Chapter 11: Kat

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Blake's bedroom was nothing like I expected Blake's bedroom to be.

His room was towards the back of the house, downstairs, adjacent to the kitchen and tucked away where most people would never find it, which I was suppose was good for us tonight.

Upon walking into his room, I learned three things about him I never would have known had this turn of events not occurred.

One, he was a smoker. On his nightstand next to his unkempt bed, he had one unopened pack of Camel cigarettes holding up another pack, already halfway gone.

Two, he had an affinity for the classics. Casablanca, Rebel without a Cause, and Gone with the Wind owned real estate over sections of his walls, the posters large and displayed proudly. The full Godfather movie set took up half a shelf on bookcase and the other half bustling with Alfred Hitchcock's bests such as Psycho, Vertigo, and The Birds.

And three, where there weren't movies, posters, or cigarettes, there were books; poetry actually. He was a reader and not of comic books or graphic novels like I would have wrongly assumed. Walking over to his bookcase, I fingered my way past Emily Dickenson, John Keats, Robert Burns, and so many more I hadn't even heard of. The pages were soft and worn as I drug my fingers across them, the covers artwork faded and cracked over time, their spines thoroughly broken in.

I turned in place to find him standing with his back against the farthest wall, feet and arms crossed, his eyes waiting for mine.

"You like poetry." 

"I like a lot of things."

My eyes wandered over the interior of his room, wondering how a man with such and enlightened taste in art ended up working in a house of horrors for a man that could rival the devil in his cruelty.

The room was around the same size as mine but seemed larger with the bed pushed up against the farthest wall.

"I'll sleep on the floor tonight. You can take the bed."

"Oh, no that's okay. I'm the one putting you out."

"Look," he pulled open a closet door and took out a blanket. "I don't know if you're being polite or stubborn, but just take the damn bed."

Shit. He'd called me out and I wasn't used to that. The only acceptable thing to do now seemed to be to dig my heels in deeper. "I am being polite so accept my politeness and sleep in your own damn bed. I'll be just fine on the floor."

Blake looked to me, his stare simmering with irritation as he conceded. "Whatever."

He tossed the blanket my way and I caught it- barely. Holding the blanket to my chest, I looked down at my toes, digging them into the surprisingly soft carpet beneath and tried to shake the awkwardness of this situation from my body.

I didn't know what to make of Blake and that alone was enough to unnerve me. Toss in being taken and dropped into an environment where violations of your body were threatened at every turn and it was safe to say that I'd never been more wary in my life.

He was the enemy, plain and simple. Though, not so simple now that he had helped me three times; twice during the line-ups and now.

I barely knew him. The only facts about him I had were that he worked for Heather's parents, liked poetry, and could be a raging dick when he wanted to be. Yet, here I was, about to settle in for an entire night with just him and a few famous celebrities from the 40's staring down at me from the walls. They were judging me for decisions I'd made that got me here. I felt like smacking James Dean across his printed face; anything to rid that vintage, smug smirk he was sporting that mocked me and my stupidity.

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