CALL DEANNA. JAMIE stands in Mike’s bedroom and tries to make sense of his words. Who is Deanna? And why—with his body chained to a bed, a knife jutting out of him, blood over half of his torso, is he asking for her? She should call the police. An ambulance at least. Mike’s jaw is chattering, words humming through his mouth in an insane chorus, out of rhythm with the chimes that are echoing through the house. She snags a chair, drags it to the kitchen, and stands on it, running her hands along the top of the fridge till she reaches the box, the ridiculous Tiffany box that is blaring holiday cheer in the middle of freaking February. She gropes for its power cord, yanking the hell out of it until the music ceases and her mind can think.
Call Deanna. She walks over to Mike’s desk, looks for a phone. Nothing. Walks over to his chair, pushed into the corner of the room, far from the bed. A pain grips her heart as she imagines him chained to the bed, away from anything that could help him. How long was he tied up? Who did this? The TVs, computer, everything is still here. She leans down, digs through the pocket sewn into the side of his chair, and her hands close around the hard metal of a phone. She pulls it out, presses a button, and the screen floods with light. Fourteen missed calls. She dismisses the alert, a red battery indicating that there is 2 percent left of life. Swearing, she hurries to the bed, grabs the charger, and plugs it in, breathing a sigh of relief when the charge indicator displays. Then she scrolls through the contents till she sees the name. Deanna. Six letters, no description, no picture attached to the contact. Nothing to tell her anything. She presses the “Call” button and waits, the phone to her ear, unsure of what she will say.
“Hi, fuckface.”
The voice sounds pissed. Beyond pissed. The tone of the girl drags a long, sharp razor across Jamie’s skin. This voice doesn’t belong to the image she had in mind, that of a frilly bimbo, one of Mike’s hundred-dollar whores. This voice lives far outside Jamie’s life of pasta ziti and Real Housewives of Miami. She swallows. “Hi.”
CHAPTER 79
“HI.” THE MYSTERIOUS bitch, calling from Mike’s phone, says hi. Like we are sleepover buddies painting our fucking nails.
I had been on camera when the phone rang, a range of emotions flooding through me at Mike’s name on the display. Relief, then a sudden flare of anger. He is alive. He is fine. Has been fucking me around for two days just for the apparent hell of it. At the female’s greeting I set the phone down, pasting a smile on my face, and blow a kiss into the cam, exiting out of nude chat, a chorus of good-bye messages suddenly flooding the chat room screen. I end the chat and yank the black cock from between my legs. “Who the fuck is this?” I stand, naked, the cool air from my AC refreshing against my hot skin. I close my eyes, let out one long breath, and relish the cold breeze. Try to figure out the emotions that are full-out battling in the tight confines of my chest. I let out a long breath, struggling to release the anger that is growing with every stuttered word from MysteryBarbie’s mouth. It isn’t working. I want to rip someone apart, make a throat scream so loud that I come from just the sound of it, my orgasm spreading as the agony lengthens.
“My name is Jamie. I’m…” She pauses for a moment, like she doesn’t know what the fuck she is. I am furious, every emotion I’ve felt for the last forty-eight hours, every shred of hate and love I have for Mike flooding through my veins. I hold back words and wait for her to finish her pathetic sentence. “… I’m a friend of Mike’s.”
“Can you rip his head off for me? Start pushing at his forehead until it snaps the fuck off? Yank in and rip out tendril after tendril of veins and organs until he is a hot dripping mess of blood?” I breathe hard, unsure of where this raw aggression is coming from, but it mixes with the hot tears burning from my eyes and feels good. He was partying with my money and a slut. I lost sleep over him. I worried over him. I mourned for him. I clench my hands into fists, my cunt growing wetter with each violent word from my mouth. Yes. I need him dead before me, his eyes unmoving, his blood covering my skin, warming my surfaces, pleasing my heart.
There is a sound, something like a stutter, a skittering of words across an unclean surface. Great, MysteryBarbie probably doesn’t want to bloody her manicured hands. “He just told me to call you. Something’s happened. I just—” A gasp sounds through the phone, then something wet, like a sob.
I roll my eyes. Is she crying? “Stop blubbering and put Mike on. I’ll hash this bullshit out with him.”
“I can’t!” Somewhere, MysteryBarbie finds her backbone and the balls to actually scream at me. “You won’t let me explain! I just got here, and he is tied up and stabbed and almost dead!”
My feet stop. They have been moving, a pacing motion that keeps me in place but works off some of my nervous energy. They stop and I pause the action of breathing for a quick moment. She has my attention.
“How long has he been tied up?”
“I don’t know,” she sobs. “I was here on Sunday. I come on Sundays and Thursdays. His cell phone is at two percent, so… a day? Two—three? I don’t know how long a battery lasts. And he was thirsty, he looks—horrible.”
I can’t find my heartbeat. I think my guilt may have eaten it. I grip the phone tighter and wish I could take back every curse I just uttered. “He isn’t speaking?”
“Yeah, but it’s gibberish. He’s just singing ‘Jingle Bells.’ Over and over. He asked me to call you, then started in. I think he’s in shock.”
“What did he say exactly?”
She pauses. “ ‘Call Deanna.’ Well—first he asked for water.”
“ ‘Call Deanna.’ That was it?” I hated him for nothing. Almost dead. Stabbed. Shock.
“Yeah. That was it.” There is something in her tone, something that makes me think she is lying, but she’s not in front of me, and interrogation isn’t nearly as effective if torture devices aren’t involved.
“Did you call the cops?”
“No. He told me not to.”
“So he did say something else!” I snap the words, my frustration at a breaking point.
“Sorry—I forgot that part.”
“Don’t forget anything else.”
She puffs into the phone. “Why’d he want me to call you? Are you a nurse? Can you come over?”
“Shut up, let me think for a minute.” I sit on the bed, my skin already cold, time too precious to waste with the thermostat.
RUN.