by A. R. Torre
His mouth pulls off and I catch my breath, looking up into his eyes. “You in a rush?”
I grin, reaching for the front of his shirt and pulling myself upright, appreciating the smooth way it slides over his chest muscles. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Let’s go, Romeo.”
He scowls, taking one last kiss before bending down, picking up my purse and handing it over. “You ready to tell me where we’re going?”
“In the truck,” I promise, accepting my bag and moving toward the stairs.
“You want to buy a car?” the skeptical look on Jeremy’s face is identical to the one I often imagine Dr. Derek wearing, and I shoot him a warning look.
“Yep. Head north. All of the dealerships—”
“Are off Route 1,” Jeremy supplies dryly.
“Right. Deliveryman. I forgot.”
His lips twitch at my tone but he doesn’t respond, changing lanes and heading north. “What kind of car do you want?”
I look out the window, absorbing the city during the day. People everywhere, in cars, on foot, all living their lives with blatant disregard for their daily freedoms. They talk without thinking of death. They live without holding themselves back from violence. I stare at a stroller-pushing mother and imagine our truck plowing her down, the scream and crack of her bones underneath the tires. If I roll down the window, I’ll get a front row seat to their pain. “A convertible,” I mumble.
We enter the four-lane road that is our destination, and Jeremy moves to the slow lane, peering out the window. “Where do you want to start?”
I scan the signs and point forward. “There.”
He gives me a confused look. “Jaguar?”
“Yeah.”
He puts on his blinker, taking his time pulling into the dealership and parking, his truck out of place among the sleek vehicles. I open the door and step out, my sneaker hitting the hard concrete, a small thrill shooting through me at the contact with the outside world. It is still new. I am still grateful. And that emotion is a reminder that I need to be careful. I need to behave. This purchase will open my world up. I need to make sure I don’t open it too far and suck hell in along with it.
I step forward a few steps and stop, my eyes feasting on a midnight blue beast in the front row. It glistens under the sun, a hint of glitter in the paint. I don’t move, don’t take my eyes from its lines. It would look down its perfectly created nose at my high school Honda Accord and snort, smoke puffing from the vents on its sides. It is sex, speed, and attitude all rolled into one. It looks like a car that would make side bets with its owner, and rub its hands in glee at the prospect of mayhem.
I can buy this. I have money to burn, and this can be mine. It has been years since I have bought anything frivolous. But for my ticket to freedom, it feels like the time is right to splurge. To open the door, sit in its leather, and celebrate the unorthodox definition of success I have attained.
I hear the scuff of feet against pavement and break my eyes from the car, colliding with the image of a thin man, his suit pressed, his eyes passing from Jeremy’s truck to my jeans and finding us both lacking. He tilts his head with a perfunctory smile. “Anything I can help you two with?”
“We’re just looking,” Jeremy offers, and I send him a look that stops him cold, his eyes questioning as his mouth stops moving.
“That one,” I say, reaching out and pointing to my car. “I want that one.”
The man continues to smile, an impressive feat that manages to convey annoyance without breaking the mold of professionalism. “The F-TYPE S. That is our V8 model, a fine car. Perhaps you’d like to step inside and discuss pricing?”
“No.” I step forward, running my hands along the glossy paint, the car seeming to swell underneath my touch. I can imagine her purr, can hear her throaty growl when she loses all control. “I want to drive it.”
CHAPTER 45
House Arrest Countdown: 10 Days
“MR. RENZA?”
Marcus looks up from his desk to see a man, tall and lanky, a thin tie knotted around his neck, rolled-up sleeves revealing tattoo-covered forearms. He frowns. “What?”
“I’m Nick. John said you wanted to see me? I’m the tech guy.”
He eyes him for a long minute, the man’s image not consistent with the pocket-protector nerd he’d been expecting. Another minute passes before he pushes on his desk and rolls away, gesturing forward with a hand. “Come here.”
The large room grows smaller with the new presence, the man’s stench invading Marcus’s personal space, his seat before the desk barely containing the constant movement of his body, finger taps, hums, bouncing legs. The man has not one bit of control, an infuriating condition. Marcus glares at him, pulling a notepad from his center drawer and ripping off the top sheet, his pen pushing it across the table at the man, the camgirl’s website scribbled across its surface.
“This website? This is what you want info on?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…” the man drawls out. He drops his messenger bag on the closest chair and digs into its depths, pulling out a tablet. “Let me pull it up. You said on the phone you were blocked from it?”
“Yes.”
“Your IP address is probably toast. But my iPad won’t use your Wi-Fi, so it should let me in… yes.” He sets down the tablet on the desk, at a place where they can both see the screen. “Damn, she’s hot.”
Marcus’s hands grip at the arm of his chair. His control is slipping, another indication of prison rotting his composure. Two years ago he wouldn’t have blinked at that statement. Two years ago he wouldn’t have felt ownership of a girl he met on the Internet. Fuck, two years ago he wouldn’t have been wasting precious time on the damn Internet. The man runs his fingers over the surface of the device, pressing on links at a speed that sickens Marcus, the linger of his eyes over Jessica’s body angering him even more. “So… I’m sorry—what info did you need?”
“Can you unblock me?” Marcus asks, his fists clenching against the top of his dress pants.
The man laughs, sitting back in Marcus’s chair, his eyes staying on the intro video, one that shows a naked Jessica giggling into the camera, her small bare breasts heaving in erotic slow motion. “Nope. Ain’t happening, man. Power to the geeks, that’s the beauty of the Internet!” He makes some ridiculous hand pump gesture that pokes at a part of Marcus he had intended to leave in prison. The man continues, oblivious to his foul. “Your IP address is your social security number, man. And every time you visit a website, you’re shoving that shit into their face. A website can block your IP, or… say… every IP within a certain zip code or state, or country. And then you’re done. Nothing. Nada. No access for you. And I can’t do anything about it.” He laughs as if the idea pleases him, stopping when a low growl is emitted from Marcus’s throat.
The man has the sense to quiet down. “What were you doing when you were blocked?”
“I clicked on the ‘Contact Me’ link.” Marcus says tightly.
The idiot reaches forward and taps the link, the familiar “BLOCKED” status twisting Marcus’s stomach. “Well that’s new,” the man says, surprised, a hint of admiration in his tone. “Looks like it’s got you on limited access that triggers a block if you do certain actions on the site. Chances are whoever set this up tied in the area’s IP addresses. So you’ve got two options.” He looks up, the words giving Marcus a glimmer of hope.
“Go ahead,” Marcus spits out, ready to strangle the information out of the man.
“You can get a tablet and use the cellular provider’s IP address. Or I can mask the IP address or set it up to use your cell phone’s hot spot. But it’ll only give you limited access. You click on that link, or any other triggering link, and you’ll be blacklisted again. And eventually you’re gonna run out of connection spots unless you get in your car and drive. Which…” The smirk on his face tells Marcus that he is aware of his house arrest. Forget reestablishing his manhood via Jess Reilly; maybe he’
ll just work this guy over. Teach him some damn respect.
The asshole keys a few more entries and then looks up. “Anything else, man?”
Man? I am not your man. I am your fucking employer. Treat me with some goddamn respect before I shove six inches of it up your ass. “I want to know who owns this website and how to find her.”
“Find her?” The man looks intimidated for the first time, his tattooed Adam’s apple moving up and down with his swallow, and he glances back at the “BLOCKED ACCESS” title on the screen. “I thought you were stuck here, couldn’t…”
“Get me the fucking information,” Marcus growls. “And get the fuck outta my chair.”
The tattooed man takes his time, the slow shuffle as he stores his tablet and moves away from the desk, lighting a new flare of anger in Marcus as he returns to his seat, glares at the man, and thinks of prison. This kid would have been his bitch within the hour, respectful eight ways to Sunday.
He watches the man’s slow exit and calls out to him as he pulls at the heavy doorknob. “Tonight. I want the information tonight.”
No response, not a “yes, sir” or a “right away.” The lack of response burns, and the numbers in front of him blur, his focus pulling, his desire to explore her site competing with the disrespect of the kid. Who hired that piece of shit?
He controls himself, taking a moment before reaching over and yanking up the phone. He calls the redheaded servant, who jumps on the line before the second ring. Finally. Someone with some respect. The kid was growing on him, despite the red hair. “I’m expecting some information from that asswipe who just left here. As soon as he delivers it, fire his ass.”
CHAPTER 46
THE LOOK BETWEEN Jeremy and the salesperson puts a dent in my “I’m not going to kill anyone today” outlook. I growl under my breath and open the door, sliding into the driver’s seat and opening my purse. I pull out my driver’s license and hold it out, waiting.
Five seconds pass.
Ten.
Twenty.
I turn, looking up at JagPusher. “That’s what you need, right? For a test drive?”
“Ma’am, this car has only eight miles on it.” The man’s smile is gone, a terse exasperation in its place.
“And?”
“And it costs a hundred and four thousand dollars,” Jeremy whispers loudly from behind the man.
“It seems like, at that price point, you’d be a little more helpful,” I snap, facing forward again, the license still dangling from my hand.
I wait for a long, silent moment, then feel the jerk of plastic as he takes it. There is a pause, and I look over to see him examining the front. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were a distinguished resident of Mulholland Oaks Apartments. Please give the cockroaches my regards upon your return home.” He smiles acidly and spins, a flutter of suit and presumption, and strides toward the dealership, my license firmly in hand, as if he has evidence and is headed for the principal’s office.
I wrap my hands around the steering wheel, gripping the leather tightly, and imagine his neck between my palms, the whites of his eyes as I strangle the life from his chest. The heavy weight of his body as it slumps, dead, against me. I exhale a slow breath and enjoy the vision for one, final, moment before I push it aside.
I feel the car shift as the passenger door opens and Jeremy settles in. I open my eyes and glance his way.
“Nice car,” he remarks casually.
“Yep.”
“Am I a little off base or does—”
“You’re off base,” I interrupt him.
“Really? ’Cause the sticker says a hundred thousand dollars, which is a—”
“A hundred and four thousand,” I correct him. “Don’t presume to know my financial situation.”
That shuts him up and he sits, silent, for a moment, before fully turning to me. “You have a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yep.”
The return footfalls are double in number and I groan, opening the door and preparing for battle, stepping out and turning to face the oncoming pair, my unhelpful salesman and his older suited counterpart, a man whose irritated expression screams of a supervisory title.
“Ms. Madden,” JagPusher begins. “You have no car currently, or previously, registered in your name.”
I fold my arms, catching a glimpse of Jeremy in my peripheral vision. He sits, facing forward, a confused expression on his face, which is adorable enough for me to want to cover him in kisses. “Your point?”
“I don’t think we’re the dealership for you,” the manager says with dismissive authority.
I lean against the car, feeling her straighten underneath me, and grin, my arms still folded over my T-shirt. “You’ve got five minutes to sort out your dick-measuring contest, then I need a key to test drive this car. This one. Not another F-TYPE, or your shitty-ass XFs, or some used Lexus that you have on the back lot. If you don’t get me a key, I’ll call Jaguar corporate, preorder an identical V8 from the next closest dealership, and bitch enough about discrimination that I’ll have it delivered directly to my fabulous apartment at Mulholland Oaks and let your dealership cover the shipping along with any servicing for the next ten years, just to help cover my pain and suffering.” I raise an eyebrow at the men and wait long enough to see indecision in their eyes before sliding back into the driver’s seat and reacquainting myself with my new baby.
Jeremy and I are left alone for less than five minutes before JagPusher returns, passing me a single black key, and stepping back with a pained look. Two minutes later, Jeremy and I are screaming down Highway 244.
Screaming might be a strong term. Softly whistling might be more appropriate. Whatever you’d call hands at ten and two, my foot whisper-soft against the pedal, the car traveling twenty miles under the speed limit and still in second gear. I can practically hear the car scoff at me. But other than my road trip down Murder Lane and the Fireworks Date, I haven’t driven in three, almost four years. So forgive me for not giving this car the proper strap-on fucking it deserves.
“We’re getting passed by minivans.” Jeremy’s voice is quiet, a touch of humor in it that indicates he is smiling.
I don’t look over. Can’t. I’m too scared to take my eyes off the road. I push slightly harder on the accelerator and watch the speedometer creep up to thirty-seven miles per hour, then relax my foot and put on my blinker.
“Where’re we going?”
“Back to the dealership. I’m happy with it.”
“We’ve gone a mile, tops. You haven’t even left second gear.”
Truth is, she scares me a little. I can feel the coil of energy in her body, know, with her quick jump from my pedal, what she is capable of and I respect that—the bundle of madness barely suppressed. I will learn to unleash her. But the fact that I fear her is reason enough for me to buy her. We are connected. We are more similar than Jeremy or JagPusher will ever understand. We both carry a demon inside.
CHAPTER 47
I CONSIDER REFUSING to go into the dealership upon our return. My reluctance half due to the fact that the employees seem to be presented, like fresh delicacies, in glass cubicles ready for my choosing, all waiting expectantly for death. The other half of my resistance to entering is pure stubbornness on my part, my adolescent desire to stamp my feet and crow my wealth and purchase ability exuberantly as I dramatically create a scene in the middle of the parking lot.
But I behave. I park carefully, palm the shiny new key and walk in, Jeremy’s hand finding mine and squeezing it. I look at our union, at his fingers looped through mine, the unexpected contact confusing in its normalcy. How long has it been since I held someone’s hand? Annie was the last, her seven-year-old palm slightly sticky in its grip. But… before that? Years. Years climbing on years of neglect. I detangle my hand from Jeremy’s and step through the glass door he holds open. I made the stupid decision to profess a love that I’m still unsure I should allow myself. I probably should, in a
n attempt at crisis management, insert a little space in this new relationship.
Once I pull out my checkbook and explain that I’ll be wiring cash for the car, all attitudes dissipate. There are smiles, waves, offers of champagne, and a disgusting display of ass kissing. After a halfhearted attempt at negotiation, they knock a few grand off the purchase price and begin the paperwork process. Jeremy and I step from the office and settle into the lobby’s couch.
“You can go,” I offer. “I’ll drive home.”
“I don’t mind. It shouldn’t take long. Did you want to get lunch?”
Lunch. I glance at my watch. One fifteen p.m. Normal people would be hungry. But all I want to do is get in my new car and drive. Celebrate my new independence. Even if my way of celebrating is driving in the slow lane with hazards on. “No. I need to get home.”
I push through my door an hour later, wincing when the knob slams into the white plaster with a thunk that sounds of damage. I move past this week’s collection of packages and pull out my cell, dialing a number I know by heart. It is not Wednesday. It is not two o’clock. But I need to speak to him. Need to hear his calming voice and rational thought process. I have done too much. I have gone too far. I am not ready for this. The decision I just made pushes on me with stern, unyielding fingers, shoving my selfworth down into the ground.
He answers and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Deanna? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just… I just need to talk for a moment.”
“It’s daytime. Are you okay?” You shouldn’t be uncontrollable during the day. His unspoken thought only increases my stress level.
“It’s nothing to freak out about. I—just—”
“You what?” Dr. Derek’s voice drops an octave, fully into calm psychiatrist mode, and I relax slightly, examining the key in my hand briefly—a forbidden burst of pleasure shooting through me. I set it on the counter and move to my bed, sinking onto the surface and peeling my shoes off.