Because my wife left me.

Because my kids don't talk to me.

That's why I drink.

I gamble.

I can't stop eating.

I'm addicted to sex.

I cut myself.

I pull out my eyelashes.

I do drugs.

But it's not always enough, you know? And sometimes, it spills over because you can't control it, because you need to make others feel your pain, your hurt, your rage, because it's tough to walk around all scarred up, in a world full of slick billboards and bright, smiley toothpaste ads and shiny, happy people. Life's not always fair. So suck it, lick it, stroke it, fuck it.

I didn't care what category of dysfunction Damian fell in to. Sometimes it's because I'm just pure evil, you know? I kept my mind on the prize as I unbuttoned my top. It might have looked like I was staring at the floor, but I was eating rice and fish with my eyes. It's amazing-the things you can do in survival mode. I stepped out of my pants and stood before him in my bra and panties. Agent Provocateur. Midnight Captive Collection.

"Take them all off," he said, emphasizing the word as if I was incapable of comprehending a simple command.

I unclasped my 34C black fishnet lace bra, shimmied out of the matching panties and stood before Damian. Naked.

He shifted in his chair. "Turn on the light."

Fish. Think fish, I told myself as I felt around for the switch.

"Higher, to the right," he said.

My fingers shook as I flipped it on.

"Good girl. Now walk towards me."

Like he was directing a fucking porn movie.

I kept my eyes down until I got to his chair, until I was looking at his ugly boat shoes. God, I hated those shoes. I hated the laces and the leather and the sole and every single stitch that held them together. I hated them because he had taken away my beautiful golden pumps and now I was barefoot and weak and naked and hungry and hurting and it was fish vs fuck. So fuck him and his shoes and his dirty, psycho games and- "Turn around," he said.

I looked at him then, expecting lechery and lust, but he was inspecting my body with a detachment that infuriated me. I was used to men staring at me, wanting me. My body wasn't runway perfect, but I owned every inch of it. It was my power, my weapon, my ticket to exclusive clubs, front lines at fashion shows, red carpet treatment. Guys did things for me, girls did things for me, and it mattered because it was for me, not my name, or fame or fortune, or the string of hotels that my father owned. I had a good body and I wasn't ashamed to flaunt it. I didn't sleep around, but I wasn't averse to using it.

And now Damian was taking that away from me too. He was stripping me down to body parts. Inspecting me-my arms, my legs, my back, my feet-not me the woman, but me his prisoner, a collection of separate, movable parts. There was nothing sexual about Damian's perusal and I hated that because it left me even more powerless. I stood with my back turned to him, feeling his eyes on my skin, wondering if any trace of food remained if I were to lick my fingers now.

I felt the air shift around me. He was standing behind me now, his breath fanning against my shoulder.

"You stink," he said. "Get in the shower."

A shower. Soap and water. And a reprieve from Damian.

I'd done well.

Wait for me, Fish. I looked longingly at the plate before heading for the bathroom.

The stall was tiny, with barely enough room to move, but the warm water felt like heaven, even though it stung where my skin was raw and bruised. I started to wash my hair and held back a sob because for a while, I'd forgotten that my long, luxurious locks were gone. I had barely finished rinsing it when the door swung open and Damian turned the faucet off.

"This isn't a fucking spa. It's a boat with a water tank. You'll do well to remember that."

He held out a towel. It was threadbare, but clean. I caught sight of my reflection as he escorted me back to the room. The girl with the weird hair startled me yet again.

Modesty had fled out the window. I dried myself in front of Damian and looked around for my clothes. He opened one of the cabinets and started throwing shopping bags on the bed. They were all mine. Kate Spade. Macy's. All Saints. Sephora. Zara. It wasn't as if I had to work for a living, but I'd graduated with a degree in fine arts and was embarking on a career as a fashion consultant. I told myself it was research. I went on shopping sprees and left everything lying around in my car for days, sometimes weeks.

Shit.

He could only have gotten these if he'd gone back to the car. And if he'd gone back, there was a good possibility he'd either disposed of it, or moved it. Either way I was screwed. The trail of breadcrumbs I was hoping my father would follow was starting to disappear. My only hope now was that the parking lot I'd been abducted from had caught something on the surveillance camera. His height, his weight, his face-anything that would help with the investigation. No matter what, I knew my father would not give up. And right now, that's exactly what I needed to do.

Not. Give. Up.

I started emptying the bags. Stupid sequin mini skirt. Stupid gauzy, halter dress. Stupid giant bling ring. God. How could I fill so many bags with so much crap? I would have to wash and wear the same underwear. Agent Rinse and ReProvocateur.

I was still sorting through the bags when Damian started stuffing everything back into the cabinet. There was a pair of black yoga pants (yes!) and a flimsy white thong (no!) on the bed. He pulled out an ugly, generic t-shirt and threw it at me. Judging by the size, it was his.

"Drop the towel," Damian instructed.

Like I said, it always came back to the dick. Now that I didn't stink.

I closed my eyes, expecting the rustle of his pants as they hit the floor.

It never came. Instead, I felt him rub something into my hairline. It smelled medicinal and stung like hell, especially where the follicles had been ripped off. He did the same around my ears. Then he applied salve on my back, on all the nicks and cuts and bruises he'd noted when he'd inspected me.

I got what he was doing-rewarding my good behavior with kindness, soothing the wounds he'd inflicted upon me. I was supposed to feel grateful, dependent, to bond with him over small mercies, but that whole Stockholm syndrome thing? Yeah, I really wasn't feeling it. If I ever found where he'd stashed my spiked heels, I was going to nail his black heart to the mast of his fucking boat.

Die, Dah-me-yahn. DIE.

"You can manage the rest yourself," he said, flinging the tube onto the bed.

He left, leaving the door open, and I could hear him brushing his teeth.

Screw the salve. I jumped on the now-cold plate of fish and rice.

Fish did not let me down. Fish was the juiciest, most delicious thing I had ever tasted. I wept as I ate Fish.

I picked up the rice with my fingers and closed my eyes, savoring its thick, starchy goodness. My taste buds were exploding over white fucking rice.

Yes. Yes. Yes. More!

I licked the plate clean. No, really. I licked the plate clean and then went over it once more, for good measure. I had no idea when my next meal would be, or what I would have to do for it. I changed into the clothes Damian had left for me, smelling him on the t-shirt. I nearly brought Fish back up. Not that it smelled bad. It was just downright animalistic-sun and sea and sweat-the kind of odor no amount of detergent could erase.

I peeked through the doorway. Damian was still in the bathroom. I started rifling through the cabinets: linens, towels, rain gear, scuba stuff. I was almost through when I stepped on something round and hard. Lifting my foot, I found a roasted peanut stuck to my sole. There were more peanuts on the floor, and it looked like they had rolled out of a discarded paper cone, the one Damian had been munching out of.

I sat on the chair he'd been sitting on and popped one in my mouth.

Crunch, crunch, cru-I stopped as he walked through the door.

He looked like he had just showered. His hair was slicked back and he'd changed into gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. His eyes narrowed when he saw me.

"I have a life-threatening allergy to peanuts and I just ate a whole bunch," I said. "If I don't get immediate medical attention, I'll die."

He looked at me for a beat, before opening one of the cabinets I hadn't gotten around to.

Yes! Maybe he had a satellite phone or a walkietalkie or whatever boats used to communicate.

He pulled out a jar and sat on the bed. He uncapped it and proceeded to moisturize his feet.

He fucking moisturized his feet.

"Did you hear me?" I squealed. "I'm going to die." I started taking deep breaths.

He took his time, first one foot, then the other, like it was the single most important task in the world. Then he pulled on his socks and closed the jar. "So die."

I fucking hated him. He didn't want money. He didn't want sex. He didn't care if I lived or died. He wouldn't tell me where we were going. He wouldn't tell me why. And now he was calling my bluff.

"What do you want?" I screamed.

I was sorry the minute I said it. He moved fast. Lightning fast. Before I could apologize, he had me gagged, bound, and secured to the bedpost.

Then he turned off the light and got into bed.

The bastard wasn't even out of breath.

I didn't know which was worse-my arms stretched painfully over my head, the sides of my cracked lips bleeding on the gag, or knowing that this was how it was going to be. One room, one bed, my captor sleeping next to me, night after night.

I WOKE UP STIFF AND sore. Damian was gone, and I was still tied to the bed. He took his time getting back to me. I felt a surge of relief when I saw him standing there with the now familiar tray.

I had once attended a spirituality workshop that taught me to be witness to the moment, to not analyze or reason or think about the when or the why or the how. It was really an excuse to hang out with a bunch of girls, get Ayurvedic massages and bitch over green juice. My friends had long since drifted, but that's the way it goes when you bond over the latest trends and hippest places. Things shift and change. And after MaMaLu and Esteban, I'd pretty much closed myself off. It had been just me and my father for the longest time. Nick was a possibility, and the fact that he got along with my dad was one of the reasons he'd lasted longer than most of the guys I dated. I liked my men to get along. I pictured the two of them beating Damian up and it made me happy. I liked witnessing the happy much more than I liked acknowledging my reaction to Damian. I was starting to associate him with food and bathroom breaks and relief from the pain of being bound up.

Breakfast was some kind of sloppy goo. I had a feeling it started off as oatmeal, but got beefed up with protein powder or egg white or something equally distasteful. He could have thrown in liver and onions and I'd still have finished. My arms felt like they were going to drop out of their sockets from being tied up all night, but I'd earned a metal spoon. And there was an apple. And water.

I looked up to find Damian watching me. There was an odd shadow in his eyes, but he blinked it away. When I was done, he let me use the bathroom. He'd put out a toothbrush for me, and a comb. Things were starting to look up.

I didn't bother with my hair. I tried to avoid looking at it altogether. Damian watched me the whole time. I followed him back to the room like a good girl, and let him lock me up. I even smiled as he shut the door on me.

Then I fell back on the bed and let out a deep breath. The uncertainty was killing me. I'd braced myself for another painful encounter, another round of humiliation and degradation before I earned my privileges. I'd held the possibility, all tight and tense, in my shoulders and neck. But Damian had done the unpredictable, and that was far worse than a patterned system of abuse, because now I was in a state of constant alert, fearing what would come and fearing when it didn't.

How do we kill him, Esteban? I closed my eyes and remembered the two of us, plotting in my room. I'd been an earnest eight year old, four years younger than him, but an equal instigator in all our adventures.

He gave my question considerable thought before responding. I liked the way he twirled his hair when he was deep in thought. His hair was long and dark, and when he let it go, it left a little curl. MaMaLu was always after him to cut it and the times she succeeded, he came home with nowhere to hide his face.

"I don't think we have to kill him," he said. "Just teach him a good lesson."

Gideon Benedict St. John (pronounced Sin Gin), formally nicknamed Gidiot by Esteban and me, was the bane of my existence. He was ten, but bigger than the two of us combined, and when he pinched me, he left big, blue bruises on my thighs.

"Esteban?" I fake-smiled in the mirror. "Would you make a tooth for me?"

He was stretched out on my bed, folding and unfolding a sheet of paper, trying to figure out how to turn it into a giraffe.

"You want a paper tooth to hide the gap between your teeth?" he asked.

I nodded and went back to examining it in the mirror.

"He's just going to find another way to tease you, gerita." Esteban called me gerita. Blondie. "And how are you going to make it stick?"

"Make it out of cardboard and I'll tape it in the back." I opened my mouth and pointed to the spot I'd picked out.

We both jumped when the door opened and MaMaLu walked in.

"Esteban! You're supposed to be in school."

"Going!" he yelped, when she smacked him.

MaMaLu hit Esteban a lot, but she hit him like she was swatting a fly, out of irritation and frustration. Esteban got swatted a lot because Esteban misbehaved a lot. He propped a half-finished giraffe up on the sill, scrambled out the window, and shimmied down the tree. MaMaLu slid the glass pane down and watched as he high-tailed it across the garden.

"How many times have I told you not to let him in? If Senor Sedgewick finds out-"

"He won't," I said.

"That's not the point, cielito lindo." She picked up the brush and started combing my hair. "You and Esteban . . ." She shook her head. "The two of you are going to get me in trouble one day."

"Can you do my hair like yours?" I asked.

MaMaLu had thick, dark hair, which she braided and folded into a bun. I wanted to crawl into the 'U' it made on her nape because it looked like a little hammock.

"That's old lady hair," she replied, but she sectioned off two side braids and combined them in the back, leaving the rest of my pale, blond hair loose.

"So beautiful," she said. She removed a small, red flower from her hair and tucked it into mine.

"Gidiot says I'm a witch because witches have gaps between their teeth."

"It's Gideon," she chided. "And when God made you, he left that space so your true love could slip his heart through it when he finds you."

MaMaLu was full of stories; there was a tale behind everything.

"Then how did Esteban's dad give you his heart? You don't have a gap between your teeth."

Esteban's father had been a great fisherman. He died at sea when MaMaLu was pregnant, but she told us all about his adventures-about magic and monsters and mermaids in the sea.

"Well then, I probably never had his heart." She smiled and poked me in the nose. "Run along now. Miss Edmonds is already here."

"Is Gidiot there yet?"