Empire of Lust

TRUTH

The bruise on my back from the pan hitting it earlier throbs, and I open my mouth to scream for help, but he slaps a firm palm over it. The stench of his cologne and sweaty male musk gags me as he maneuvers himself above me. While he’s searching for a comfortable position, I lift my knee and hit him in the balls. He jerks away with an animalistic wail and I use the chance to crawl from beneath him. “You f*****g b***h!” He grabs his hurt genitals and yanks me back by the hair. The world is ripped from under my feet, but before I can hit the ground, he pushes me forward and I slam against a tree trunk. “You’re going to regret messing with me, bitch.” His repulsive voice fills my ears and the putrid smell of alcohol is the only thing I can breathe. At this point, I have no clue if it’s coming from him or me. “Go ahead, you rotten piece of s**t,” I spit out from between chattering teeth. “You think I’m scared of you or your fragile masculinity that you need to show by assaulting me? Show me your worst, asshole. See if I f*****g care!” “This b***h…” He pulls my hair until he nearly rips it from its roots, and tears sting my eyes. I bite my lip hard enough that I swallow the pungent metallic taste of blood. But I don’t whimper, don’t show him my pain, and I definitely don’t beg. Assholes like him, my aunt, my uncle, and my father are all the same. They want to display their power by latching onto those who are weaker than them, but I’m not my mother. I won’t be a victim or a statistic. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me suffer. “Enough.” My spine jerks at the single authoritative word from the third, inactive party in the scene. It’s the same voice from earlier. The one who definitely saw me but told his friends there was no one. Anonymous. The Joker breathes heavily. “But she—” “I said. Enough.” His tone exudes more command than earlier. I was right to assume he holds the power, because the Joker pulls on my hair harder and with apparent frustration, the way a subordinate would do in front of their boss. The way Dad’s underlings shivered in front of him. “I have to teach her a lesson,” he says low enough that even I’m barely able to hear him. “When I say enough…” The sound of firm footsteps is accentuated by the violent silence lurking in the air. “I mean f*****g enough.” The weight that’s been crushing me from the back suddenly disappears. Thwack. I gasp as Anonymous drives his fist in the Joker’s face and sends him flying. He doesn’t move. The Joker, I mean. He’s inert on the ground and my heart nearly spills onto the grass beside him. My strap falls off my shoulder again and my face is on fire, but I can’t focus on that right now. “Is he…dead?” I don’t know how I speak so calmly when I’m pretty sure I should be panicking. “Just unconscious,” Anonymous says with dismissive neutrality that only psychopaths have. After I slowly get up, I inch closer to my phone that’s lying on the grass, flashing with a text. Probably from Caroline. However, Anonymous reaches it first in a few purposeful strides. He flips it around, slides it in his pants pocket, then points at his unmoving friend. Though maybe friend is an exaggeration, considering he knocked him out with a single punch. “He might be a weakling, but he’s right. Calling 911 here is extremely unwise and borders on reckless foolishness.” “I won’t then. Can I get my phone back? I want to go home.” “The night is still young.” He approaches me with deliberate ease. “What are you supposed to be tonight? A witch?” “Femme fatale.” I can’t see his face that’s hidden behind the stupid mask, but there’s a pause and I swear his eyes gleam in the dim light. They look dark blue, like the mystical depths of a merciless ocean. “Here’s how it’ll go, femme fatale. You’ll keep me company until Devil’s Night is over.” “Why would I?” “Either that or I’ll lock you in some basement where no one can find you until the cleaning staff comes along. Which, if I remember correctly, can take a few days depending on whether or not the homeowners need something from the basement.” My hand balls into a fist, but I slowly release it when his attention slides to it. I see what he’s doing, but those intimidation tactics won’t work on me. Not when I learned them all from my father. “Shouldn’t there be a third option, where you, I don’t know, just let me go?” “Not when you could land us in trouble.” “I have no interest in what I heard and I value my life enough not to tattle on you. So give me my phone and we can be out of each other’s hair.” “I like your hair, so I don’t mind staying in it.” He’s in front of me in a second and I’m slammed face-first with his smell. It’s a mixture of cedarwood, smoke, and premium cigarettes. European cigarettes that my father used to get specifically from Italy. But that’s not the only thing I’m crushed with. There’s also his presence. I thought he was tall earlier, but now, he’s towering over me, easily pinning me in place with his sheer size and those broad shoulders that no teenager should have. His fingers brush through my hair and I’m pretty sure it’s about to catch fire and we’ll have an actual witch accident on our hands. “Is it natural?” he asks whimsically, sounding utterly fascinated with the mere act of having his fingers in my hair. I jerk back, startled. “Don’t touch me.” To my surprise, he drops his hand to his side. He doesn’t take it as a challenge to his masculinity like the Joker did. And that makes my muscles lock together. I can deal with assholes, but how do I deal with assertive ones who flip between respecting my boundaries and crushing them on a whim? There’s no pattern to his madness and that’s the most dangerous thing about this stranger. “You still need to spend time with me. That, or the basement.” “I want it to be in a public place.” If I can’t control the situation, then I can at least strive for the next best thing—a place where I can create commotion and escape. “Afraid I’ll pounce on you?” “It’s just insurance.” “You’re in no position to ask for any insurance, but I’ll be benevolent and grant you that wish if you answer my question.” “What?” “When he”—Anonymous c***s his head in the Joker’s direction but doesn’t look at him—“had the power over you, why did you provoke him? Logically, you should’ve begged.” “Logically, that wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. How many women do you think begged and cried in situations like that and still got assaulted? Countless is the answer. I refuse to show that scum or any other jerk weakness.” “Even if you get hurt for it?” “Especially then. I’d rather swallow my poison.” There’s a pause, a long one that nearly makes me fidget, before he releases a humming sound. “Interesting. Maybe you really are a femme fatale. You should be careful, though. If you gaze into an abyss for long, the abyss gazes into you.” My lips part. “Nietzsche.” “Beyond Good and Evil.” He motions at his pocket. “You have the quote on the back of your phone case.” “It’s a favorite of mine. How do you know Nietzsche?” “That should be my question. Aren’t you too young to read him?” “Aren’t you too quick to assume I’m young?” “How old are you then? Oh, forgive me. I forgot that it’s a blasphemy to ask the age of a woman, not to mention a femme fatale.” I smile despite myself. Then I quickly hide it. I can’t be fooled by his obvious manners or his eloquent way of speaking. It’s how the rich get what they want. Besides, he just knocked someone out, which means he’s prone and used to violence. Definitely not someone I should allow myself to get comfortable in the presence of. “I’m sixteen,” I say, all businesslike, and it’s not only because of what Caroline told me. Being young is a vulnerability where I come from. “How about you?” “Seventeen.” “You don’t look seventeen.” He laughs and either the sound has some black magic or I’m too drunk, or both. Because the tingles it causes escape the confines of my ears and flow in my blood. “You don’t even know what I look like.” He taps his mask. “Maybe I’m a scarred monster underneath.” I lift a shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” “Is that so?” “Yeah. You’d have to be a monster in one way or another to save me, watch as I’m about to get assaulted, then play a knight in black armor right at the end, just to indulge in violence. Oh, and you like Nietzsche. One has to have achieved a certain level of weirdness to be a Nietzsche fan.” “First of all, I didn’t save you. I just pretended I didn’t see you in order to avoid complications. Joker amateur wasn’t about to assault you if you hadn’t provoked him. And I’m no knight, sweetheart. I only interfered to learn why you provoked him when you could’ve used a different approach. As for punching him, that wasn’t violence. Violence is being punched back. The act was a mere display of authority as a response to his audacity of questioning my orders. Oh, and I’m not a Nietzsche fan just because I read him.” Damn it. I’m out of my depth here. For the first time in forever, I feel like I can’t handle someone. Definitely not when I’m drunk and my inhibitions seem to be disappearing to someplace I can’t reach. I try to hide that, though. Playing nonchalance like it’s my favorite game. “Then who are you a fan of?” “Myself.” “Wow. Narcissus called and he wants his arrogance status back.” He laughs, the sound equal measures easy and haunting in the silent darkness. And for some reason, I think I could listen to that tenor of his voice all night long. “What if I decline to return it?” I lift a shoulder.