I barely fucking started and he’s already unconscious.
Grinding my teeth, I silence the voice of reason that tells me to leave him here. The same voice that kept mutteringhe’s a civilian. He is, but he took things too far and now, he’ll pay.
No more mercy.
I grab his ankle, dragging the limp asshole toward my car. My eyes dart around, scanning the perimeter, and once I’m certain no one’s watching, I throw Jensen in the trunk.
Looks like he’s going for a ride. It’s a two-hour trip to Boston. Knowing Andres, he won’t let me leave unless we head out for lunch together, so Jensen’s in for a wait.
???
It’s dark outside, and Jensen’s unconscious, zip-tied body lies motionless in the trunk as I yank it open.
I’ve learned to appreciate the Pontiac over the past weeks. There’s something enchanting about the sound of the old engine. Aside from that, the GTO earned a special place in my heart tonight thanks to its large trunk.
No way does a grown man fit in my Corvette with ease. You have to break bones, but here, Jensen fits fine. He lies there, perfectly comfortable were half of his face not bloodied.
The whack to the head I gifted him this morning split the skin at the back of his scalp. He got a few more hits whenever hewoke up, screaming and kicking inside the trunk. I remove the black bag covering his head to check if the gash above his temple stopped bleeding. It did. A waterfall of dried crimson covers his swelled-shut eye.
That’s not on me. Andres took it upon himself to help when Jensen started screaming earlier.
And now here we are, back at Lakeside, or rather, a few miles away, deep in the forest, just Jensen and me.
I took a detour on our way here, grabbing one of those chairs for immobilizing patients, with wrist and ankle straps, from the derelict party building. It barely fit inside the car.
I place it between two trees, positioning it front and center where the Pontiac’s lights will blind Jensen when he wakes from his obligatory nap.
Once that’s ready, I line up everything I’ll need on the hood and haul out Jensen’s comatose body, dragging him across the damp ground. I’ve tortured men in the dead of the night, far from civilization, far fromhelp, many times over the years, but tonight’s special because it’s not about money. It’s not a show of power or getting even.
Tonight is personal.
It’s about protecting the woman I—
It’s about protecting Hailey’s memories.
With practiced movements, I cut the zip ties binding Jensen’s hands behind his back, then secure his wrists and ankles with the leather straps.
I might borrow this chair when I’m done playing student at Lakeside. It adds a disturbing layer to this torture session that I’m sure my future victims will appreciate. Kind of like waking up in another installment ofSaw.
My wristwatch tells me it’s almost eleven at night. The forest shrouded in a pitch-black darkness, cold and quiet. We’re seven miles from the asylum. An average scream carries about threequarters of a mile. In this still silence, if Jensen giveshelpall he has, his cries might carry a mile tops.
The bottom line is, he can scream until he coughs up his lungs, but no one will hear him. There are no roads here. No beaten paths. Seven miles takes ten minutes tops on a straight road, but I idled along for an hour, avoiding trees and branches while navigating the uneven terrain.
Once the stage is set, I lean against the hood, grab a pack of cigarettes and light one up, surrounding myself with thick, gray smoke clouds.
“You stink,”comes back like an echo.
I don’t put the cigarette out like I have done every time since Hailey said that. She won’t know. By the time I’m done with Jensen I’ll need a long shower to wash off the grime and blood; it’ll wash away the stench of smoke, too.
The anticipation growing inside me morphs into an excited, sick thrill. I can’t wait until Jensen wakes up.
I can’t wait for the flash of horror in his eyes when he sees me and realizes he took it too goddamn far.
That I’m a man of my word and Iwillfuck him up.
Three minutes later, I finish the cigarette. Jensen’s still out cold and I’m not a patient man. I didn’t think I smacked his head that hard last time he woke up, but he shows no signs of coming back... Either I used more force than planned, or he’s one weak pussy.
Growing bored with each passing second, I unscrew a bottle of water, pouring the contents over his face, hidden behind a black cloth bag.
