied with the squirming Amy Lambert over his shoulder.

Once inside, Jim used the same foot—his heel this time—to shut the door behind him. He immediately threw Amy onto the only bed within the room’s modest interior. The second she hit the mattress, Amy attempted to spring back up, but with both hands and feet bound she only managed to pitch herself off the bed and into a resounding face-plant on the carpet floor. The three remaining lollipops jabbed into the back of her throat on impact. She gagged hard, nearly vomiting.

“Whoops,” Jim said.

Amy rolled onto her cheek and managed to spit out the remaining lollipops. She looked up in Jim’s direction. “I’m gonna watch you die, you motherf*cker. Do you hear me? I’m gonna watch you f*cking die.”

Jim made a sad face and began playing an imaginary violin. He then strolled over, snatched hold of her hair, and yanked Amy to her bound feet as though she was a piece of luggage.

Amy cried out in pain then instantly spat in Jim’s face once upright. Jim closed his eyes and wiped the saliva off his cheek.

“That’s twice you’ve done that now,” he said. “I’m beginning to think you really don’t want this—”

Amy spat on him again. Jim dropped his head, paused, then whacked Amy hard across the face, the impact of the blow shooting her backwards onto the bed in a dazed heap.

“You’re making me feel like an abusive husband,” he said. He made a stupid face, stuck his belly out, adjusted his groin, spoke in an ignorant drawl. “I dint wanna hafta do that shit to ya, darlin. But you done brought that shit on yaself.”

“You’re sick,” Amy said.

Jim shrugged. “And?”



* * *



Arty heard the commotion from across the hall. Moments later, he heard Jim’s palm cracking the side of Amy’s face. When silence followed he looked at Patrick and said, “You think that shut her up?”



* * *



“Rough or gentle?” Jim asked.

Amy, fetal on the bed, said nothing.

“Is this gonna be rough or gentle?”

Still nothing.

“We can’t wake my mother, Amy, so I’d appreciate an answer. Gentle and we can try the whole trust thing; rough and I have to gag you again.”

Amy rolled onto her back, titled her chin in the air, and let loose an almighty scream. Jim pounced on her and slapped his hand over her mouth.

“I guess that means rough,” he said.

Amy tried to buck him off but Jim clamped down harder onto her mouth, pushing her head deep into the mattress.

“And by rough I mean painful, Amy. I can get exceptionally creative when I want to.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “So you have a choice: you can either lie back, shut your mouth, and enjoy it…or we can see how many of Arty’s lollipops I can fit up your snatch.”



* * *



“Well I guess that first whack didn’t shut her up,” Arty said. “She seems quiet now though. I wonder what they’re up to.”

Patrick’s head was down and didn’t move after Arty’s comment.

“Are you fading on me, big man?” Arty asked.

Patrick gradually lifted his head and stared at Arty. His mask of rage was still evident, but there was a tint of fatigue to it now. If you coupled that with the abundance of wounds—the swollen eye, the egg on the forehead that had since turned purple, the cuts and bruises framing it all—then Patrick could have been a dead ringer for a prizefighter after twelve grueling rounds.

“You’re looking a little weary.” He got in Patrick’s face and studied him. “Can’t say I blame you though. It must be eating you up inside to think about your wife and my brother going at it in the other room.”

Patrick mumbled something through his gag. Arty patted him on the head and said, “Good idea; I’ll go check on them.” He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, only to return a second later with a grin. “The door’s shut. The door’s shut and they’re quiet. I guess she finally decided to play the game.”

Patrick dropped his head again.

“At least she decided to join the game,” Arty said, strolling to the far end of the room. “But your kids?” He huffed. “Caleb? Carrie? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Arty looked down at the two children who were huddled together in a corner. Carrie’s thumb was back in her mouth, and Caleb was curled into himself and no longer looking at his father. Both children were shells.

“Kids? Are you with me?” Arty asked. He turned back to Patrick. “I guess not. It’s a shame too. We went through a lot of trouble planning this. I wanted to include everybody; not just you and Amy.”

Arty headed back to the bedroom door and opened it for another look. The door across the hall was still closed.

“Don’t be mad at Jim, Patrick,” he said after shutting the bedroom door behind him. “He can’t help who he is. I personally don’t approve of his need to have most women we take. I feel it cheapens the game. But what are you gonna do? He’s my brother and I love him.” He then burst into a random cackle as though remembering a punch line to a recent joke. “He sure is a horny bugger though, isn’t he? Like a rabbit on Viagra my brother is.”