Do Not Disturb
Page 11
I fold and sort thongs, panties, boyshorts. Line push-ups, underwires, and camisoles in my drawer. Hang up teddies, silk robes, and schoolgirl button-ups. Organize my leather crops, dildos, and ball gags. Strip off sheets that smell of lube and replace them with a fresh pink set. Lie back on said sheets and stare at the ceiling. Wish I saw stars instead of beams. Listen to Paul’s smooth voice and glance at the time. One hour twenty-one minutes so far. I close my eyes and laugh when he jokes.
There is a knock on the door, and I sit up with a frown.
Jeremy? I don’t know who else it could be. But this is odd, especially since he should be chewing on a ribeye at his sister’s house right now. I move to the door and look through the peephole, right at the time that another knock sounds.
Simon, his black hair sticking out in all directions. My frown deepens, and I hold the phone away from my mouth, covering the receiver with my hand. “What?” I call out to him.
The druggie’s head snaps up, his eyes at the peephole. It’s a weird experience when someone looks directly at you through the warped viewing glass. When you look back, knowing that they can’t see you, despite the proximity and directness of their stare. “Hey. I just wanted to see if you were home.”
“I’m always home.”
He laughs awkwardly, looking up and down the hall before looking at the peephole again. “Right. Can I come in? I thought maybe we could hang out. Get to know each other. I wanted to apologize for the other night… I brought beer.” He holds up what looks to be a six-pack.
He brought beer. Like six bucks’ worth of alcohol will change our entire relationship, cause me to open my door and welcome a stranger inside, to “get to know each other.” I’ll get to know him all right. Every inch of what lies underneath his skin. I bet his muscles are dry, the drugs in his system eating at any extra blood or fat. It’d probably be a breeze to skin him. I almost salivate at the thought and am brought back to earth by Paul’s voice in my ear. “You okay?”
Paul. Oh, right. The guy paying me seven bucks a minute to break his heart. I step away from the door, move the phone in front of my mouth. “Just a sec. My neighbor’s asking for something.” Asking for me to cut him open. Feast on his skin with every utensil in my safe.
I almost move to it. Roll my fingers over the safe’s dial to unlock the heavy door. Just in case. Just so I won’t have to struggle with it while Simon is here. Just so I can move the weapons to strategically convenient places around the room. Almost. Instead I take a deep breath, move away from the safe, back to the door. “Go away, Simon.”
“But—I…” He continues holding up the beer, a pathetic waste of a gesture. Ice-cold soda and he may have been granted entry. A root beer float, the ice cream still bobbing on top of dark carbonation? I’d have broken down the door in my haste to let him in.
Instead, I rest my forehead on the door, my eyes stuck to his image. “Leave me alone,” I bite out, my hand gripping the phone so hard I worry about breaking its cheap frame in half.
“What’s wrong?” Paul’s voice sounds worried. I ignore it, staring through the peephole.
“Fine, sorry.” Simon backs away, holding up his other hand in a calm-the-fuck-down manner. “I just wanted to apologize. Maybe it’s a bad time.”
“It’s always a bad time!” I yell the words, hoping my hand will muffle the words from Paul, and that the scream will get things through Simon’s skull before I lick the warm beer off his dead body.
I take a deep breath, holding the air and then blowing it out. Count to five because I’m not patient enough for ten. Turn and step away from the door. Wish it were nine at night, and I was locked in. Curse Simon for ruining a moment that felt normal. I take a few more breaths and return the phone to my ear.
“Sorry about that. My neighbor’s a pain in the ass.” My voice is so light I impress myself. So calm that it takes Paul a moment to respond.
“Uh… okay. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say smoothly. I lie back on my sheets and will my hands to stop shaking.
Six minutes later, Paul hangs up and I end the chat session. One hour thirty-one minutes. $636.09 earned and Simon is still alive. Life is, as much as it can be, good.
CHAPTER 11
BACK WHEN LIFE was good, Marcus had a system. It had been designed by his head of security, Thorat, after one of Marcus’s “dates” had called the cops and complained of rape. A prostitute, complaining of rape. It was laughable. Thorat had padded the pockets of the cops who arrived to take a report, and the police report and girl were never heard of again, a problem taken care of by his ex–Special Forces employee. After that mishap, Thorat took control. Used his considerable knowledge and corrupted intelligence to devise their system, one where Thorat provided the girls and disposed of them afterward. Marcus simply had to show up and enjoy himself. It kept his hands clean and his world simple.
There is a knock on the door, and I sit up with a frown.
Jeremy? I don’t know who else it could be. But this is odd, especially since he should be chewing on a ribeye at his sister’s house right now. I move to the door and look through the peephole, right at the time that another knock sounds.
Simon, his black hair sticking out in all directions. My frown deepens, and I hold the phone away from my mouth, covering the receiver with my hand. “What?” I call out to him.
The druggie’s head snaps up, his eyes at the peephole. It’s a weird experience when someone looks directly at you through the warped viewing glass. When you look back, knowing that they can’t see you, despite the proximity and directness of their stare. “Hey. I just wanted to see if you were home.”
“I’m always home.”
He laughs awkwardly, looking up and down the hall before looking at the peephole again. “Right. Can I come in? I thought maybe we could hang out. Get to know each other. I wanted to apologize for the other night… I brought beer.” He holds up what looks to be a six-pack.
He brought beer. Like six bucks’ worth of alcohol will change our entire relationship, cause me to open my door and welcome a stranger inside, to “get to know each other.” I’ll get to know him all right. Every inch of what lies underneath his skin. I bet his muscles are dry, the drugs in his system eating at any extra blood or fat. It’d probably be a breeze to skin him. I almost salivate at the thought and am brought back to earth by Paul’s voice in my ear. “You okay?”
Paul. Oh, right. The guy paying me seven bucks a minute to break his heart. I step away from the door, move the phone in front of my mouth. “Just a sec. My neighbor’s asking for something.” Asking for me to cut him open. Feast on his skin with every utensil in my safe.
I almost move to it. Roll my fingers over the safe’s dial to unlock the heavy door. Just in case. Just so I won’t have to struggle with it while Simon is here. Just so I can move the weapons to strategically convenient places around the room. Almost. Instead I take a deep breath, move away from the safe, back to the door. “Go away, Simon.”
“But—I…” He continues holding up the beer, a pathetic waste of a gesture. Ice-cold soda and he may have been granted entry. A root beer float, the ice cream still bobbing on top of dark carbonation? I’d have broken down the door in my haste to let him in.
Instead, I rest my forehead on the door, my eyes stuck to his image. “Leave me alone,” I bite out, my hand gripping the phone so hard I worry about breaking its cheap frame in half.
“What’s wrong?” Paul’s voice sounds worried. I ignore it, staring through the peephole.
“Fine, sorry.” Simon backs away, holding up his other hand in a calm-the-fuck-down manner. “I just wanted to apologize. Maybe it’s a bad time.”
“It’s always a bad time!” I yell the words, hoping my hand will muffle the words from Paul, and that the scream will get things through Simon’s skull before I lick the warm beer off his dead body.
I take a deep breath, holding the air and then blowing it out. Count to five because I’m not patient enough for ten. Turn and step away from the door. Wish it were nine at night, and I was locked in. Curse Simon for ruining a moment that felt normal. I take a few more breaths and return the phone to my ear.
“Sorry about that. My neighbor’s a pain in the ass.” My voice is so light I impress myself. So calm that it takes Paul a moment to respond.
“Uh… okay. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say smoothly. I lie back on my sheets and will my hands to stop shaking.
Six minutes later, Paul hangs up and I end the chat session. One hour thirty-one minutes. $636.09 earned and Simon is still alive. Life is, as much as it can be, good.
CHAPTER 11
BACK WHEN LIFE was good, Marcus had a system. It had been designed by his head of security, Thorat, after one of Marcus’s “dates” had called the cops and complained of rape. A prostitute, complaining of rape. It was laughable. Thorat had padded the pockets of the cops who arrived to take a report, and the police report and girl were never heard of again, a problem taken care of by his ex–Special Forces employee. After that mishap, Thorat took control. Used his considerable knowledge and corrupted intelligence to devise their system, one where Thorat provided the girls and disposed of them afterward. Marcus simply had to show up and enjoy himself. It kept his hands clean and his world simple.
