Her legs ached, but she endured. He held her hands as they danced—moved, in her opinion—to the music, which the stereo speakers offered: slightly to the left, they would go, then to the right; then to the left again, and to the right. Sam loved all possible romantic gestures—so pathetic! and that’s still her opinion. Flowers, sweet little love notes, holding hands while staring at the night sky; every possible gesture one would easily ascribe to a boring 1920 drama. Sam only denied her sex. Well, things were about to change. And they had travelled a considerable distance for it. She let her head rest on his chest, tired of returning his gaze. His choice of music was equally boring, so she listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat. No different, she whined—too careful, too precise, too delicate; just like the rest of him.
She heaved, quietly.
Why did we have to wait this long? she queried him, but only her heart knew her words.
And while you waited, there was . . . Ade, Vincent, Peter, Charles; a voice within made the count on her behalf.
It happened just once with each of them, another voice said in defence. Okay! with Charles it happened twice—so?
“Are you okay?” Sam’s voice interrupted.
“Yes. Sure!” she said as her eyes met his. She managed a smile. She laid her head again on his chest. “My legs ache, a bit.”
“Ah! Sit, a while.” he said pointing at a chair. “Let me get you something to drink.”
She held him, in protest. He understood.
“Just a drink.”
The sex comes after, she believed. So she let him leave the room. She would be patient; besides she had been patient for a little above two years.
When Sam opened the door again, he held two glass cups. “Here,” he said, offering her a cup. “drink it all.”
“I need to lie down.” she said, surprisingly—to herself, that is, not to him.
He checked his wristwatch: fifteen minutes less of six hours. Almost six hours ago he had helped Nancy to his bed, in his father’s house, partly completed, rarely occupied, on the outskirts of Lagos—some argued that its location was Ogun state; it never mattered to him, and certainly not now. The drug had knocked her off, pretty fast! Her drink, the one he had offered her, had been spiked with a little dose of—rohypnol.
Then the tedious part of his plan had begun.
Now Nancy sat on a chair, tied to it. Her short black dress was gone, but he had allowed the turquoise necklace, and the items that helped to conceal her more private parts. The setting had changed too: instead of his room they were in an uncompleted building, not far, just next to his father’s.
He watched her. He had done so all afternoon.
Then she stirred. Then a cough. She looked weak, innocent, vulnerable—weak and vulnerable he would accept, not innocent, not for this bitch! Her eyes asked all the questions; a cloth gag denied her the ability to speak.
He approached her.
“Tell me, who did it better—Ade? Peter? or Vincent?” He smiled. “Ade . . . Peter . . . Vincent. They are my friends, you know. Well, suppose to be my friends—not after they ‘nailed’ you, bitch! Anyway, they were faithful enough to tell me—after a fight, scilicet!”
Charles did it better. Charles . . . thank God he did not mention that name among the options, she mused. Sam will definitely kill me if he finds out that I slept with his brother too. She considered the setting for a moment; there was no weapon around, except he wanted to strangle her. She tried to get his attention: I love you, Sam; but . . .
He laughed. “You always whispered to them that you love me. But, there’s always a place for a one-night stand, right?”
She shook her head, one side to the other. I love you, but . . .
“Well, that why I brought you here. To feed your fantasy.” He took his eyes away from her before he continued. “I love you, Nancy . . . but I want to show you how much you have hurt me.”
Not this way, Sam—like seriously, what is he up to?
“I’m sorry . . . This is the only way I could think of.”
He heard footsteps and he smiled. She heard it too, and she struggled with the chair—her chance to be saved, if she used it well; she must have assumed. He hurried towards her, tried to tighten the cloth, but failed for a moment, which allowed her the opportunity to scream.
“Just what I thought you’d do.” He smiled. “Have an unforgettable one-night stand.”
Sam stepped aside just in time, hiding behind a wall. A man walked in, dirty, with only a torn shirt as a covering—obviously for the upper part of his body alone—his hair overgrown and tangled. He noticed the intruder, but he did not seem to mind. He advanced slowly towards her, a bit unsure if she was really there. She struggled, helplessly. He touched her face, then her breast. As his hands travelled down, from her breast, she noticed his penis and its rapid increase in size.