I’ve heard enough. I stomp over to the metal door and rap on it three times, signaling the guard to let me out.
“Leaving so soon?”
“I left you money, you fucker.”
“Oh, goody. I get to buy chewing gum and you get to deny your guilt about the plight of your long-lost brother. It’s a win-win.”
When the guard opens the door, I turn back and look my brother directly in the eye. “I feel no guilt whatsoever concerning you or anyone else. I came to grips with who and what I am years ago. It’s your soul you should be concerned with, not mine.”
He smiles but the smile doesn’t reach his flat, lifeless eyes. “My soul and I are just fine, thank you very much. Toodle-loo, until next time, bro…” he says in that creepy sing-song voice he uses sometimes. So weird. His chains clank as he waggles his fingers at me in a sarcastic farewell.
I don’t bother saying goodbye. Everything my brother does and says in my presence is for his own entertainment, to try to get me to engage. I, of all people, am aware of the love-hate relationship we share. It’s always the same, the need to go see him and the regret as soon as I do. For some reason, that contradiction is ever-present where he’s concerned. I’ve learned to live with it.
I sit in my car for a while, in no rush to leave the hospital parking lot. I need to get my head back into a good place – not the easiest thing to do after spending time in Lance’s presence. I have my own demons to contend with. I’m not taking his home with me too.
Chapter Twenty Seven
His Rage
“Son of a bitch, motherfucker!” I scream at the top of my lungs as I alternate between pulling my hair and slapping my face in rage. I curse and pace the floor as the reporter’s voice drones on and on about the killing overnight and, in particular, the body that was discovered at Urban Elite. The bitch isn’t getting the story right!
“Say it, say it, say ‘Kikazaru’, you ignorant bitch!”
I stare at the tv screen with a mixture of rage and hatred, trying to will her to give me my name. What am I doing wrong here? I shrug aside the temptation to visit Lance. He could help me, yeah, but not before playing with me, toying with me. He’ll read me like he always does, then he’ll laugh at my failure. He has power, he’ll see through me, I know he will. This isn’t how things are supposed go.
“This is your fault, you bitch!” I grab a notepad and a pen and hastily write down her name. Stacy Halsey. I should make her pay, make her use the name I’ve chosen. A light goes off in my head and an eerie calm settles over me. I know what I need to do…
This sense of calm has been provided by the forces of evil who love me, so I must use it wisely. They watch out for me. I don’t need Lance; I need them. They’re guiding me on this journey of self-discovery and vindication. I resolve to be more grateful to the forces of evil who work on my behalf.
It’s time for me to get back to my original plan of using Max the blogger to tell the world my message. It’s always been in the back of my mind to use her.
She. Is. My. Salvation.
I should have thought of her first. With so many followers, she can get my name out into the public as well as the traditional media can, probably better. I’m going to be famous and Max is going to help me do it.
I run my fingers over the image on the computer screen, touching her face, rubbing the tips of my fingers across her lips. She looks like a tomboy. I can’t see the curves I’d like to see. I wonder what she looks like naked. I shake myself out of the seductive train of thought she’s inspired. It’s time to get to work.
Lance’s tips are sure coming in handy. Thanks to him, I know how to use a proxy service to keep my browsing history and IP address anonymous. I’m glad I was able to put up with his arrogance to get the information I needed. There’s nothing he loves to do more than listen to himself talk. So here goes…
Max, you don’t know me yet but you will. I know who you are and I’m going to get to know you even better. Let’s start with my name. My name is Kikazaru and I killed the woman that was found behind your dumpster.
Consider her a gift. You’re welcome.
Don’t worry…there’ll be more. I’m just getting started.
Yours…Kikazaru
Chapter Twenty Eight
Liam
I haven’t been sleeping well because I know she’s so close and yet so far away. It’s the same story every morning lately: too damn early to be up and yet not late enough to begin getting ready to go in to the hospital.
Everything in me wants to go down to the basement, pin Madonna down and fuck her into submission. I sit up in bed and fluff one of the pillows behind me rougher than necessary. This girl is giving me blue balls and she’s not even trying. I’m wearing nothing but sweat pants and my unrestrained cock is so hard that it’s uncomfortable. I adjust myself in an effort to relieve the strain.
I could easily call one of the many Louisville women I know for a quick fuck and some relief from the stress of this situation. But I don’t want someone else.
I get up, take a piss, and climb back into bed. I grab the remote and turn on the TV for a little channel surfing. There are the usual infomercials and then a breaking news report catches my eye. When the news anchor issues a grim warning that the report is graphic, I know Madonna’s stalker has come unhinged. I go completely still, bracing for the inevitable.
‘When Bob Burns went out for his late night run he never expected to come upon the body of a young woman that had been dumped behind the Urban Elite compound.
‘The killer placed the woman’s body against a dumpster in the alley. Police stated that the victim’s eyes had been mutilated and she had been strangled by what they believe may have been a belt.
‘The killer left a note on the woman’s body and police, of course, are not revealing its contents. The victim is believed to have been a local prostitute.
‘Retired police detective Jack Heitman founded the Urban Elite investigation firm and training facility. We contacted Heitman for comment on the grisly pre-dawn discovery but haven’t received a response as of yet. This is Stacy Halsey and I’ll be keeping you up to date on this case as we know more.’
I don’t need the authorities or Jack Heitman to tell me who the killer is. I do wish I knew what that fucking note said though. It could so easily have been Madonna in that alley.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Liam
Today it’s been three weeks. I see her every day, bringing her food, a change of clothes. Last week I brought her a book. A Robert Frost anthology, which she refused to touch for days. But she came around eventually and yesterday I heard her reading aloud from it, just like old times. We already have a history, the two of us, although she probably still wouldn’t admit it, even to herself. But I know it’s there. And progress is progress.
I have a gift for her—writing supplies and a computer. I’m planning to discuss her writing aspirations with her very soon. If that goes well, then, in a show of good faith, I’ll leave the gifts with her. I long to see her tap into the pain she carries, see her agony on paper to help me understand who she really is – and make her depend on me even more.
One day, she’ll look back and thank me for all I’ve done, all I’ve sacrificed in her name.
Madonna
I’m going stir-crazy. Based on the calendar display on my watch, I’ve been cooped up in this place for three weeks. My only human contact has been daily visits from Liam to drop off food and basic supplies. I’m one of the few people I know of who still wears a watch, and I thank God for it now. Without it, I’d have no sense of time passing.
The isolation and uncertainty are wearing on me. I’ve been lonely before, sure, but I was always able to cope by writing. I haven’t written since I got here. It’s maddening, having nothing to do but worry about whether I’ll ever see the light of day again and whether a killer is still hunting me.
I’m desperate for a way to pour out my emotions, either by writing th
em down on paper or by tapping them out on a keyboard. I never realized how heavily I depend on writing to maintain my sanity, until now. Without it, I’m lost.
For God’s sake, it’s gotten to the point where I actually look forward to seeing him. He’s such a contradiction. He can be downright sinister sometimes and yet he’s truly obsessed with keeping me safe. I have to admit, the combination intrigues me.
Madonna
I boot up the computer for the first time and sit down at the desk. I can already tell this pc has mine beat by a mile. Of course, what did I expect…only the best for Mr. Perfectionist.
I’m sure he has no problem getting women with his designer suits, the profession he’s chosen, and his controlling ways. I can’t help but wonder why he’s so intrigued with me, though. What was it he said? Oh, yeah, the whole defiance thing. I guess the guy is going to remain enamored because I’m a fighter by nature and that isn’t going to change.
The first thing I do is check for internet access. The computer is web-enabled, but I don’t have the password. So this computer isn’t going to be good for anything except writing. Oh well, the fighter in me had to check.
I open up Word and, of course, it’s the latest, greatest version. It’s obvious that my writing is important to him. Even though I’m still utterly pissed at him for holding me against my will and disrupting my entire existence, his passion for my writing, as demonstrated by the computer and other writing supplies he left for me during the night, strikes a chord in me. What the hell is wrong with me?! Anyone who ever tried to interfere with my writing would be cut out of my life, no questions asked. It makes no sense that even though he’s holding me captive, he’s trying not to completely alienate me. I can’t figure the man out and I’m not going to try. What I am going to do is write.
For the first time in a very long time, the words pour from my fingertips effortlessly. It’s like opening a vein, the way the words flow. Perhaps this seclusion is serving an unexpected purpose. My life has been so…small…up until now. Nothing ever happened, nothing ever changed. Ironically, as my world has shrunk down to this tiny room, my creative horizons have expanded in ways I never dreamed of. I’ve had time to think up short stories and even concepts for a novel. The depth of my imagination is boundless.
Maybe I’m naïve, but I don’t think I’m in any immediate danger from Liam, at least for the time being, and I don’t actually mind being secluded as much as I did at first. Hell, if I had my way (and my own free will) I’d stay tucked away all the time so I could write.
But I have no intention of giving in to whatever Liam has in mind for me. I don’t know what his ultimate plans are for me, but I am starting to believe I may really be safer here than I would be out there with an obsessed Riddler fan stalking me.
For the time being, I’ll sit tight here in this freaky writing cave Liam has set up for me. If what he has said is true, my stalker has every intention of killing me, and he damn near did last month. God only knows what he’ll do if he ever gets another chance.
Chapter Thirty
Liam
It’s been nearly a month since I took her – saved her; a month of daily visits to the dungeon while I wait to see what Lance’s protégé is going to do next. With each passing day, the tension mounts inside me. Does he know I have her? Is he going to come gunning for her?
Watching images from my video surveillance app isn’t enough. I need to see her, in the flesh, to touch her – even if she’s asleep and never knows I’m there. Before I can change my mind, I jerk the covers away from my body and barrel down to the basement.
After quietly unlocking the door and closing it behind me, I pad down the stairs and cross over to her cot. One look at my prize and the anxiety fades away. She’s safe. She’s mine. Damn it, what did you think, Liam, that she’d be gone?
He would have killed her by now if I hadn’t kept her here with me. Before I’ll let that happen, I’ll kill him.
I reach down, stroking her long, brown hair. It feels like silk beneath my fingertips. She turns onto her back and locks drowsy eyes with mine.
“What are you doing, Liam?” she whispers hoarsely.
“Watching you sleep.”
She sits up and my eyes rake over her chest where her perky nipples are jutting out from beneath the thin, nearly transparent fabric of her tank top.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
I pull my eyes away from her breasts as she waves an arm around the room dramatically. “This, Liam -- keeping me here like this.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“This isn’t how you protect someone, Liam! I don’t need you to protect me. I don’t want you to. I never asked you to!”
Urgency washes over me, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I grab her by the shoulders and lift her up until she’s kneeling on the cot and we’re nearly nose to nose.
“You have no fucking idea! I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted to protect you from all of it, but you need to know. You need to understand. The same night you got here, your stalker killed a woman. He strangled her, plucked her eyes out, then dumped her body in an alley for the rats to feast on. That could have been you! Would have been you if I hadn’t taken you for my own.”
“Oh my God…” she gasps and covers her mouth with trembling fingertips. Her body melts into me and she begins to sob. Finally…
“That’s what you are now, you know. Mine.”
“I’m sorry, this is all so crazy, Liam. You can’t expect me to…Oh, God, I don’t know. This is all so fucking crazy…too fucking crazy...”
Her tears cause the emptiness deep inside me to ache with yearning. I grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back so she has no choice but to look up at me. I know the forbidding look on my face may lead her to think that I hate her. But it’s not her that I hate; it’s the effect she’s having on me.
“If I don’t get out of here…” I hiss, beyond exasperated with having to continually deny my instincts, my most basic needs, around her. I’m accustomed to taking what I want, and being cold and calculating about it. I deal with medical decisions on a daily basis; when I’ve fucked women in the past, it’s been little more than a bodily function. I’m not accustomed to anybody holding this kind of power over me and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one damn bit.
“Don’t leave. Please.”
This girl has no idea what a monster I am. If she did, she’d hardly be begging me to stay. Just a taste…
I begin biting up and down her neck, nibbling and sucking hard enough to leave a mark on her porcelain skin. When I reach her ear, I growl, “You’ve got one chance to tell me to leave or I cuff you to that iron bed frame and do whatever the fuck I want.”
Her raspy breathing and dilated pupils are all I need to see for me to know she wants this as badly as I do. In one swift movement, I grab the handcuffs from the dresser and slap one around her wrist, pushing her down onto the cot as I connect the other cuff to the metal frame.
Her body writhes and twists as I slowly unbutton her night shirt. I lean in and run my tongue over her lips, nibble my way to her neck and chest, finally nipping and sucking at her nipples until they look hard enough to cut glass.
Her desperation is clear in the sounds that pour from her lips and the sinuous way her body dances beneath my hands. I hook my fingers under her panties and tug them off. I take my time tasting her, running my tongue along the inside of her thigh and around her belly button -- licking and nipping everywhere except where she really wants me to.
She tries to position her body in a way that will force me to focus on her clit. She will find out very soon that I won’t be forced to do anything, especially when it comes to sex.
I gaze up at her through hooded eyes from my position between her thighs. “Fucking beg,” I admonish her.
“Please, Liam, why are you teasing me? Please…”
“No. I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that.”
I grin at her and whisper, “Be specific. Use…your…words…”
She glares at me before dropping her head back on the pillow and moaning, “Fine! I want you to…lick my pussy. I want you to lick me and eat me and make me come. I want your cock buried so deep and so hard inside me that I feel it when you hit bottom. I’ll do anything to get you inside me, okay?!”
“That’s better.” Those are the magic words every dominant male wants to hear—‘I’ll do anything’.
I spread her open, taking my time to stroke and explore. I run my tongue through her soaking wet slit, then rest my forehead on her pubic bone and smile to myself. She tastes divine; tangy and so sweet. I knew she would. I return to the delicious task at hand, taking my time, savoring all that is my Madonna.
By the time I slip a finger inside her pussy, she’s begging me to let her come and her frenzied state is a drug to my senses. I force her writhing hips down, subjecting her to the full onslaught of the orgasm I’m giving her; the first of many. I don’t give her time to recover as I slide my pants off and mount her, lifting one of her legs and placing it over my shoulder.
“Look. At. Me,” I bite out through clenched teeth. Her eyes flutter open. “I want you to see who’s fucking you.”
She nods, then gasps as I push the broad head of my cock past her slick pussy lips and stake my claim deep inside her body. She’s so fucking tight that I can’t keep from roaring my pleasure as I sink inside her. Her head lolls back and forth as if she cannot contain the pleasurable sensations coursing through her body. As my hips relentlessly piston in and out, I am consumed by the urge to fuck this woman.
I set a punishing rhythm that pulls another orgasm from her weakened body. As her hips meet mine over and over, I feel my control start to slip and my thrusts become more demanding, erratic, instinctive. My spine stiffens and in the next instant my cock is pulsing with pleasure as jets of cum bathe Madonna’s walls and I find my release.
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