by Keri Lake
Some days, I think I could. Particularly as this place was designed for my favorite pastime.
A cage against one wall holds a woman, naked and pale, curled into a ball. Her arms are bound by leather cuffs, loose enough she can slide them off, if she wants, but she won’t. Just like she won’t remove the blindfold over her eyes, or the stilettos strapped to delicate feet.
She won’t because she knows it’ll exacerbate my frustration if she does, and there’s nothing she wants more in this world than to please me. Because pleasing me means pleasure for her, the kind that transcends the mind into subspace.
Unfortunately, her reward will have to wait another night.
I unlock the cage, allowing her to crawl out on all fours.
“Please, let me go,” she bleats, and scuttles to get away from me.
Gripping one of her ankles, I drag her back toward me, which sets off a last ditch effort to get loose. Heels peck against my arm, as she kicks and claws at the floor, the sight of her struggle working its magic on my cock.
“Yeah, that’s it.” I grit through clenched teeth, yanking her backward, and grab her by the mid-section.
She wriggles against my body, knocking the towel away, and I slam her against the top of the cage, my chest to her back, as I draw her hair out of my face. “Please. I want to go home.”
Even in three-inch heels, she doesn’t quite meet my height, but it’s enough that, when bent forward over red velvet padding that cushions her breasts, her ass sits propped high enough to meet my cock.
“This is your home for as long as I say.”
She’s clean and sterile—two things I specifically requested when I placed the order for her a couple weeks back.
Squirming, she fights me, as I gather her arms and hold her down.
“No! Stop! Stop!”
And I would, but that’s not her safe word. It’s one of the acceptable forms of resistance that we both agreed on, mostly because it gets me excited.
Except tonight, I feel like I’m merely going through motions, and the fact that this is all staged isn’t doing much to help that.
I’d hoped for a quick fuck before bed, but my dick is getting increasingly flaccid by the second. Staring down at her ass, I spread her apart, confirming she hasn’t removed the plug I inserted within hours of her arrival. Below it, her pussy glistens, telling me she’s already wet and ready.
Steak for the lions.
She doesn’t talk, or mutter a word, unless in struggle, because she isn’t supposed to. I don’t care to know anything about her, or what she likes. In exchange, she’ll walk out of here with enough money to support whatever endeavors she chooses. Most of the girls I’ve ordered are in college, looking to finance a career, but that’s information volunteered by the organization that provides them, not because I bothered to ask.
I line myself at her entrance and rub my hand across my jaw, already bored with this. Sex has become as dull as killing. As menial a task as brushing my teeth and checking my messages later.
I try to follow a rule that if I’m not feeling it, there’s no sense beating a dead horse, but I know a quick fuck would set me right again. If I could get hard and come.
I feel nothing.
She’s mine for one more week, but from the looks of it, I don’t think I’ll be keeping her for one more day.
It’s not her fault, but mine.
With a shake of my head, I don’t even bother to enter her, and instead, step back. I notice the slickness dripping down the back of her thighs and nab my towel to wipe away the evidence of her excitement, which at this point is nothing more than a slap in the face. Fastened with a loose knot, the blindfold slides easily over her head. “Gather your things. I’ll be returning you first thing in the morning.”
She pushes off the cage and stares down at me, brows winged as if she might cry.
“You did nothing wrong. I’ll provide full payment for your services.”
“Master Voss, I—”
“You don’t have to call me Master. You’re welcome to sleep in the bed tonight. Or, if you’d like, I can call an Uber to pick you up once you’re packed.”
“Are you sure I didn’t do anything wrong? I didn’t use the safe word once this time.”
“Positive.” I nod my head toward the door at the opposite side of the room. “Through that door is an exit to Reade Street. The code to get out is HELP. Make sure you have all your things, as you can’t get back in once you leave.”
“And if I don’t want to leave?” she asks meekly, lowering her gaze from mine. “I mean, if I decide to stay the night?”
“Then, make sure you have all your things in the morning when you leave. There’s a phone and credit card in the nightstand should you wish to call a ride. Please don’t steal the phone. It’s a pain the ass to replace, and the credit card is nothing more than a prepaid, so you won’t get much from it.”
“So, I guess this is goodbye.” At my silent stare, she lowers her gaze toward her hands. “Thank you for an … intense week. Probably the scariest and most exciting I’ve had in a long time.”
I wish I could say the same. In fact, I wish I could’ve blown one last load before setting her free, but life is too short to waste on someone so eager and willing to please. I don’t want a silver platter. I want the chase. The target and capture, and to get hard from the mere thought of conquer. I want fight and resistance, and all the things for which I’ve deprived myself the last decade.
“I’ll forward payment immediately. Goodnight,” I say, turning away from her.
Up the staircase and through the door that locks behind me, I make my way back to the kitchen, where I down a shot of bourbon, then head to my office.
On the desk sits an old wooden metronome, with a pendulum that I release as I pass by. The incessant click, click, click beats against the tension in my muscles, and I slump into the leather, office chair in front of the window facing Church Street, letting the sound calm me. Staring off takes me back to the days when my mother played piano, those brief and blissful moments encapsulated in seventy beats per minute, before my grandfather came home and tainted the mood with his overbearing temper. As a child, I suffered from terrible headaches, the kind that left me clutching my skull on the floor with tears in my eyes, and in her effort to soothe the pain, she would often play something soft and quiet. I loved watching her play, while those ticks matched the natural rhythm of my heart.
Only seconds later, I feel the warmth of the bourbon and the ease of my muscles slipping into a more relaxed state.
My phone blinks with a new message. I open it to an email from my CryptMail account. It’s an encrypted email, evident in the string of numbers of my address that keeps it anonymous. I created the account back when I lived in Chicago and advertised on Tor as a hitman for hire. Haven’t been active on the site in nearly a decade, and I can’t begin to imagine how someone might’ve stumbled upon it after all these years.
The message reads: Want to play a game?
“These motherfuckers,” I mutter, shaking my head. With a huff, I click reply and type: Sure. Solitaire? Go fuck yourself.
No sooner do I set my phone down than the damn thing chimes with another message. Asshole must be at his computer waiting for my response.
For kicks, I open it.
I need you to fix a problem for me.
I don’t fix other people’s problems anymore, I type back.
The mailbox blinks a new message. Twitchy must have his fingers hovering over the keyboard, for chrissakes.
Are you familiar with the The Sandman of Chicago?
What is that, like a musical? Nope, I reply.
Perhaps the name Carl Jenson rings a bell?
Blood cold as ice, I stare down at the name. Of course it rings a bell. A loud, blaring obnoxious bell that I silenced nearly two decades ago, to the date, when I pushed him off the old bridge behind my grandfather’s estate—the most unsatisfying death I ever witnessed.
&nbs
p; Who is this?
Our conversation becomes more of a chat, as he continues to respond within seconds. He’s found a new toy. Pretty thing with pretty brown eyes.
Becoming a hitman wasn’t entirely by chance, and neither was my innate proclivity for sadism. I learned from the best, the twisted thrill of watching things die running through my veins since I was a boy. Carl Jenson was, by far, the most sadistic psychopath I ever met, which is saying a lot coming from a man who works for an agency that tortures high profile criminals. He was also the uncle I got stuck with after my mother died.
Where?
Your old stomping grounds, of course.
As tempting as all of this may be, I’m not interested in returning to the shithole neighborhood where I grew up. Carl Jenson is dead.
Perhaps. But if you’re wrong, then brown eyes will make a stunning addition to my collection. I’m prepared to wire twenty thousand in Bitcoins to the address indicated on your website.
For what?
To find me. A fun little game of cat and mouse.
I don’t play games. And neither should you.
You used to enjoy the games we played. Don’t you remember?
Pain throbs in my skull as I grind my teeth, my thoughts carrying me back to twenty years ago, when I was at the mercy of my sadistic bastard of an uncle, who enjoyed tormenting me for fun.
I killed him myself. Watched his body carried off by the river’s rapid current. To hell with this asshole. For a split second, I wonder if it’s Jackson, messing with me, but no way he’d risk my retaliation after what happened this afternoon.
Fuck your games. Carl is dead. Let it go.
I click out, just as a new message comes in. This one with an attachment. Must be the bourbon that makes me click it open. The attached news article is a story about a serial killer in the Chicago area, known locally as The Sandman. As I read on, one particular detail sends a cold chill up my spine: he cuts his victims eyeballs out and fills the sockets with sand made of bone meal.
My thoughts drift back to my childhood, to the many carcasses of animals my uncle captured and tortured, and left scattered around my grandfather’s property. In all cases, their eyes had been removed and filled with sand made of bone meal.
Who is this? I type back, the possibility becoming more real.
You have three weeks. Her name is Nola Tensley.
Why would he tell me her name? That makes no sense.
Who is she to you?
I wait for his response, but nothing more arrives. Tipping back another sip of bourbon, I stare down at the thread of messages spanning the length of my phone screen.
Impossible. I watched him hit the water. I watched his body crumple with the impact and sink below the surface with the racing current. I had no doubts at the time that he was dead, and after nearly two decades of peace and quiet, I’d be hard pressed to believe otherwise.
If, by some small measure of chance, he is alive, though, the trip would be well worth it. As much as I’d like to believe my intentions are saving some unsuspecting victim from becoming his next sand-bagged corpse, the good guy shit was never really my thing.
No, the worm on the hook for me is Carl, whose face I see in every bastard that lands beneath my blade, and every time someone touches my face, I’m reminded of that night.
I’ve dreamed of the day I could repay the favor of destroying his life, slow and meticulously, just as he did mine. The excitement stirring in my blood tells me that walking away from this isn’t going to be an option for me. The timing is a little uncanny, freakish even, but I can’t deny that fate sure as hell picked the right moment to drop this little crap-cannon into my lap. And my mind’s already ahead of me. Already planning.
Hotels and motels will be too easy for him to track me down, even with cash, and I don’t need some nosy maid rifling through my shit, so I’ll need to find a place to lay low.
A place I can keep a close watch on this Nola Tensley.
4
Nola
It’s after three when the diner starts to settle after the lunch rush. The balls of my feet ache, my shoulders feel like twenty pound weights are slung over them, and I’ve got a headache from hell. Didn’t get much sleep again the night before. Even with Oliver out of the house, I woke up to his screams, only to find his bed was completely empty—as it should’ve been. But that didn’t stop me from freaking out at first, when I jumped out of bed half asleep.
Stealing a quick break, I head out the back door of the diner, to check my phone and have a much-needed cigarette. I don’t smoke as a general rule, but I like having a pack on hand while at work. Sometimes, it’s nice to sneak away.
There’s a notification up on my screen from an unknown number. Could be a bill collector, or some shit spam call. Or a response to the ad I placed for a renter.
When it pops up again, in real time, I answer, “Hello?”
“I understand you have an apartment for rent?” The voice on the other end catches me off guard. Deep and rich, undeniably masculine, it practically vibrates through the phone.
“Uh … yes. I do.” I catch myself, remembering I decided not to rent to a guy. Nothing against guys in general, but I don’t want to end up in a situation with a creeper. “I’m sorry, it’s … only for a month,” I say, hoping it’s enough to make him lose interest.
“Perfect. I’ll take it.”
“Well … you … um. It’s twelve hundred dollars for the month. With a deposit. Paid up front.” I’m throwing out a ridiculous deal to this guy, and as soon as he finds out it’s nothing but a small four hundred square foot studio, he’s going to tell me to go to hell.
“I can do that.”
“It’s not really an apartment. More like one big divided room. Quite small, actually. And it’s not really convenient, or close to downtown.”
“It’s fully furnished?”
“With outdated furniture, yes.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you weren’t interested in renting to a man.”
“What? No! Oh, my God, that’s …” Not a lie. “So far from the truth. I’m just … being totally honest with you.”
“I appreciate it. I’ll drop by the deposit and sign whatever paperwork you need.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don’t know who this guy thinks he’s talking to, but I’m not about to rent to the first asshole that calls my number.
“I’ll need to do a background check?” Really, Nola? Are you sure you need to do a background check?
“Of course. I can provide whatever you need. I’d like to move in this evening.”
“This … wait, wait. This is moving …. I just need to process this a second.” I slap a hand to my forehead, trying to make sense of what’s going on. I’d planned to rent the place, hoping for five hundred a month, realizing most would probably take one look at the place and insist on four. This guy is willing to pay twelve, and he hasn’t even seen it. Surely, when he sees it, after agreeing to pay such an ungodly amount over the phone, he’ll want to strangle me. I’d want to strangle me.
“Sure. Process away.”
“We’ll start with a background check first. If you could …”
“Do you have a pen? I’m happy to provide my name and social security.”
Again, I’m slapped upside the head. Who the hell gives out that information over the phone? “Just like that? You don’t even know me. I mean, I could be some weirdo, roping in unsuspecting guys. A grifter. Or a black widow.”
“A grifter? I never thought of that. Or a black widow, for that matter.” The amusement in his voice adds an interesting spin to his response. “How about if I come by and see it. Make sure you’re not trying to lure me into a web.”
“When?”
“Tonight. Eight o’clock.”
“Eight? That’s …” Dark, and the perfect cover for bad shit to go down. “How about tomorrow morning? Not too early. I’m working a double tonight.”
“How’s ten?”
“Ten works.” I don’t even really know what I’m agreeing to. Not even posted a full forty-eight hours, I’ve already got a potential renter who’s willing to pay more than double what I planned to rent it for. I should feel guilty about that, but if this guy turns out to be a creep, I’ll consider the extra seven hundred an added security deposit—as in, the cost of adding cameras, and shit, to my house.
I click off the call and head back inside, still somewhat stunned.
Bethany’s fixing her lipstick at the lunch counter, and I approach from behind and knock her elbow, sending a line of candy apple red up to her nose.
“Bitch!” she says, chuckling when she wipes the mess with a napkin.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
“You’re in a good mood. What’s that about?”
“I think I have someone to rent the in-law suite. Means I don’t have to take all these extra shifts. For the next month, anyway, unless he decides to rent longer.”
“He?”
Ugh, anything with a dick, and she’s all over it. “We’ll see. If he turns out to be a creeper, I’ll be sure to send him to you and Harv.”
“You met him yet?”
“No. Not yet. Supposed to check out the apartment tomorrow morning.”
“What if he’s tall and muscular? And hot as hell?”
“I’m not looking for a hookup, Beth. I just need some extra cash for Christmas.”
“Hookups are good for you. A healthy sex life is important, and let’s face it, you didn’t have much of that when Denny was alive.”
I don’t answer that, because she’s right. Denny and I shared the occasional quickie in the bathroom, while Oliver was asleep, mostly just to blow off some of the tension between us. Always felt like more of a weekly quota than a sex life.
“Well, that’s what vibrators are for, right?”
“If you use them, yes. You’re not still carrying the torch for him, are you? He was never good enough for you.”