He held out a towel. It was threadbare, but clean. I caught sight of my reflection as he escorted me back to the room. The girl with the weird hair startled me yet again.
Modesty had fled out the window. I dried myself in front of Damian and looked around for my clothes. He opened one of the cabinets and started throwing shopping bags on the bed. They were all mine. Kate Spade. Macy’s. All Saints. Sephora. Zara. It wasn’t as if I had to work for a living, but I’d graduated with a degree in fine arts and was embarking on a career as a fashion consultant. I told myself it was research. I went on shopping sprees and left everything lying around in my car for days, sometimes weeks.
Shit.
He could only have gotten these if he’d gone back to the car. And if he’d gone back, there was a good possibility he’d either disposed of it, or moved it. Either way I was screwed. The trail of breadcrumbs I was hoping my father would follow was starting to disappear. My only hope now was that the parking lot I’d been abducted from had caught something on the surveillance camera. His height, his weight, his face—anything that would help with the investigation. No matter what, I knew my father would not give up. And right now, that’s exactly what I needed to do.
Not. Give. Up.
I started emptying the bags. Stupid sequin mini skirt. Stupid gauzy, halter dress. Stupid giant bling ring. God. How could I fill so many bags with so much crap? I would have to wash and wear the same underwear. Agent Rinse and ReProvocateur.
I was still sorting through the bags when Damian started stuffing everything back into the cabinet. There was a pair of black yoga pants (yes!) and a flimsy white thong (no!) on the bed. He pulled out an ugly, generic t-shirt and threw it at me. Judging by the size, it was his.
“Drop the towel,” Damian instructed.
Like I said, it always came back to the dick. Now that I didn’t stink.
I closed my eyes, expecting the rustle of his pants as they hit the floor.
It never came. Instead, I felt him rub something into my hairline. It smelled medicinal and stung like hell, especially where the follicles had been ripped off. He did the same around my ears. Then he applied salve on my back, on all the nicks and cuts and bruises he’d noted when he’d inspected me.
I got what he was doing—rewarding my good behavior with kindness, soothing the wounds he’d inflicted upon me. I was supposed to feel grateful, dependent, to bond with him over small mercies, but that whole Stockholm syndrome thing? Yeah, I really wasn’t feeling it. If I ever found where he’d stashed my spiked heels, I was going to nail his black heart to the mast of his fucking boat.
Die, Dah-me-yahn. DIE.
“You can manage the rest yourself,” he said, flinging the tube onto the bed.
He left, leaving the door open, and I could hear him brushing his teeth.
Screw the salve. I jumped on the now-cold plate of fish and rice.
Fish did not let me down. Fish was the juiciest, most delicious thing I had ever tasted. I wept as I ate Fish.
I picked up the rice with my fingers and closed my eyes, savoring its thick, starchy goodness. My taste buds were exploding over white fucking rice.
Yes. Yes. Yes. More!
I licked the plate clean. No, really. I licked the plate clean and then went over it once more, for good measure. I had no idea when my next meal would be, or what I would have to do for it. I changed into the clothes Damian had left for me, smelling him on the t-shirt. I nearly brought Fish back up. Not that it smelled bad. It was just downright animalistic—sun and sea and sweat—the kind of odor no amount of detergent could erase.
I peeked through the doorway. Damian was still in the bathroom. I started rifling through the cabinets: linens, towels, rain gear, scuba stuff. I was almost through when I stepped on something round and hard. Lifting my foot, I found a roasted peanut stuck to my sole. There were more peanuts on the floor, and it looked like they had rolled out of a discarded paper cone, the one Damian had been munching out of.