“Nice hat,” he grumbles. “I’ll make sure I bury you wearing it.”
“Now, come on, Sal,” I say. “I know it hurts, getting your ass handed to you by a girl, but don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
“I mean it,” I say, taking another gulp of my drink and delighting in the way it burns as it slides down my throat. “Just tell me how to unlock your front door, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
See, I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes trying to get out of this fucking place. And I can’t. Every door, every window, has this same fucking keypad stuck to it. The windows don’t open. And the elevator door we came in from the basement is the same—it only works if you know the code.
Sal’s eyes light up. “She set the alarm,” he says, grinning. “That dumb bitch finally listened.”
“Good for you,” I say, feeling slightly uneasy at the fact that blonde playboy bunny could get herself out of this house, but I can’t. It’s infuriating.
“Here’s the thing,” Sal says. “I’m not giving you the alarm code, unless you tell me where Kaitlin is.”
I pull the gun from my apron pocket and point it at him. “Here’s the thing,” I say, mimicking his tone. “You’re telling me exactly how to unlock that door, asshole, or I’ll redecorate this room with your fucking brain matter.”
TWELVE
ZETH
A pineapple sits on the kitchen counter. A pineapple. It’s just not something you see everyday. It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night, that’s for sure. I’m all for eating fruit—you don’t get a body like mine by shoving Twinkies down your throat twenty-four seven—but this thing looks like it requires preparation. It’s fucking spiky. I stand in the kitchen, staring at it for a while, contemplating how to proceed, and then I figure, fuck it, I’ll wing it and go on a mission to find a knife.
Sloane’s still asleep upstairs in our bed. Our bed. I never thought I’d be thinking those words. It gives me insane pleasure to run a playback of what took place in that bed yesterday in minute detail as I carve up the fruit for my girl’s breakfast. There was a lot of spanking involved. And a tiny clamp that I hooked up to Sloane’s clit, firing electrical charges into her sweet pussy that had her clawing at my skin and screaming out my name. I fucking love when she does that.
It’s one of those rare sunny mornings in Seattle. Like a damn finger of fate pointing straight down from Heaven, a pillar of light is shining straight through the glass doors at the front of the house, landing directly on the drawer where I stowed a small, velvet covered box three nights ago. A gift for Sloane. A gift I’m not ready to give her yet. Seems as though every time I walk past that goddamn drawer, I can feel the box inside humming like a freaking signalling beacon. I really need to move it. Take it down to the gym or something. Leave it in my locker there. She’d never find it amongst all my sweat-soaked work out clothes, hand wraps and boxing gloves. But then, no. That just seems fucking wrong.
I carry the sliced pineapple upstairs on a plate, along with the eggs I’ve made and some fresh orange juice. Very fucking domesticated. I would never have done this for anyone else. The stars would have collided and the universe collapsed in on itself before I bowed and scraped to any other chick. I don’t see taking care of my girl as bowing and scraping now, though. I see it as making sure she’s fed. Making sure she’s content. Making sure she’s safe. Making sure she’s fit and healthy enough for me to fuck her the way I like, and for her to demand more.
She’s still asleep when I enter the bedroom. Her dark hair is spilled across her pillow in loose waves around her head, her almost black eyelashes like charcoal smudges against her pale cheeks. She looks like she’s been drawn or something. Created out of thin air. I find myself thinking that a lot—that someone has crafted her, this mythical creature who’s turned my life upside down—because how else can she be real? It makes no sense. The universe just isn’t this kind to anyone, especially guys like me.