Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) (7 page)

I know what’s about to go down and I’ve calculated a rough estimate of how much time I have before it occurs. Your standard curling iron takes roughly thirty seconds to reach the temperature needed to burn blisters into the epidermal layer until it melts away to the dermal layer of skin. I’m hoping that once the searing metal reaches the dermal layer whatever nerve endings involved will be fucked up beyond all reason and the pain will subside…somewhat.

I briefly wonder how much longer I’ll continue putting so much stock in my well laid out plans, especially when they fall apart because someone has changed the game I’m stuck in.

Any and all wondering thoughts cease mid process, a blood curdling scream tears its way from my throat at the same time the blistering red-hot curling iron coated with equally hot lubrication is shoved to it’s handle inside me. Then, for what I can only assume, shits and giggles, Sebastian squeezes the handle, opening and closing the rod of fire while its still inside me. My screams are so brutal they strip away the membranes covering my esophagus until the metallic taste of blood mixes with the spit I’m spewing with every fucking cuss word known to mankind at the sick demented bastard leaning over me with a sardonic smirk across his face as he repeatedly rams the curling iron open then closed inside first one hole, before ramming the motherfucker up the other hole.

You aren’t in a state of mind where time is measurable when your body is withstanding torture of this magnitude. As far as I’m concerned, I was raped with a hot curling iron for seventy-six years before he releases my bleeding wrists and ankles where the skin had been ripped from the bone from the rusty shackles. When he walks away dropping the rod of hell on the floor, blood, along with God only knows what other types of body fluids and tissue cover his sleeve up to the elbow of his once crisp, stark white dress shirt.

He wipes his hands on the front of his dress slacks before unbuttoning them and pulling his flaccid dick out. And while stroking it with one hand he grabs the video camera with the other before making his way to the door connecting our conjoined rooms. Before closing the door behind him he cackles and rattles some bat shit crazy, manic bi-polar shit over his shoulder that falls on deaf ears.

Pain, unlike anything I’ve ever felt, rolls through me, over and over causing me to shudder down to the marrow of my bones. I can’t seem to catch my breath and the longer I lie here staring at the back of my eyelids, the more intense the convulsions rack through me. I force my eyelids to open and as my head lulls to the side, my eyes land on the strap of my Louis Vuitton bag poking out from beneath the taller bureau. I’m sure when you see a Louis Vuitton bag, it differs greatly from when I do. You probably do one of two things, wonder if its authentic, or you dub it a like or a dislike.

See, when my eyes land on my Louis Vuitton bag, it spurs my fight or flight instinct, releasing a surge of adrenaline coursing through me that begins to propel my thoughts of escape to run wild, while ebbing the painful agony I writhed in moments before.

Mac is drunkenly shaking her head at me from a dark corner, mouthing ‘No.’. With my eyes glued on my bag but only really seeing Mac, my determination flares to life and I shove my weight off the mattress using first my elbows, then the heel of my hands. I lift my bottom clear off the bed and when my feet touch the cold hardwood floor, a gush of warmth pours from between my legs and pools around my feet.

I do not look down. I do not attempt to clean myself up. My fingers grasp the strap of my bag and from the bowels of Hell my will thrives and gains momentum, carrying me though the halls of the house, down the main stairwell, until I’m standing in front of the door leading to the garage in the kitchen.

I do not pass go, I do not collect two hundred bucks.

I inhale.

My finger sweeps across the numbers I’ve repeated in my head a thousand times. Six. Nine. One. Three. Or, my thirteen.

My hand grasps, turning the doorknob.

I exhale.

I run.

My wet feet slip and slap against the concrete floor of the garage and after I tear the sliding glass doors open they hit the cold, dewy grass, and goddamn it, I fucking run.

Chapter 8

I’m certain if anyone can appreciate the downward spiral my love and affection for Mac took on, it would be you. This wasn’t my fault. This trajectory of ill-fated occurrences couldn’t have been foreseen. Instead of being with the woman I love, I was left with her evil fucking twin sister.

That bitch has fought me tooth and nail, and for every eye roll, every sigh of disgust, and gawk at a demand, she has paid in flesh and blood. Tonight, has been a long time in the making. An orchestrated symphony contrived of her disobedience and repercussions.

When she pierced the skin on my back with a damn steak knife I began the methodical planning of her slow, tortuous demise with tonight’s curling iron affair as kick off.

If I weren’t so damn exhausted from obliterating her from the waist down, I’d get started on the next phase of agonizing lessons. It was so exhausting I couldn’t even get an erection, must less reach orgasm. For the life of me I can’t understand why it’s so difficult for me to perform. At Payne manor all I needed was a visual of Roman tearing into Mac and I was busting a nut. Now that it’s my hands on her skin instead of Roman’s, it’s just not enough. Perhaps my cock likes the idea of never coming in physical contact with a sexual partner, of never being more than a spectator, never being a star in the main show, but I— I want my well-deserved time in the spot light. I paid my dues, I served my time on the sidelines, and come hell or high water, I will get what is mine. Even if I have to pull the wool over my own eyes, trick my dick into thinking he’s just an onlooker, then throwing us in on the fun.

Big plans. Well thought out, complex plans beyond any simple frame of mind.

Once the water pelting my skin turns cold, I extricate myself from thought, turn off the shower and dry off. And of course, just like every time since returning to the family ranch, as well as every time I can remember as a child, I see the unmistakable flash of my sisters red hair in the mirror’s reflection.

I dress in my usual flannel sleep pants and white t-shirt and make my way downstairs for a nightcap. I can still feel the anxiety from earlier. I know sleep will evade me if I can’t find a solution to this restlessness.

As I round the corner in the dark kitchen the sight before me has me stopping dead in my tracks. I’m stumped, confused, mentally disoriented for a full thirty seconds as my mind grapples trying to make sense of the dark pattern across the white marble floor tiles. My hand reaches out on its own accord and flips the lights on.

I realize as the dark and light transform the color of what I’m looking at, and even as my mind processes it, it still tries to deny the truth.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Twelve perfect footprints from the kitchen entryway to the garage door.

But that isn’t possible. It’s completely preposterous. Absurd even.

Then what the fuck am I looking at? No, Mac should not be able to stand, much less walk to the kitchen, furthermore she’s shackled to the bed.

Before my mind is able to replay whatever occurred from the time I removed the curling iron from Mac to me standing here in the kitchen, I’m barreling through the doors of Mac’s room only to come to a screeching halt for the second time tonight.

Her bed is a macabre sight of blood, piss, and shit on twisted silk sheets. It’s also vacant of its sleeping prisoner.

Somewhere in my self chastising the stark comparison and difference between Mac and Mace becomes lucid. I will acknowledge that while Mac wouldn’t mentally be able to push through the pain and escape, Mace could and would.

In fact, she did.

After having scoured every inch of property inside and out with Lizbeth, I called mother and informed her of the incident.

I sigh in self-disgust, raking my fingertips against my scalp for the hundredth time and continue to pace the length of the sitting room.

This is the reason I never held any of Mace’s respect. This is why she constantly disobeyed me. She’s right, I am a worthless and pathetic man, unfit to even stand in the shadows of Roman.

She used my love for Mac against me, bewitching me with her temptation until I was too far lost to ever be found. Then she shoved it in my face, every bloody footprint from the bedroom to the garage door was a snickering gloat.

I will carve her from cunt to chin the next time I lay eyes on that bitch. I will not rest until I’m coated in her blood. She has no idea how far she’s pushed me with this little stunt. Oh, but she soon will.

She soon will.

Headlights flood across the front sitting room before flickering off. Seconds later the front door opens and closes, keeping the room in darkness. I hear the tremble in mother’s voice whisper through the blackness, “Son? We’ll find her. Don’t blow this out of proportion. She couldn’t have gotten far. Especially in the shape you described her in, and on foot? I doubt she’s even made it a mile.”

Light coming from an unknown source on the ranch illuminates our profiles through the floor to ceiling windows making up the back wall. “Her footprints end at the garage door leading to the back. I’ve already searched the grounds, mother, and found absolutely nothing aside from the bloody tracks through the kitchen and garage. With you and I being the only two searching, it will be harder to find a needle in a haystack and you know it.”

She straightens her scarf and re-buttons her winter coat as she walks towards the door leading to the back acreage of the ranch, “I know my plan of action’ll be more productive than standin’ inside lookin’ out and bitchin’ about the tasks level of difficulty. Do what ya want, child, but know ya gotta do somethin’ other than watchin’ and whinin’.” The door closes behind her and I fall into suit doing what I’ve always been best at, I watch.

Chapter 9

I should be taken out to the pasture and executed for my inability to be a decent father and my lack of parenting skills.

Honestly, from the moment Dolores left, I’ve had no time to do much more than wing it. Ivy is the captain of our dynamic duo. Me? I’m goddamn Robin, taking parenting cues from a two year old for Christ’s sake.

It’s been two weeks. Two fucking weeks of me Mr. Mom’ing it, under the guidance of the two year old I am solely responsible for. At some point during the first few days I relied on my belief that Heather was watching over us to help ease the anxiety attacks powerful hold on me. But that’s a difficult doubled edged sword to hang on to. The relief of knowing even in death, as long as I keep Ivy as my responsibility, Heather will never be too far away. The other edge of the sword however, holds the embarrassment of knowing she’ll see first hand at what a complete and utter disappointment I am as a father.

“No, daddy, not wike dat, you put the peanut butta on one side and da jewie on da utta, den dus like with a grillin cheese samich, you cook it, dus wike dat.” Her weight as she leans in closer to point at the skillet on the stove causes the stool she’s kneeling on to tip over. I’ve reacted before I even consciously registered what is happening. The end result is that I’ve placed Ivy’s bottom on said stool and both of my hands are now bracketing her small shoulders. My eyes going back and forth between hers assessing for fear. All I’m met with is an exasperated sigh. “Jezz wawezz, daddy, I wasn’t gonna faw.”