But any action Derek eventually takes will be difficult. He doesn’t have my address. I filled out a client information sheet when I first hired him. Put on it a bogus address. Requested that billing be done via e-mail. He knows my real name: Deanna Madden. Nothing else. All he has is my phone number, a number that Mike has protected in some superhacker fashion that guarantees me anonymity. So if he does call the goons, they’ll knock on a few empty doors, waste a few hours wandering through Harrisville, Utah—then scratch my name off their list and move on. Committing potential criminals is pretty low on their priority list.
I could end it right now. Pay his bill and move on. Find a new psychiatrist, be less truthful about the depravity of my mind. But what little success I’ve had these last three years, I owe in part to him. He knows me. Will call me on my shit. Has the greatest chance of keeping me in line. I, in some way, shape, or form, need him.
CHAPTER 70
SOME TWENTY-ODD HOURS after the psychopath left, Mike’s chair pushed far enough out of reach to tease, his wrists handcuffed to the bed frame, a strip of duct tape firm and sticky against his mouth, someone rings the doorbell.
Three years ago, before Jamie, there was Tiffany. She was perky, one of those girls who had too many aspirations: fitness trainer, nutritionist, talk show host, celebrity—the least and most attainable of which was life coach. She was hired as an assistant, but viewed Mike as a life coach project, someone to practice her insanity on before she reached the point of charging for her inspirational pushiness. They didn’t last long together. Six months. Long enough for him to find Jamie. Six months of healthy food, no soda, no weed, cheery Post-its next to his sink reminding him to Brush Your Teeth! and Don’t Forget to Smile! Six months of misery. The sole reminder of the Tiffany servitude now exists in a white box that sits atop his fridge. It connects wirelessly to a cheap doorbell mount on the front door, and plays a cheery tune when the doorbell button is suppressed. There were twenty-two tunes to choose from, but it was December when Tiffany installed it, so “Jingle Bells” was chosen. The button, a cheap white piece, permanently affixed to the brick with liquid nails, sticks if pressed too aggressively, causing “Jingle Bells” to play on repeat until the button is gently worked free.
The visitor this morning was an aggressive type. Probably a delivery. Jamie knows his hatred of the bell. It’s been discussed, amid clouds of reefer smoke, sticking the entire box into the fireplace and lighting the shit on fire. But it has become a source of humor, a way to bring back up the ridiculousness that was Tiffany. So they had left it. And now, that decision is causing this aggressive visitor’s push of the bell to stick, starting an incessant repeat of “Jingle Bells” to blare loudly through the space. Propped up against the bed, Mike sends a curse out to whomever is listening.
One round of cheery chorus.
Two rounds.
Three.
Four.
Thirty.
Seventy-two.
He vows to stop counting at one hundred, but gets up to two hundred and thirty-nine choruses before he manages to, while in the confines of holiday hell, his right shoulder now just a roar of dull pain, fall asleep.
CHAPTER 71
I HOLD UP a pair of lace pink thongs. “These?”
Missy0002: next
I bend over my dresser, arching my back, rummaging through the layers of lingerie. I pull out a pair of black underwear, with more bows and ties than would ever reasonably fit underneath clothing. I keep my back and ass to the cam and turn slightly, dangling the panties off a finger. “How about these?” I glance at the screen.
Missy0002: yes bb. put those on slowly.
There’s an art to putting on panties in a way that is sexy and not awkward. I lie back on the bed, raise my feet in the air, and slide the black cloth slowly down the length of my legs, trying to stretch out the action as long as possible. When I get fully down, I roll onto my side, smiling into the camera and shimmy the silk over my hips, my fingers sliding over the panties and making sure that everything is in place.
We are thirty-six minutes and five panties into the chat. I have gotten little-to-no feedback from Missy, who seems content to pick out underwear, watch me put them on, and sit there silently for a few minutes as I model them. I’m bored, have been since the third pair, but at seven bucks a minute, this is easy. No anal, no ice cubes, no nipple clamps. A little boredom is fine at two in the afternoon.
The site freezes, my image halting in a facial expression that can only be described as a yawn. I wince, and lean forward, refresh the feed. My webchat window disappears and an error message displays. I frown, check another website. It’s not my Internet. Other sites load without fail. I return to my website and check a sub-URL, but everything is down. I growl, hoping that the site properly closed the cam session, charging panty boy properly before spazzing out on me. Then I stand, turn off the lights, and grab my phone. I call Mike first, leave him a message, then call the hosting server.
It takes four menus of prompts and fifteen minutes of elevator music, but I am finally connected to Nancy, a woman who sounds nothing like a Nancy, her Indian accent so strong I can barely understand her. We have ten minutes of awkward communication before I come to the questionable understanding that my payment method was declined. I argue the issue in a manner that, despite my best attempts, comes off snobby in all three of the ways I try to word it. “It’s a bank draft. There’s tons of money in that account.”
“I understand, but the payment has been declined. We cannot activate your hosting until you give us a new payment method.”
I curse under my breath and give her my debit card number, listening to her repeat the information in painstakingly poor English. “Yes,” I mutter.
There is silence for a long moment, then she announces: “Declined also.”
“I’ll call back,” I promise, hanging up the phone, urgency in my movements, and pull up my bank’s website, ready to call customer service and hop on a new ass. My anger turns to panic upon log-in, when my eyes rest on my balance and see a bright red $0.00.