“When are you planning on being intimate? And will it be during the day or at night? Have you thought these details through?” His voice has increased in agitation, and I would bet a million dollars he is standing right now, pacing behind his desk, his face twisted in frustration.
I roll my eyes, standing and walking over to the apple, picking it up and throwing it away. “Killing doesn’t seem to be on my mind when we are… please don’t say ‘intimate.’ It makes you sound ancient. And you’re… what—under fifty, right?” It is a weak attempt at sleuthing. I know so little about this man, other than that he has a smooth voice that could make a killing in phone sex, should he ever be so inclined. I’ve considered siccing Mike on him, but that seems invasive, like something that shouldn’t be done to a friend. Plus, the fantasies of Derek make it all the more fun. Chances are he’s George Costanza with a mullet, and there’s no way I can fantasize to that image. Better that I envision him leaning back in his chair, a Josh Duhamel type, with glasses, his suit unbuttoned, twirling a pen lazily as he reaches down and adjusts his hardening cock.
“How long have you been considering this?”
I pretend that there’s a bit of a hitch to his tone, a thickening that indicates arousal. “A while.” Definitely under fifty. “And please, just call it what it is. No more ‘intimate’ terminology.”
“Which is?”
Okay, I’m not crazy. There is definitely a bit of a sexual drawl in that question. I grin, letting my voice drop and my tone change. “Fucking, Derek. Crazy, screammynamelouder fucking.”
Silence. Maybe I took that answer a little too far.
“Time’s up, Deanna,” he says shortly, and I glance at the wall clock, silently arguing with him that we have eight minutes left. “Your medication will not affect, or be affected by, birth control. Please note that I strongly suggest you refrain from any sexual activity as it could trigger an episode. Especially at night.”
A click, absolute and decisive, sounds through the cell phone’s receiver, and he is gone. I look to the other side of my apartment, to my bed of sex, cameras, toys, and lingerie spread all over its surface. Refrain from any sexual activity? Bitch, please.
CHAPTER 32
HackOffMyBigCock: u there?
JessReilly19: yep
HackOffMyBigCock: you flagged a client about a month ago. A freebird71.
JessReilly19: Go on
HackOffMyBigCock: his name is Marcus Renza. He was just released from jail.
JessReilly19: Awesome. For what?
HackOffMyBigCock: rape and aggravated battery JessReilly19: Swell. Thanks for the speedy warning.
HackOffMyBigCock: you flagged 32 people last month. my caseload got backed up. Plus I’m assuming, from your smartass tone, that you are still alive.
JessReilly19: For now.
HackOffMyBigCock: want me to block him from your sites and social networks?
JessReilly19: No. he’s a potential whale. I’ll tread lightly. If he misbehaves, I’ll let you know to cut him off.
HackOffMyBigCock: I could do more.
JessReilly19: Stop stretching your morals on my dime. I can take care of myself.
HackOffMyBigCock: never doubted that babe.
JessReilly19: Thanks for the heads up HackOffMyBigCock: anytime. The rest of the list was clean.
JessReilly19: Got to run. Horny men waiting.
HackOffMyBigCock: bye sexy
CHAPTER 33
VILLAINS COME IN all shapes and forms. I’m sure no one would have suspected my mother, her gingerbread apron tied perfectly over pressed pants and paired with a spotless smile. Or me, the barely-looks-eighteen beauty in a pink cami and white panties, kneeling on my bed and smiling into my webcam.
I know better. Regardless of the exterior smile, regardless of how sweet, or handsome, or friendly someone may look, I should never trust them. I should never let them get close enough to hurt me. Even Jeremy. In some ways, especially Jeremy.
I’ve been turning it over ever since my conversation with Derek. Debated the point of undertaking an unwinnable journey. My side of our relationship has become, in these deliberations, a struggle to keep him emotionally at bay. I have physically let him in, let him run those strong fingers over every inch of my body, my skin thirsty for the touch, my mouth eager for the contact. But I won’t let him touch my heart. It isn’t fair to let him love me, not when he doesn’t really know what it is he is loving. He doesn’t know what he holds in his hand, who he kisses over takeout. He thinks he knows, he thinks he is aware of my dark desires to hurt and thinks that that makes him educated, protected. But when he doesn’t know what I’ve done with that need, what lives I have taken… can his love be true without that information?
Our relationship started out so guarded, my fear of my actions setting so many parameters and restrictions on our time that we barely discussed anything other than the basics. And as time has gone on I have carefully trained him to avoid certain subjects. My work is discussed freely. But any discussion of death is avoided. He has tried to ask about the past, about where I went that night when I borrowed his truck a couple of months ago. But I have stayed silent and he, respectful Jeremy, hasn’t pushed the issue.
A part of me thinks that I should tell him. Should give him some idea of what lies beneath my skin. He might take my fears more seriously if he knew. Might do more to ensure that I am returned to my apartment at night. Might understand why I insist we avoid steak knives, glass bottles, or anything with a point sharp enough to kill. So I consider, at weak moments, telling him things. Sharing my past—at least some of it—my moral compass wavering over exclusion points and disclosure limits. Trust, a loosening of the purse strings that contain my secrets, might be necessary for a viable relationship. And maybe, after he knows what I am capable of, he won’t run. He’ll stay.