The moment the rag is on his face, he thrashes. He tries to back up and throw me into the door. I tighten my forearm around his throat, curl the other under his arm and brace it against his shoulder. My feet plant firmly on the ground. He fights and scratches, tries to kick and pull out of my embrace, but he’s slowly losing the fight, slowly succumbing to the chloroform, and it’s mere seconds before his knees buckle, sending us sliding down the wall and onto the floor.
I finally let out a breath once he’s out, and my arms relax.
Now, I have to get this fucker up.
Just once, I’d like to get the guy down on the couch so I don’t have to drag him into a chair.
This is one more reason why I lift weights—all to handle anything that threatens her safety.
It’s an hour before he stirs. I have him tied to the computer chair, and I’m taking a random scroll on social media as I wait. Bonnie’s posted a photo of her lap as she sits on the floor with her headphones on her ears, drum pad and drumsticks between her legs.
“What… What the fuck—”
The guy’s words are slurred slightly. I put my phone back in my pocket and lean my hands behind me on the bed, relaxing back as he blinks and tries to jerk against the zip ties holding him down.
“Hi, Jeff,” I say casually.
He finally looks up, eyes wide.
I’ve always wondered if the bodysuit and mask are enough to legitimately strike fear in others. Sure, the person is usually scared once I start.
But first impressions matter.
“I didn’t do anything,” he blurts out before I have a chance to say another word. “If you’re here about my gambling debt, the money’s coming. I swear. Tell them… Tell them it’s coming—”
“Yeah, this isn’t about your debts,” I say, twisting the knife between my fingers.
He winces as if he thinks I’m about to cut him, and I notice the scar on his cheek. It doesn’t look like any accidental scar from a car wreck or anything simple like that. It appears calculated, the line following his cheekbone. Just like something I would do.
The realization that this more than likely isn’t the first time he’s been tied into a chair and threatened pushes an uneasy feeling into my bones.
“Take another guess,” I say.
His eyes drift to the computer, then to me, and when he doesn’t respond, I get off the bed, slide one hip onto the desk, and place my foot between his thighs, making sure to put pressure on what I’m sure is hisfavoritebody part.
He squirms uncomfortably, trying to move backward. “I… I don’t know. I haven’t done anything wrong,” he stammers.
“Is that your final answer?” I ask.
“I…” He blinks over and over, jaw sawing pathetically like he’s suddenly forgotten all the creepy things he was up to just hours before he left for his normal person job at the DMV.
I lean forward, head tilting as I drag the knife along his stubbled jaw. “Consider me your priest, Jeff… Confess your darkest sins.”
His throat moves, eyes darting back and forth from the computers, the door, the windows… I wonder if he’s clocking his cameras or trying to decide on an exit strategy.
The latter makes me laugh.
“Okay, Jeff. If you’re not willing to confess, I’ll help you remember.” I pick up my phone and text Kade one simple word, and within seconds, the computers light up in front of us.
“What the hell… How…” Jeff stares at the windows opening on the screens—photos of women he’s pretended to be over thelast six months, conversations and videos and intimate pictures he’s asked for, and those he’s sent in return.
I sit back, my arms folded as I watch him struggle.
“They’re all over eighteen,” he eventually blurts as if it’s the only excuse he can think of. “All of them. I swear. People do this all the time. Nothing I’ve done is illegal. I’m just talking to people online.”
“By pretending to be someone else…” I say deliberately.
“Okay, so it’s a bit of catfishing. It’s harmless,” he argues, and if his shoulders could shrug, they would. “They’re over age. You can check.”
