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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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He didn't answer, the gun pointed at—almost touching—her face, his arm visibly shaking.
Jesus Christ, he was going to shoot her. This wasn't like the other time, he was actually going to—“Hey, come on,” she said, her voice trembling as much as his hand was. “It's not like I—”
“Shut up,” he said, quietly. Viciously.
She nodded. “I know, but—”
“Shut up!” he said.
She did, too scared to breathe, watching his left hand come over to steady his right. He was deciding whether or not to kill her, he was about to—she sat absolutely still, terrified that even the tiniest movement might set him off, watching a gun that was pointed at her
face,
a real, loaded—she looked at his eyes, seeing nothing rational, or even human, in them.
They stared at each other for what might have been hours, unwanted perspiration blurring her eyes; then, slowly, he let out his breath and lowered his still-shaking arm, shoving the gun back into his jeans.
She collapsed against the wall, the last minute or two having been the most exhausting of her entire life. She sat there, dazed, not quite believing that she was still alive. That he hadn't pulled the trigger, that—the other two men were right behind him, gripping their guns, but she knew they wouldn't fire unless he told them to.
He was moving closer, and she lifted her head to see what was going to happen.
“Look, I won't do it again,” she said, almost not recognizing her own voice. “I just—”
He didn't answer, suddenly kicking the outside edge of her kneecap, Meg both feeling and hearing a scream tear out as the top and bottom halves of her left leg twisted in different directions. He kicked again, even harder, then stepped back as she crumpled over what looked—and felt—like a severe dislocation.
He stood there, watching her for a second, then crouched down, resting his hand on it. “Next time,” he said, very softly, “I use a bullet. Understand?”
She didn't say anything, breathing hard, covering her face with both cuffed hands so he wouldn't see her crying.
He increased the pressure, Meg trying—unsuccessfully—to keep from moaning.
“Understand?” he asked.
She nodded, the crying closer to whimpering.
“Okay.” He straightened up, indicating for the others to return to their posts. “Now, get back to that room,” he said to her.
She looked down what now seemed like a
very
long hallway.
“If you don't,” he said, “I'll kick out the other one.”
And he would. She knew perfectly god-damn well that he would. And if she
still
didn't move, he would probably do the same thing to her arms, and then—she swallowed, pretty close to losing control.
“
Now
,” he said.
She swallowed again, the pain fading in and out of nausea, worse than anything she could ever remember. “C-can you at least uncuff me?”
He shook his head, very slightly smiling.
“Yeah, well, fuck you,” she said, and pushed against the floor with her good leg, struggling not to scream as her bad one stretched and jarred with the effort.
It took a long time, using her right leg to propel herself inch by inch, and she kept her hands over her face, having to cry the whole way. She was too weak to get onto the bed, but he didn't help her, just grabbing her wrists to recuff her to the frame.
As he finished, she managed to look up, away from what had been her knee. “I
ski,
you bastard,” she said, hearing her voice shake with hatred.
“Past tense,” he said, gave her leg another kick, and left the room.
IT HURT SO much that she couldn't stop crying, every muscle stiff, her teeth digging into her lower lip. If he was going to kill her—and the reality of
that
was more and more obvious—then, why didn't he—they—just
do
it? Instead, he left her lying here, hour after hour, her leg ripped to—she cried harder, making small animal noises she didn't even know had existed inside of her.
The floor was cold and hard, and she tried to drag herself onto the bed, the pain so intense that she almost fainted. But, she tried again, using her elbow for leverage, almost biting through her lip as her leg flopped in an impossible direction, her whole body reacting with a convulsive shudder. Arms trembling, she pulled herself the rest of the way up, tasting blood by the time she was on the mattress. She lay there, crying, praying for this to be
over
. For him to hurry up and kill her.
It was a long time before he came back, and when she heard the key, she turned her head towards the wall, pretending to be asleep.
He came over, stood by the bed briefly, then walked away. Thank God. She heard the door close again and relaxed a little, waiting for the key to turn. When it didn't, she lifted her head slightly, wondering if he could still be—
“
Knew
you were faking,” he said, from somewhere near the door.
She slumped back down.
“Took all the fight out of you, I guess,” he said, turning the light on.
She covered her eyes with her sleeve, the crook of her elbow at her nose so it wouldn't hurt more than it already did.
“Okay, fine,” he said, and she heard the chair scrape across the floor to somewhere near the bed, and he sat down. There was the sound of a cork, then liquid pouring into a glass.
She stiffened, not sure if he had something sadistic in mind, but then, he put the bottle on the floor. From the smell, scotch. Christ, was he just going to sit there and drink? And
then
what would he do? Oh, Jesus.
“Want a drink?” he asked, his voice sounding a little thick.
She pulled in a few shaky breaths, not wanting to cry in front of him. Again.
He laughed. “Hurts, hunh?”
“
Please
go away,” she said through her teeth.
“I don't feel like it,” he said, and laughed again. “Sure you don't want one?”
She tried to turn further in the other direction, but moved her leg in doing so and had to groan. Oh, Christ, it hurt. It really, really hurt. Oh, Jesus. Jesus God, did it hurt.
“You'd feel better if you had a drink,” he said.
Her breath was coming out in short gasps, a small high note of hysteria somewhere behind them, and her heart had started beating much harder, too.
“Fine,” he said, and she heard more liquid pouring. “It's your own fucking choice.”
He didn't say anything else and slowly, she got herself under more control, concentrating so intently that she almost forgot he was there.
Almost.
The steady throbbing in her knee was echoing inside her head—along with all of the other throbbing, underscored by a constant, searing pain, worse than anything she could—the tears wouldn't stop either, rolling down her face in what must be
grooves
by now, making her head hurt worse than ever.
“It would help you sleep, you know,” he said.
That made a certain amount of sense, and she opened her eyes, considering the idea. If she could sleep, it would be a lot better than lying here, hour after hour, crying and in pain. At this point, she could sleep away every last second of her life and not give a damn. Just so this whole thing would be
over
already.
“It's—medicinal,” he said.
A drink wasn't going to make things
worse
. She didn't think. And it couldn't be poisoned, not with him sitting there drinking it. So she nodded, rubbing some of the tears away with her hand.
“O-
kay,
” he said, pouring some in another glass, then topping off his own.
“What is it?” she asked, and he turned the label so she could read it. Laphroaig. Jesus. Her
parents
drank that, sometimes. Lagavulin. Talisker. Stuff like that. In fact, even though her mother usually went out of her way to avoid “one of the boys” activities, she had been known to attend—and even throw—single malt tasting get-togethers. Beth had always described this as being inescapably—if not
indefensibly
—preppy. And the Speaker of the House, who was conservative as hell, but still one of her parents' closest friends, had once told her that when her mother first got to Washington, her occasional proclivity to organize such events was one of the only reasons any of them could stand her initially. But, at least, she never smoked cigars—although, once in a very great while, Meg would catch her father with one.
And, thinking about her parents was a really bad idea. She swallowed a hard jolt of homesickness, wishing that she hadn't asked. “K-kind of expensive,” she said.
He shrugged, holding out her glass. She reached over, her hand trembling so much—from pain? Shock? Exhaustion?—that she had trouble taking it.
“Can you undo my other hand?” she asked. “So I can hold it better?”
He shook his head.
Naturally. She sniffed the pale gold liquid, not sure if she had ever even tasted scotch.
“Cheers,” he said, his voice mocking.
Instinctively—too many White House dinners—she lifted her glass towards him, then to her mouth. Medicinal. Christ, as long as she didn't choke on it—he would be sure to make fun of her. She tipped the glass up, letting the liquid moisten her lips. It tasted awful. Like really intense cough syrup or something.
He made an amused sound, but didn't say anything, and she took an actual sip. The taste made her shudder, but the warmth going down felt very good. Soothing. Gaining confidence, she tried a bigger sip, then looked over at him.
“Come here often?” she asked.
His laugh was the most genuine she'd heard it and, smiling a little herself, she drank some more, only recoiling slightly from the taste. The warmth was giving her courage, and she looked back over.
“Hello,” she said—using the proper soft accent. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
This time, he really did laugh. “Golly. Can you do
Caddyshack
, too?”
As a matter of fact, she
could
. Extensively. She took an even bigger sip. Not bad. In fact, this stuff could grow on her. “Distinctly peaty, with a full-bodied, yet subtle, finish,” she said.
He gave her such a sharp glance that she realized she had just hit the
precise
timbre and inflections of the President's voice—and that, in this context, it must have been unsettling to hear.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, uncomfortably, and then, she drank a full mouthful, shivering from the aftershock of—heat? Fumes?
Some
thing. When the sensation faded, it seemed very cold in the room, and she gulped another mouthful.
“I'd take it easy,” he said.
“
You'd
take it easy,” she said. “Then, how come the bottle's half empty?”
He didn't answer, drinking.
Thinking about reasons why he might feel like he had to get drunk was scary, and she focused down on her glass. “Half full, I mean,” she said quietly.
He paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Half full,” she said. “The bottle is half
full
.” She nodded to punctuate that, then took a sip of her scotch. His feet were propped up on the side of the bed frame, and she looked down at the heavy leather high-tops, deciding not to think about the fact that he had used them to kick her knee to shreds. “So. You and the boys going to play some ball later?”
He grinned, but didn't say anything.
“How'd the Red Sox do tonight?” she asked.
“Couldn't tell you,” he said.
“Bullshit.” She drank more scotch. “You just don't
want
to.”
“You're a chatty drunk, aren't you,” he said.
Oh, yeah, like she'd ever been drunk in her life. She shrugged. “How the hell would I know?”
“Dream Teen,” he said, his voice more than a little vicious.
Bastard. “What am I supposed to do—stumble around drunk, then have it show up all over the Internet and everything?” She shook her head. “Christ.”
“They would've covered it up,” he said.
“Are you serious? The tabloids always print stuff like that
anyway
.” She finished off her drink. “All I need's for it to be true.”
“And it's always lies?” He leaned over, pouring more into her glass. “On account of you being perfect and all?”
She frowned at the liquid. “Are you trying to make me drunk?”
“Does your leg still hurt?” he asked.
Yes. She nodded.
“Okay, then.” He refilled his own glass, too.
“I don't know.” She kept frowning. “Are you trying to be nice, or mean?”
“Hey, I'm not pouring it down your throat,” he said.
True. She took a careful sip, in case it was going to make her drunk soon. “Do you drink a lot? In your life, I mean?”
“I'm not an alcoholic,” he said, “if that's what you mean.”
“No, I—” What
did
she mean? “My parents drink a lot.” That wasn't what she meant. “Well, not a lot, I just—I mean, before, they only—well, it was just sometimes. Now, like, they almost always have a drink.”
“They share it?” he said, his mouth in the half-smile.
“No, I—” Was he stupid? She squinted at him. “Before dinner, I mean. You know, like a drink.”
“So, they're alcoholics,” he said.
“No.” Actually, her mother almost never had a drink without
also
having a couple of shots of espresso, too—presumably to balance it out. “I just meant—” Could she really be getting drunk already? Nothing was making sense. “The White House made things different, that's all. They worry more.”
“Bet they're drinking up a storm right now,” he said.
“
Coffee
, maybe.” During crises, they always drank coffee. Most people probably did. She glanced over. “Um, are you getting drunk for a
reason
?”
“I'm not drunk,” he said, his voice belligerent enough to be a contradiction.
He was up to something. He had to be. “Are you—” She stopped, not wanting to give him any ideas.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“
What
?” he asked, less patiently.
She took a swallow of scotch. “I just—are you going to do anything—bad—to me?”
His face relaxed. “What do you mean, ‘bad'?”
“Well, I mean—
you
know,” she said. “Bad.”
“Oh.” He grinned. “You mean, just for example, yanking teeth out of your head wasn't—‘bad'?”
She shook her head, kicking herself for having brought it up.
His grin widened. “And mangling your leg wasn't—”
“Look. I just want to know, okay? I mean, if you're going to—” She couldn't actually say it. “I mean—”
“Oh,” he said. “
That
.”
She nodded, suddenly exhausted, her knee hurting worse than ever.
He smiled, leaning closer. “Do you want me to?”
“I just want to be
out
of here,” she said, “okay?”
“I'll bet you do.” He got up and sat on the bed—which was definitely not a positive sign. “The thought
does
keep crossing my mind.”
She didn't say anything, her good leg pulled up, trying to protect her chest with her right arm.
“Feelings might be a problem,” he said.
Yeah, right. “You're worried about
my
feelings?” she asked.
“Hardly,” he said.
“Oh.” She moved her jaw, which hurt. What
didn't
hurt? “You mean, raping
me
would hurt
your
feelings.”
“Some sort of feelings would be inevitable,” he said, patting her hip in a distracted sort of way.
BOOK: Long Live the Queen
11.09Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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