House Arrest Countdown: 2 Weeks
MARCUS SHUTS DOWN the computer, his sex drive sated, the latest Jess Reilly videos spurring his arousal in a way that the white-trash hooker had failed to do. He gave up on ordering in * after that night. Decided to wait until his house arrest ended, then celebrate his freedom in the proper fashion, his sights once again set on Jess Reilly.
He has jacked off to the camgirl every night this week, the “Submissive” section of her website being of particular interest to him, her normally feisty eyes staring into the camera, focused right on him, their stare softer, more willing, the shudder of her obedience making his cock stand at attention every fucking time. She is perfect. She is exactly what he needs. The obedience in these videos shows that she is already capable of it. He may not have to work too hard to pull it out of her. She will be so sweet when she cries beneath him.
With a second thought, he turns the computer back on, relogs into her site and stares at the “Contact Me” button. It has been five weeks since the bitch banned him from the camsite. Her loss, as the number of hours he’d spent on her videos could have meant serious income. Now, it feels like the right time to reapproach her. He’ll start with an appointment on her site, have a chat session where she’ll breathe his name into the camera and tell him the sexual words he needs to hear. Make him come. He has two weeks till his house arrest ends. Enough time to work his way back into her good graces, offer her even more money this time. The dollar figure is really irrelevant considering that she’ll never see the money anyway. He should go big. Throw out a large enough figure she won’t be able to say no. Fifty thousand—that’ll catch her attention. Cause her to make plans, meet him, and give him the Welcome Back gift he deserves.
He reaches forward, nudges the mouse toward the “Contact Me” button and clicks once, his mind going over the words he will open with. A negotiation. Like hundreds he has successfully pulled off. He just needs to swallow his pride and take her shit.
BLOCKED ACCESS.
His stomach drops at the screen, its colors screaming red, boiling the blood in his system, his hand moving with urgency back to the address bar and retyping her website in.
BLOCKED ACCESS.
Cocksucking motherfucker. He leans back his head and screams his anger, his fists clenching, and any post-orgasm glow vanishes.
He will kill her. He is Marcus Fucking Renza. Who the fuck does she think she is?
CHAPTER 42
November 11—Two Years Earlier
WHEN DADDY’S MONEY rained, it poured. And when you’ve been cut off, it sucks. Katie McLaughlin glances toward the bartender, green eyes meeting brown, and shakes her head, red curls bouncing. She pushes off the counter, her hand reaching out and snagging the leather elbow of her roommate. “Hey.” She leans in, close enough to smell Dior and smoke. “Spot me twenty.”
“I’m out.” The blonde shrugs. “Unbutton your blouse. Let ’em work.” She moves away, bouncing through bodies, her hand tugged forward by a Mohawk with sunglasses. Neon lights dance off bodies, and she is lost in the crowd as soon as the bass beats out the next song.
“You look like you need a drink,” the voice yells, and she can still barely hear it over the music. She turns, the swell of bodies behind her jostling her forward into the proximity of the voice, one who holds out a bottle of Michelob ULTRA. “This is what you were drinking, right?” He smiles. Nice smile. Shaved head, short enough to bring the word military to mind. A tall body that stretches his polo tight, biceps big enough to impress. Midthirties. A little old but he works it. She reaches out, accepts the cool bottle with a smile, and notes the Breitling on his wrist.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I saw you nursing one earlier.” He nods toward the bar. “Pretty girls shouldn’t drink alone.”
She lifts up the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”
“To company,” he says solemnly.
“And strangers,” she adds, clinking bottles with him and turning up the beer, letting it rush down her throat, the energy and fight of the club pushing them closer, a hard jostle from behind causing a spurt of alcohol to run out of her mouth. She laughs awkwardly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the stranger shooting a hard look at her bumping offender, his arm moving protectively around her, the touch of his fingers sending a jolt of arousal through her buzzed mind.
“I’m Katie.” She switches beer hands and holds out a palm, shaking his as she blushes, the smear of beer still wet across her lips.
“Benjamin.” He has to say the name twice, the crowd noise scrambling the syllables in her brain.
“Benjamin,” she repeats with a shake of her head. “I’ll never remember that in the morning.”
He laughs. “No.” He shakes his head with a wide smile. God, he has pretty teeth. “You probably won’t.”
It was 12:02 a.m. Nine hours later she would wake up in a hospital.
CHAPTER 43
“THE GUY DOWN the hall has become a problem.” I floss my teeth, talking through a long string of peppermint dental hygiene. I shut the medicine cabinet door, hiding eleven more containers of the floss. The downfall of shopping exclusively online. Bulk inventory of everything.
“In what way?” Dr. Derek’s voice is calm. It’s always calm. For once, I’d like to see him freak the fuck out.
“The I’m-gonna-fucking-kill-him way.”
“Which guy are you talking about?”
I roll my neck, the muscles sore from a ridiculously long blow-job session with a client who I will never service again. Forty-five minutes of plastic dick in my mouth cost him three hundred bucks and a front row seat on my block list. The taste of cyberskin is still on my tongue. I lean over and spit, rinsing out my mouth before refocusing on Dr. Derek. “Simon. The one who locks me in at night.”