dominate her and let her know he was in charge. She hoped she wouldn't throw up. She felt like it.
Suddenly, her captor pulled away. "Come on. We're going up to my room. I don't want to do it on the theater couches. Besides, I want you to take a bath or shower first. I hate dirty bitches."
Tiffany's mind raced as she followed Drejohn from the basement up the stairs to the main level and then climbed the stairway to the second floor of the house. If she didn't think of something quick, she was going to be raped by this maniac. Could she pull him down the stairs and hope he was seriously injured and she could get away? But…get away to where? Tiffany fought tears of despair as they made their way down the hallway to a door leading to what she assumed was Drejohn's bedroom.
Using a key to open the door, he gave her an embarrassed smile. "My stuff is my stuff, and I don't like other people prowlin' in my space," he said, motioning for her to enter. Following her inside, he grabbed her arm.
Oh my God, oh my God, this is it. You're going to be raped. I can't panic. I've got to get out of this…but how?
Drejohn pointed to a divided cabinet with several pairs of shoes neatly placed in cubbies. On the floor in a basket were paper booties, like surgeons wore. "Take off your shoes and put on the booties. I don't like anyone but me to walk on my carpet."
How weird he doesn't show this phobia anywhere else in the house. While she followed his instructions, she looked around the bedroom. The color scheme was the same as the rest of the house and his NTL offices – red, black and silver. She shook her head at the round bed crowned by a tall red velvet headboard and a zebra print bed covering. The bed sat on a platform about two feet higher than the floor. Positioned above the bed was a contemporary chandelier, resembling a shooting star.
Pulling on the stiff paper footwear, she realized this bordello-like room was where she'd be losing her virginity. She willed her stomach not to dislodge its contents. "This is some room."
"Yeah, I hired me a decorator. She helped me get just what I wanted in here." He pointed at another door in the room. "The bathroom is in there. I want you to go in there and wash yourself real good. I want your hair clean and your face clean and be sure your pussy don't stink. Nothin' I hate more than a nasty snatch."
Tiffany started in the direction he'd pointed.
"There's a closet and some drawers in there. There's stuff for you to put on, but don't look like a slut." Moving to a table, he picked up a remote and pointed it at a huge entertainment center. Throbbing music, heavy on the bass, spilled from speakers located in the ceiling. Her captor sank into an overstuffed chair, his head nodding rhythmically to the reverberation.
As Tiffany entered and turned to close the door to the bathroom, she saw Drejohn pull a joint out of a wooden box on a table next to the chair. She hastily shut the door and automatically felt around the doorknob for a lock to activate. There was none.
She surveyed her surroundings. The room mirrored the tacky décor of the bedroom. A jetted bathtub sat in front of a wide window. The tub would easily seat four people, and there wasn't a doubt in her mind it had been used in that capacity. The counter surrounding the tub had dozens of silver and black candles floating in ruby red liquid.
Sitting on the edge of the surface, she tried to think logically. She needed a plan.
"What the hell you doin' in there, girl? We ain't got all day."
Leaping to her feet at the sound of Drejohn's voice outside the door, she strode to the walk-in shower and twisted the cold metal handle causing hot water to spew from the half dozen or so showerheads. With the noise of the running water camouflaging her movement, she searched the bathroom for a phone or anything she could use as a weapon. Nothing.
Throwing off her clothes, she stepped into the steamy spray. Her heart thudded in her chest and each beat seemed to say think…think…think! There were all kinds of multi-colored bath gels and shampoos lined along a shelf built into the tiled walls of the shower. Picking up several of the bottles and sniffing them, she finally found a scent that wasn't too offensive. Squeezing the thick green liquid into her hand, she rubbed it all over her body. A glob of gel slid out of her hand and thinned and stretched toward the drain. Watching the diluted substance disappear down the pipeline, she had an idea. It wasn't a great idea, but it was all she had. Hurrying to finish, she rinsed quickly, then stepped out of the shower, leaving the water running to drown out the sound of her movements. She dried herself off and wrapped the thick, oversized towel around her.
Tiptoeing over to the sink, she looked at her face as she approached. Anxiety and fear were etched through her features. She stepped up to the counter and pulled one of the floating candles toward her. The garnet-red oil-based substance wobbled in the clear glass container allowing the scent of cinnamon to reach her nose. She grabbed a couple of tissues and set them on the counter, then lifted the floating candle out of the canister and placed the wax piece on the tissues.
She picked up the cylinder and walked to the toilet. She only had one opportunity to get this right. Tilting the decanter, she poured a small amount of the ruby liquid into the bowl. The slippery substance slid down the bowl and pooled at the bottom. It looked exactly right.
Taking the candleholder back to the sink, she dropped the floating candle back into the container and pushed it back into place on the counter. Tiffany hurried to the shower and shut off the water then moved to the toilet and sat on the seat. After a few moments, she called out to Drejohn. "Uh, oh, Drejohn. I just started my period. Is that a problem?"
She heard movement and heavy footfalls coming toward her. He flung the bathroom door open.
"Are you shitting me?" he said, taking in her position over the commode. He marched over and pushed her to the floor. Looking into the bowl, he swore. "Well, I sure as hell ain't gonna touch you if you're bleeding. Women that are bleedin' are nasty and dirty."
Reaching down, he pulled her to her feet, then slapped her hard across the face. Tiffany felt the warm wetness of real blood pooling inside her mouth. She swallowed, waiting for more blows.
"Damn! This screws everything up. I don't know if that Cut Man guy will want to bone a bleeding bitch." Drejohn fixed her with a hardened look. "Do you think you can fool him and not let him realize you're on the rag?"
This was a tricky question to answer. If she said she wasn't bleeding much, Drejohn might put aside his aversions to deflowering a menstruating virgin. But if she was going to foul up his plans for fifty thousand dollars, he might beat her or even kill her. Besides, she had to go to the appointment. It was her and Brenda's only hope for escape.
"I…I don't think it will be easy, but I think I can do it. I'll wear a tampon until right before he wants to…you know. Brenda can distract him while I run to the bathroom and…get rid of - get ready."
"This really sucks. I wanted you for myself," Drejohn said, running his gaze over her body.
Tiffany's heart began to race. She could see he was weighing whether or not to rape her.
"Screw it. I'll call this guy and see if we can get this on earlier."
Tiffany slowly let out the pent up breath she'd been holding. She didn't want Drejohn to see her immense relief. "Okay if I get dressed?"
Her captor waved one hand at her while punching buttons on his cell phone. "Yeah, go hook up with Brenda. You'll need to blend in and look like money. That ain't gonna be easy with Brenda's rack. Try and find her something classy and while you're at it, do somethin' about those bruises all over you." Drejohn turned away from her as his call went through.
"Yo, Cut Man, there's been a change in schedule."
PRESTON – 90
Sitting alone in his bedroom holding the forty-caliber Glock, Preston knew he couldn't do it. Yes, he was in despair about his daughter's disappearance. He knew it was only a matter of time before his affair with Heather McCall was confirmed and the result would be a media frenzy. But the truth was: he was afraid. More afraid of death than of facing life without his daugh
ter. More afraid of death than of public humiliation.
He wasn't alone in losing a child. Many parents of murder victims went on to do good things in the names of their children. With his celebrity, he could be the advocate of all advocates. As for humiliation, if the married president of the United States could get caught boffing an intern, why should it be a big deal for a single governor to occasionally hire female company? That part would probably be okay. It was the fact he'd fallen in love with Heather McCall that would be the problem. The American public would accept him screwing a prostitute, but not loving one.
He'd stopped watching the news when the vultures started insinuating he might have had something to do with Heather's murder. The media was always looking for a story, but not always for the facts. The truth was he'd loved Heather and she'd loved him. Yes, there was an age difference. Yes, there was a culture difference. But love is love.
Looking down at his hands, he felt a little foolish, in fact, a little melodramatic holding the cold black pistol.
"Time to stop letting life happen to you, governor. Time to take charge and make a change," he said to himself. He rose from the bed and placed the gun back in its box. After snapping the lid shut, he returned the case back to the shelf in his closet.
Preston picked up his cell phone and called
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