Page 31 of Brutal
I find a tray in a drawer, and I grab one of each brand of beer I can see. I place the glass of water on it too, along with an empty glass, and the bottle opener too.
He’ll send me back to put everything away, but that’s better than playing the game of ‘I changed my mind’ five times.
“Jesus, Mimi, did you decide to go to the store? Hurry the fuck up!” he calls from the living room. He doesn’t sound impatient, though. He’s laughing.
I walk as steadily as I can, but I can see how the water in the glass wobbles. I’d done a waitressing gig for a few months one summer, just as a way to save up money for college. I wish I still had the balance and dexterity from back then.
Of course, it’d be easier if I weren’t walking through shards of glass with every step.
I almost laugh at the thought. This is the price paid for becoming a proper human. Of course, if the sea witch had taken my voice, too, I wouldn’t have to say anything to Brutal. I’d have saved myself so much grief.
I stop in front of the rug and stare at Brutal.
He arches a brow, looking me up and down — from the tray down to my feet. He smirks at me. “You finally got the memo. But you’re gonna have to put the ones I don’t choose back in the fridge.”
“I’m bleeding,” I say, as matter of fact as I can. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to spare your rug or not.”
Brutal looks down at my feet again, watching intently. “Oh no,” he says, deadpan. “Your poor feet. You must be in so much pain.”
“Do you want me to bleed on your carpet?” I ask. After a beat, I add, “Master.”
“You’ll just have to clean it up after,” he says, shrugging. “I have a steam cleaner.”
Yeah, a steam cleaner he’s probably never used. I’d be surprised if it’s out of the box.
I brace myself and step onto the rug. It might as well be iron wool with how it abrades the skin around the cuts.
I keep myself walking tall until I stop in front of Brutal and extend the tray to him. “Your drink, Master.”
“You know…” he begins, taking one of the bottles from the tray. I take note of the way it looks and the brand. If that’s his preference, maybe that’s one less time I’ll have to go back and forth in the future.
Right.
Like he’s really going to be consistent.
“You could just crawl on the way to the kitchen, or the way back. You’re the one who’s choosing to make it harder on yourself. And giving yourself more to clean up,” he continues, popping the cap off the beer and taking a sip from it.
“It would be incredibly hard to carry drinks while on all fours,” I state. It isn’t that I’m too proud to crawl. It’s that the tasks he gives me always require the use of my hands.
Brutal smirks at me. “Too bad, huh?” He beckons me to come closer, and I reluctantly step closer to him. “You thirsty?”
“Do you want me to be?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady through the pain.
He laughs, the sound as nasty as he’s been this whole morning. “Sure. Some booze would sure get you through this a little more easily, wouldn’t it? Put the tray down, Mimi, and sit in my lap.”
I set the tray on the coffee table, then gingerly sit down on his lap. I settle only half on his knees, but of course he pulls me closer so I’m completely on his lap.
At least I’m off my feet, I guess. I don’t even want to know what they look like.
Wrapping one arm around my waist, he keeps me close. He drinks from the bottle then leans in to kiss me, and I quickly realize what he’s planning. I jerk away, and the beer that was meant to go into my mouth ends up spilling all over my chin, all over my chest — all over his clothes and expensive couch.
“The fuck, Mimi?” he snaps. “I told you you were thirsty, remember?”
The alcohol stench fills the air, and I breathe through my mouth to avoid some of it. “Sorry!” I say, an edge of panic in my voice. “I was unprepared. Master.”
I don’t want to drink the beer from his mouth. I don’t want to get drunk; I don’t want to kiss him, I don't want to sit on his lap or serve him or?—
“I’ll go find something to clean this with,” I say, forcing a smile.