Guns, Not Roses

~Chapter Twelve: White Dresses, White Lies~

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” She raised herself off the bed and padded past him, into the sparkling bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

What game is he playing? she thought, ripping the rag of a dress off her sticky body and discarding it on the linoleum floor.

She stepped into the glass shower and turned the water on, twisting the tap around before settling for a boiling hot shower. She needed to hurt; to feel the needles of fire scorch her bare skin. Scrubbing herself thoroughly was a different type of punishment, although Savannah had no clue why she was dishing it out. A wound was open, and Anthony Dekker had walked back into her life and mashed a cupful of salt into it.

She stood in front of the mirror above the pristine white sink and dried herself off, keeping the water running. The bathroom was sunny, but the windows were too far up for anyone to even contemplate using them as doors.

There goes my escape plan.

But where was she going to escape to? The nearest village?

Besides, this situation was too much to even grasp. How could she explain that her ex-fiancé had abducted her from her personal safe-house on her personal island?

Wrapping the fluffy white Hers towel around herself, Savannah turned on her heel and unlocked the bathroom door, expecting to find Dekker in the bedroom, waiting for her. Instead, she was greeted by a pleasantly empty room – and a slinky white Pierre Cardin French cotton dress draped across the bed.

How thoughtful of the shithead.

Because that was exactly what Tony was: A shithead. If he thought he could fling designer clothes at her and order her to dress up for him after nearly four years of silence, he was clearly high on cow dung.

She didn’t have time to mull things over. The door was pushed open and Dekker entered, closing it behind him. His eyes travelled to the dress on the bed.

“Put it on.”

Savannah stubbornly shook her head. “Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on here.”

“Do you have to use foul language?”

“Yes, you motherfucking cunt.”

Anthony pretended not to hear her. “Get dressed, Savannah. I don’t have time to play games,” he said brusquely, crossing the room. He picked up the dress and held it out to her, waiting.

“Oh, I think we have time to play one round of poker, don’t you think?” She folded her arms across her chest. “I can’t read your poker face, Tony. Help me out.”

“Put the dress on. Then we’ll talk.”

“How about we talk about the chapel, huh?” Savannah swallowed the ball of... – of what? – that had suddenly lodged itself in her throat. She wanted to see Tony react to mention of the chapel, but a flicker of annoyance was all that passed across his face.

He flung the dress onto the bed and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a gun. “I’m going to turn my back for exactly five minutes, Savannah, and when I turn around again, I expect to see you looking like the face of Cardin – or I will shoot you. Understood?”

Savannah stared at the gun dismissively. “Yes. I understand completely.”

As she pulled on the dress, with the material kissing her skin, her mind wandered back to Heaven’s Grace Chapel, tears threatening to spill.

A girl is standing at the altar, watching the closed oak doors intently, like a hawk swathed in tulle lace. The unknown witnesses glance impatiently at their watches, the cold of the wooden benches seeping through their clothes, as Father Milton sighs inwardly, his face a mask of patience.

But the girl is breaking on the inside, her heart beating, but withering like a weed. She wields the bouquet of virgin-white lilies in her hands like a sword, but she is squeezing them so tight that the stems are breaking. Petals have fainted to the ground, scattered around the girl’s feet.

“Miss Ardeur?” Father Milton’s voice is kind and gentle. He has had to go through this rigmarole with other brides before. “I have another wedding in about half an hour. Would you... would you like to postpone?”

She doesn’t hear him going on about traffic and broken-down cars and last-minute appointments.

No, all she hears is the sound of her pain.

And the sound of her rage.

 * * *

The island of Montepega is fictional – currency, people; everything.