Poking my head around the door, I see the bedroom is set up similar to the pictures on the real estate website. To the right, the bathroom door is wide open, pale curls of steam wafting into the bedroom.
And he’s alone. No company tonight—except for me.
Entering the bedroom, I raise the baseball bat, ready to strike. My palms sweat against my gloves as I wring the bat tighter and take a deep breath to ease the nerves pulsing with each burst of adrenaline.
I enter the bathroom.
The pale globes of Brent’s ass greet me as he stands back up, his feet and legs covered in eucalyptus-scented suds.
“Knock, knock.”
Brent whips around, his eyes going wide as he drops his mint green loofa onto the shower floor. His body swivels, and his feet slip on the soapy tiles.
Like watching a car crash in slow motion, Brent’s body falls sideways as his feet fly out from under him. His shoulder slams into the soap holder with a crunching noise before his head whacks the stone on the way down.
The stone soap-shelf breaks off, clattering to the floor beside his head as Brent sinks into a heap.
Shit. Well, that was easy.
Brent’s eyes stay closed as water rushes around his lower half. Taking advantage, I lower the bat far enough out of reach in case he’s faking it—though I doubt it. That was a nasty fall.
Pulling out the cuffs, I move his hands behind his back. An angry red mark spreads over his arm, an eggplant-colored bruise already blooming. Dumbass broke his arm on the way down.
Shutting off the water, I grab a towel and loop it around my arms to keep me as dry as possible before I hoist a naked man off the shower floor.
Douchebag works out. He’s packed with muscle that only a strict diet and a personal trainer can buy. Probably eats all organic shit too. I make a mental note to check his fridge before I leave.
Lowering him onto the bed, I hurry downstairs and grab my bag. In seconds, I’m back, and Brent’s still out cold.
Undoing the cuffs, I tie his good arm to the bed first, keeping it high and tight to the post. As I loop the rope around his second wrist and knot it, I pull his arm up. The pain must have been enough to jerk him awake.
Brent shouts in a sharp yap, trying to bring his arm back down.
“What… who… Ah!” Brent screams as I loop the rope around the bed and pull, forcing his injured arm up higher. Thankfully, his neighbors live just far enough away that no one could hear him unless they’re walking past his house at ten o’clock at night.
“Your arm’s the least of your problems, Brent.”
Dumbass looks at me with watery green eyes. The little bitch is about to cry. Nothing wrong with crying. Real men cry, but then again, real men don’t rape.
“Please,” he begs. “I have money. Take what you want.”
“You sure about that?” He has no idea what he’s giving me permission to do.
He nods violently against his pillow. “Yes, anything. Take it. I’ll give you anything.”
I laugh more dramatically than I need to. “Interesting choice of words.”
Grabbing another rope from my bag, I make my way over to his right leg.
As expected, Brent starts kicking wildly. Grabbing his thigh, I avoid his flaccid junk flipping around like a baby eel out of water and tilt his body up and over until his weight goes on his bad arm.
“Fuck!” He screams again, giving me time to loop the rope around his thigh and step out of the way of the kick zone.
His body settles flat on his back again. “Please. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
“Well, you got that last part right.” Kneeling beside the bed, I wrap the ropes around the bedposts and pull. “You won’t be telling anyone anything.”
Brent’s leg rises. As soon as he realizes, he fights me to stop it, but I overpower him until his knee is bent and almost touching his shoulder before tying off my knot to the solid-wood headboard.
