Do Not Disturb
Page 92
IT IS UNLIKELY that Mike will ever again sit in his empty house and not think of those hours. The hours he was chained to the bed. The hours he waited, unsure of his future.
Now, the emptiness haunts him. Reminds him too clearly of those hours. Of, for the first time in a long time, how alone he feels. Jamie left a few minutes ago, life and work calling, plants somewhere needing to be tended to. Without her, this house feels empty. Like he is not a soul. As if he doesn’t, in some way, breathe life into this space.
He doesn’t have to stay in this house. People in wheelchairs go out—have normal jobs, live normal lives. But truth be told, leaving? Forcing himself to participate in daily interactions with normal, I-walk-around-on-two-legs people? Doesn’t interest him. Never has. Everything he needs is here. A job he loves. Freedom, inside these walls. Fuck what society thinks is needed to be happy. He doesn’t need the sympathetic looks of the public, their chips and pokes. He can read their looks. One hooker just spat it out, without hesitation, saying what he can see in so many of their eyes. You’d be so hot, she drawled, popping her gum and crawling on top of him. If you weren’t in that wheelchair. Does it bother you?
His dick wouldn’t cooperate after that.
Being alone is better than being with someone who is there despite the handicap. The worst is the constant waiting—expecting that crestfallen look, that moment where the girl will be caught with her guard down, with a look of pity she doesn’t hide fast enough. Fuck that.
The outside world doesn’t care if he has paraplegia or is paralyzed. It’s all the same to them. Wheelchair boy. Wheelchair boy with an “isn’t that a shame” pretty face. Crestfallen looks of apology accompanying any introduction or passing greeting. So Mike will keep his life indoors. His world online. There he’s a king. There he’s popular and beautiful and the captain of the motherfucking football team.
But right now he’s nothing but alone and scared. Scared that he’s ripped apart a piece of Deanna’s life. A piece that code and firewalls won’t put back together. Scared that she, after this act of destruction, won’t talk to him anymore. Won’t answer his calls or IMs, won’t accept his chats when he invites her to private. Scared that he’s ripped off a piece of his own life that the false walls of cyberspace won’t put back together.
Jeremy is dead. Has to be. No calls or text, no Internet activity? Drove his truck home yesterday afternoon, parked it out front and did NOTHING that evening? Nothing that night? Unlikely. Mike checked his cell phone records for the past three years. Never silent for this long. And he’s been power calling him. Routing the calls so they look like they’re coming from her. No response, and now his battery is probably dead, ’cause it’s going straight to voice mail. So he’s dead, or maybe tied up, like Mike was. A gag or tape over his mouth, handcuffs around his wrists. That’s the hopeful side of him talking. She’ll bust in, rescue him. Be the hero. Kiss the guy. Wrap her legs around him and probably fuck him right there on the living room floor. Or on the bed, if he is tied up where Mike was. Welcome back to life; you only had to suffer for one night and now she’s here, naked. Everything you ever wanted. Prick.
There is a moment of guilt for cursing a man who is most likely dead. Mike wonders, for the umpteenth time, if he should call the cops. Send them over to Pacer’s place. But she is going there. Was already close by. And she’ll be beyond pissed if cops show up. She’s probably got Marcus’s fucking finger stuffed in her jeans pocket—his dead body in her trunk—his blood on her shirt. A wave of nausea rolls through him and he bends over the trash can, noticing, as his body fails to vomit, that it’s empty, a fresh white liner in it. Jamie. Helpful woman. There is something, a background word that catches his attention, the police scanner feed jabbering for the last six hours with absolutely nothing of interest. He turns up the volume and listens.
“… a 911 call regarding an explosion. Fire and medical respond to Twenty-three Prestwick Place.”
His heart stops, his hand moving the volume control higher. An explosion. His world suddenly closes a bit, his fingers moving before his mind even catches up, typing furiously and bringing up iCloud. Deanna’s cell. Find-A-Phoning its ass until the green dot destroys his world. Prestwick Place. On a square that has got to be his house. Deanna. Wrapping her legs around his body. Fucking him on the bed, celebrating his safe release from capture. BOOM. He feels his heart unnaturally quicken, his breath keeping pace.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Now, the emptiness haunts him. Reminds him too clearly of those hours. Of, for the first time in a long time, how alone he feels. Jamie left a few minutes ago, life and work calling, plants somewhere needing to be tended to. Without her, this house feels empty. Like he is not a soul. As if he doesn’t, in some way, breathe life into this space.
He doesn’t have to stay in this house. People in wheelchairs go out—have normal jobs, live normal lives. But truth be told, leaving? Forcing himself to participate in daily interactions with normal, I-walk-around-on-two-legs people? Doesn’t interest him. Never has. Everything he needs is here. A job he loves. Freedom, inside these walls. Fuck what society thinks is needed to be happy. He doesn’t need the sympathetic looks of the public, their chips and pokes. He can read their looks. One hooker just spat it out, without hesitation, saying what he can see in so many of their eyes. You’d be so hot, she drawled, popping her gum and crawling on top of him. If you weren’t in that wheelchair. Does it bother you?
His dick wouldn’t cooperate after that.
Being alone is better than being with someone who is there despite the handicap. The worst is the constant waiting—expecting that crestfallen look, that moment where the girl will be caught with her guard down, with a look of pity she doesn’t hide fast enough. Fuck that.
The outside world doesn’t care if he has paraplegia or is paralyzed. It’s all the same to them. Wheelchair boy. Wheelchair boy with an “isn’t that a shame” pretty face. Crestfallen looks of apology accompanying any introduction or passing greeting. So Mike will keep his life indoors. His world online. There he’s a king. There he’s popular and beautiful and the captain of the motherfucking football team.
But right now he’s nothing but alone and scared. Scared that he’s ripped apart a piece of Deanna’s life. A piece that code and firewalls won’t put back together. Scared that she, after this act of destruction, won’t talk to him anymore. Won’t answer his calls or IMs, won’t accept his chats when he invites her to private. Scared that he’s ripped off a piece of his own life that the false walls of cyberspace won’t put back together.
Jeremy is dead. Has to be. No calls or text, no Internet activity? Drove his truck home yesterday afternoon, parked it out front and did NOTHING that evening? Nothing that night? Unlikely. Mike checked his cell phone records for the past three years. Never silent for this long. And he’s been power calling him. Routing the calls so they look like they’re coming from her. No response, and now his battery is probably dead, ’cause it’s going straight to voice mail. So he’s dead, or maybe tied up, like Mike was. A gag or tape over his mouth, handcuffs around his wrists. That’s the hopeful side of him talking. She’ll bust in, rescue him. Be the hero. Kiss the guy. Wrap her legs around him and probably fuck him right there on the living room floor. Or on the bed, if he is tied up where Mike was. Welcome back to life; you only had to suffer for one night and now she’s here, naked. Everything you ever wanted. Prick.
There is a moment of guilt for cursing a man who is most likely dead. Mike wonders, for the umpteenth time, if he should call the cops. Send them over to Pacer’s place. But she is going there. Was already close by. And she’ll be beyond pissed if cops show up. She’s probably got Marcus’s fucking finger stuffed in her jeans pocket—his dead body in her trunk—his blood on her shirt. A wave of nausea rolls through him and he bends over the trash can, noticing, as his body fails to vomit, that it’s empty, a fresh white liner in it. Jamie. Helpful woman. There is something, a background word that catches his attention, the police scanner feed jabbering for the last six hours with absolutely nothing of interest. He turns up the volume and listens.
“… a 911 call regarding an explosion. Fire and medical respond to Twenty-three Prestwick Place.”
His heart stops, his hand moving the volume control higher. An explosion. His world suddenly closes a bit, his fingers moving before his mind even catches up, typing furiously and bringing up iCloud. Deanna’s cell. Find-A-Phoning its ass until the green dot destroys his world. Prestwick Place. On a square that has got to be his house. Deanna. Wrapping her legs around his body. Fucking him on the bed, celebrating his safe release from capture. BOOM. He feels his heart unnaturally quicken, his breath keeping pace.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
