Pieces of Autumn (15 page)

He taught me to be persuasive, too.

By the time I met Daniela, I was hardly recognizable. Whoever Tate had once been - that boy was dead. Or so I thought. The Viper was calling all the shots, until I saw the way her eyes flashed.

It felt wrong, what I was doing to her. For the first time, I began to feel the doubts and hesitations that I'd once felt, before Holland poisoned my mind. I was confused, appalled, conflicted. At the same time, hurting Daniela made me hard. I hated it. One of the reasons I was so good at breaking girls was because of my total detachment. She robbed me of that, her sharp defiance and her angry tears making me pant with lust.

The first time I touched her there, felt how hot it made her, in spite of her cries - I was lost forever.

It became a game, between us. I learned what she liked and we found ways to communicate without speaking, without acknowledging what was happening between us. Most of my sessions were in private anyway, but even if someone had been watching, they wouldn't have seen the truth.
 

We were falling in love.

In the midst of the darkness and depravity and the horror all around us, we found something in each other. I'll never forget the first time I kissed her, frantic and desperate, tasting the saltiness of her tears. She clung to me and whispered how we had to leave this place.

I knew that she was right, but the thought terrified me.

Holland noticed something was wrong, but at first, he didn't suspect exactly why. There were too many girls for him to keep track of. But he started having me watched, and I had to be more careful. I started avoiding Daniela as much as possible, but being with the other girls wasn't much better. I couldn't hurt them. I couldn't do what I was supposed to. Not anymore. They'd cry and plead and I'd see myself reflected in their eyes. Remembering, for the first time in so long, that they were human. That I could have easily been born in their place.

I was punished for my defiance, but it didn't matter. All I cared about was Daniela. I hated the look in her eyes when she saw the aftermath of what they'd done to me, but all I could do was endure.

I knew we didn't have much time. Daniela would be sold, before long, and then there was no chance I'd find her again. We made plans, but they were always too complicated. Too difficult. One night, when I'd managed to sneak to her, she cried in my arms and confessed how frightened she was. She was a virgin. She would be sold to a stranger, and she didn't want it to be like that. Not her first time.

She begged me.

It was unwise. It was terribly unwise, but I fucked her, as slow and gentle as I could manage. I kissed away her tears and held her and whispered that everything was going to be all right.

The next morning, they announced an impromptu medical inspection in her cell block. She didn't even have time to clean up properly. In that moment, I knew we were lost.

They wouldn't tell me how she was punished for allowing me to deflower her, for knocking several thousand dollars off of her asking price. Holland didn't even speak to me, just continued to have me followed, to punish me when I refused to cause pain.
 

When I was called into the boardroom, I knew I ought to be prepared for the worst. But nothing could have readied me for what happened there.

Suddenly, a noise in the corner stirred me out of my dark thoughts. I shook myself, having forgotten where I was. Who I was with.

Not Daniela. Of course, not Daniela. Daniela was dead.

It was Autumn. The girl with the green eyes and hair the color of the oak tree outside my house, when I was a boy.

Before I saw her, I never would have guessed that I remembered that color. But I did now. It was unforgettable.

Throwing Autumn in the basement had been my attempt at exorcising the part of myself that still yearned to deal out pain and punishment. The only way Daniela had calmed that beast was by craving it, and sometimes I wondered if she only liked it because she had to. Because she needed a way to cope, to survive. Slaves would do anything they thought they had to do, to survive.

I felt sick to my stomach. Didn't she have any self-respect? Didn't any of them?
 

That was the one thing I couldn't allow myself to forget. No matter how pretty this girl was, this Autumn, I had to remember what she was. She had willingly sold herself to be treated as less than human. No dignity. No shame. Her survival instinct was stronger than her desire to be treated like a person, and what did that make her?

An animal. Lower than me. Because at least, when it came to that, I fought back. I might have endured worse humiliation than she had, when all was said and done, but I never went down without a fight.

Holland's voice still rang in the back of my head.

My boy, the important thing to remember is they're not like us. They'll do anything for a meal and a bed to sleep in. We're giving them exactly the amount of respect they deserve.
 

Daniela had almost made me believe he was wrong. But then...

No, she was just like all the rest. And so was Autumn.

Broken things. Not worth saving.
 

She cried out in her sleep, and in spite of myself, I was at her side. Checking her pulse, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird under my fingers.

Slowly, her eyes opened. She blinked, and for the first time in days, they were clear.

"Tate?" she rasped.

Less than human.

Broken things.

The ache in my chest was all-consuming.

"I'm here," I heard myself say. "I'm here."

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Circle Game

I drifted in and out of consciousness, seeing faces I knew could not possibly be real. In my fever I swore I felt Tate cradling me like a cherished thing, not something broken. His face pressed against mine. His lips on my cheek, my forehead. I even thought that I heard him singing to me, low and rough, more murmuring, really, than anything else. Something about a little boy who caught a dragonfly in a jar.
 

Am I the dragonfly?

I know this melody. I've heard it before.

Of course you have. This is a fever dream, idiot.

The boy was afraid of thunder and he cried when a star fell from the sky. In my fog, my brain struggled to reconcile all of this, unable to separate the real Tate from his dream Tate from the boy in the song. I couldn't picture any version of Tate with tears in his eyes. Not for anything.
 

Not even a fallen star.

The song was about a carousel. That's right. I remembered now. Beautiful painted horses. Carousels, carnivals, hayrides. Cotton candy and apples. Hayrides. Hay. The barn.

Tate's barn. The sack over my head. The rope. His cold, cruel eyes.

It happened very slowly, then all at once. My eyelids unglued. Abruptly, the song stopped.

I realized that I didn't want it to.

Before my surroundings could become too distinct, before the dream faded away, I closed my eyes again. Blessedly, I began to drift away. Just as the boy was ice-skating on frozen streams, I slipped into darkness for a long time.

When I finally woke up, Tate was there.

The look on his face was almost enough to make me forgive him.
 

I still remembered the vice-like feeling of his hand on my arm, dragging me down to the basement. How long ago was that, now? How long had I been languishing in the darkness before I gained the strength to run?

For a moment, I saw it. The concern in his face, the tenderness. Everything I knew must be there, otherwise I wouldn't be awake now.
 

"Tate," I said, softly, my voice so rough I hardly recognized it.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm here."

My brain was filled with cobwebs, and I let myself surrender to the feeling of safety and comfort. I knew better, but I didn't want to. Just for a moment, I wanted to pretend that I could trust this man with my life.

Even though he'd promised me that his protection ended the moment I left his house, he'd still come for me.
 

"Was it a snakebite?" I asked. A stupid question. He had his wrist on my forehead, checking my temperature.
 

He nodded. "You'll be fine, now."

I wanted to thank him, but I knew he didn't want to hear it.
 

"You have anti-venom?"

Another nod. "Be stupid not to, living out here."

That didn't answer the question of where he'd gotten it, or why he was happy to waste it on me. But those questions, I assumed, were off-limits.

"How long has it been?"

"A few days," he said.

A few days? Oh,
God
.
 

I had visions of him carrying me into the bathroom, or worse, cleaning up after me. As if this whole situation wasn't humiliating enough, as it was. And what about bathing me? I didn't feel as disgusting as I would have imagined, being covered in sweat for days, but I didn't exactly feel
clean
either.

"I must smell terrible," I said, with a weak smile.

He shrugged, but a hint of an answering smirk played on his lips. "I've smelled worse," he said. "Sponged you off a bit. But you can have a bath, if you're feeling up to it."

I swallowed. "Will you help me?"

The words came out before I could think twice, and a moment of surprise registered on his face before he nodded again.

God damn it. Oh well, this was hardly the most compromising position he'd seen me in.

"Can you stand up?" he asked me.

I wasn't sure, but I decided to just shake my head. "I still feel pretty weak," I said, sheepishly.
 

Without a moment's hesitation, he lifted me up and carried me.

Last time, I hadn't been in any condition to appreciate it. But now I wound my arms around his neck, letting my head nestle against his chest.
 

Are you insane? This is the guy who locked you in the fucking basement.
 

And he was also the man who saved my life. I couldn't ignore that. I had to embrace the paradox, embrace him, because without him, I was lost.

He set me down on the bathmat while he turned on the taps and let the water run, testing the temperature on his wrist.
 

"Do you..." he started, looking at me, and then looking away. He was almost bashful. It would have been adorable, if he weren't Tate.

"Do I what?" I looked at the water. "Is it ready?"

"Yes," he said. "I can help you, but -"

"But what?"

I was actually enjoying this.

His forehead creased slightly, and he shot me a look as he stood up.

"You've seen me naked before," I pointed out.
 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing at the tub. "Yes," he said, hesitantly.

He chafed against the fact that I was controlling this situation, letting him know that it didn't bother me. That he could no longer use my nudity to humiliate and unnerve me. I was taking away his power, and something inside of him was yowling in protest.

"Help me up?" I requested, lifting my hands to him.

Tate took them, pulling me to my feet effortlessly. My head spun slightly, and I let my eyes close for a moment.

He was slipping my dress from my shoulders, guiding me to step out of it. When I opened my eyes again, I met his. He was, very pointedly, looking at nothing but my face. Why act like a gentleman
now
?

After guiding me into the tub, he knelt down on the floor beside it, and I sank into the water with a sigh of pleasure. I dipped my head back far enough to wet my hair, and then reclined.

Wordlessly, Tate's fingers dug into my scalp. He was massaging shampoo into my hair, gently, then scooping up cupfulls of warm bathwater to rinse it away. I could almost let myself forget what else those hands had done.
 

"Thank you," I said, softly, forgetting how much he hated to be thanked.

His fingers stilled, momentarily. But he didn't respond.

For a while, the only sound in the room was the slight rustling of his movements, and the water splashing quietly around me. He dunked a washcloth in the water and slowly ran it across my skin, taking my hands and guiding me upright so he could wash my back. When he'd finished, I reclined back, and he returned to my hair. I was almost certain he was finished washing it, but I wasn't about to protest.

"I'm sorry," he said, so softly I thought I might have imagined it. My eyes wanted to pop open, to verify I wasn't dreaming, but I didn't dare.

"Why?" I asked, just as quietly.

A soft noise that might have been a bitter laugh, with a little more breath behind it. "Pick one."

Silence reigned for a while longer, and I felt another cup of warm water dousing my hair. He massaged it in, gently, and I sighed at the feeling.

I heard him swallow, and I wondered if he was actually nervous. The idea was terribly amusing. "The other night. When I..."

I shook my head. "You don't have to explain yourself." Hearing his rationale wasn't going to make it any better. I just wanted to relax, to forget about it.