It works a treat.
As he starts spluttering, the water stops flowing and wireless headphones land on his head. With a click of a button on my cell, “Amsterdam” by Nothing But Thieves plays in his ears.
I’m a touch theatrical, I know. I enjoy making a good show, if only for myself—something I learned from Dante Carrow.
Leaning back against the hood again, I let Jensen listen for two minutes and seventeen seconds. He whimpers, thrashing about and flexing his arms to break free.
Not that it’ll work.
His moves are as limited as his senses. He can’t see. He can’t speak. He can’t move or hear anything besides the song. Under the black bag all he can smell or taste is the blood, sweat, and spit-soaked cloth gagging his mouth.
I’ve used it in similar situations for eight years, never once giving it a wash. It’s a biohazard by now, but who cares?
I sure don’t.
Jensen shouldn’t either. What he should do is think. Think, remember, and regret last night’s events. But I’ve been in this game too long and I know that while he’s thrashing about, his mind is ruled by pure terror.
It takes forty seconds of futile attempts to unfetter himself before his tactic shifts. He stops fighting against the threat he can’t name or see andnowhe’s thinking. Calculating, rationalizing.
He’s remembering last night.
Recalling the way Hailey felt pressed against him as he held her, moving to the rhythm of the song in his ears.
It’s clear as day where his mind is... his body language speaks volumes. His tense muscles relax. His long fingers grip the armrests, anchoring himself in place.
He’s calming down.
No matter how good his emotion-marshaling skills, all that sudden calm is veiled with fear and uncertainty. It always is. He has no idea where he is, why he’s here, or what’s going on. I bet he’s trying to guess.
Maybe it’s a prank? Halloween isn’t far away... Maybe it’s part of some elaborate game?
He’s arrogant enough to wonder if this is Hailey’s doing, I’m sure. After all, this son of a bitch probably considers “Amsterdam”theirsong by now.
It so fucking isn’t.
Once the chorus hits, seeping faintly from the headphones, the images flashing through my mind give me whiplash. I’m nauseous recalling the glee in Hailey’s eyes while she was enjoying the evening, seconds before Jensen approached.
The glee that vanished quickly, replaced by unease when Jensen’s hands roved her body, sliding far enough down her front to almost cup her pussy.
Mypussy.
The wrath piercing through me as I watched him touch her comes back, twice as fucking potent.
It was a goddamn torture not splitting Jensen’s head wide open last night, but it’s even harder now I’ve had a taste of Hailey and seen her come undone. Now I know he was scheming out an evening with her. An evening of getting her drunk so he could get laid.
Last night, Jensen was drunk. Clingy. Touchy-feely. He ignored Hailey when she corrected him, placing his hands firmly in the safe zones of her body. He made her feel uncomfortable.
Unsafe.
It doesn’t matter how many beers he drank, though if I dug deep, I’d find a shred of understanding. We all do stupid things when we’re drunk.
But this morning he was sober, in full control of his mind when he decided he’d get my girl drunk so she’d put out.
Civilian or not, he’ll pay for that. No one can threaten Hailey’s safety and come out unscathed. She’s mine.
Right now, the air smells like wet earth and rain out here. Fresh, crisp. Oddly comforting.
Not for long.
