Worcester turns out to be in Massachusetts, some fifteen hundred miles away. I have to assume he came straight here. If he had flown, he’d be here already. Driving would take him… I do a quick calculation. Twenty, twenty-two hours. Not counting bathroom breaks and an overnight stop. Which means I have little time.
One feature I offer on my website is a live voyeur feed that displays my cam chats. I scroll through three years of saved cam history and pick a day fifteen months ago. I embed four hours’ worth of video files into my site and start streaming the video through my “live” feed. Anyone checking my site will see me, naked and happy, pleasuring myself for strangers. I leave it playing and unclip my corset, loop by loop, walking to the dresser and yanking open a drawer.
The transformation from vixen to ordinary is less than a minute. I lace up tennis shoes, pull my hair into a ponytail, and stand, shrugging into a jacket, too hot for summer, but one that will hide an instrument of death.
I take a deep breath and wonder if I should call Dr. Derek. Wonder if I am mentally equipped for this errand. It is funny how quickly things can change. A few days ago I was reeling myself in. Chastising my poor decisions and promising myself in big capital letters that I Will Stay Inside. Not repeat my recent mistakes. Cut back my freedom and regain control. Do a better job of keeping others safe, of policing my own actions.
Yet here I am, about to leave the house. Drive my car. Run an errand with no purpose other than to properly outfit myself for war. And to make matters worse, I’m walking out in the world armed with a weapon. It’s a necessary item, FingerCutter’s location unknown, the knife tucked in my jacket, one that is needed for my own protection.
I stand at the door, my car keys in hand, and take short, measured breaths. Will my resolve to stay in control. I will be fine. It is during the day. The knife is contained—I will not pull it out unless assaulted. I take a moment. Breathe. Focus. Prepare.
I have a sudden thought and turn, hurrying to my pink desk, yanking open drawers, and sighing in relief when I see the roll of clear scotch tape. I cut off a piece, hold it carefully, and walk to the door. Yank it open before common sense stops me, and come face-to-face with Jeremy.
“What are you doing here?” My eyes skip over his empty hands, no package present for delivery.
“We’re going to an early dinner. Remember?” He glances at his watch. “Thursday at five, right?”
I swear under my breath, pulling the door shut and locking it. Not the dead bolt—Simon is the only one with that key. But the lower lock, part of the knob, a weak barrier that has never been tested. I hesitate, looking at it, then rise on my toes, sticking the tape firmly along the crack at the top of the door. I jump slightly, trying to get the tape to be flat and invisible. Jeremy moves closer, his fingers replacing mine, his height making the task easy. He looks down at me, his fingers sliding over the tape. “You expecting a visitor?”
“Not sure,” I mumble, trying not to inhale his scent. He is so close to my chest, the warmth of him intoxicating in its life. I step back. “I can’t do dinner today. I’m sorry—something’s come up.”
“Something’s come up?” His brow furrows, a look that is adorable. I wonder, briefly, if eyebrows were cut out of a face, how much they would resemble caterpillars.
“Yeah. I’ll talk to you next week.” I need him away from me. This is bad, his presence at a time when someone is on their way here. Jeremy will only complicate this situation. Worst-case scenario, he gets hurt. Best-case scenario, he sees me rip a man to shreds with glee. Both disastrous, one a scenario I may not ever recover from. There is already the ongoing possibility that I put Mike in danger. I cannot, will not, endanger this man also. I turn, my walk picking up speed until it is a jog, and I bang through the stairwell door. This is so familiar. We have been in this situation before. Last time I needed his help, his truck. Now, I’m in a different place. One that doesn’t want to get another innocent individual hurt.
I exit the stairwell out the back, hoping he isn’t following, my steps quickening in the parking lot, the blacktop littered with tricked-out Cadillacs and tired Corollas. And there, in the midst of dented fenders and duct-taped windows, she sits. Like a coiled snake, ready to strike. Gorgeous, feline, and dangerous. I feel wetness between my legs, the rub of my jeans heightening my excitement and anticipation. I am not the same tentative woman who drove this monster home. I am being hunted. And, in the face of that danger, am releasing all constraints. War has no room for indecision. It’s time for me and her to kick some ass.
I press the button, listen to her chirp, and slide around the front of her, rolling my hand gently over her polished surface and pull on the handle. Thank God I paid for her before the theft of my money. It’s almost, in retrospect, like getting her for free.
“Where are you going?”
Shit. He followed. I pause, one foot in the ohmygodImabouttodrive car. I glare at him. Use my bitchiest voice. “I’m in a hurry. I’ll call you later.” I sit in the car, glancing up when his hand stops the closing of my door.
“That’s it? You’re standing me up for dinner and you won’t tell me where you’re going?”
He sounds pissed, a tone I’ve never heard from him. I stand up enough to pull his hand off the door, then scoot back inside, slamming the door before he has a chance to think about it. As an afterthought, I roll down the window, worried, in my hurry to kill someone, that he might try to follow me. “I’m sorry, I promise I’ll call you later. Something’s come up; it’s kind of an emergency.”
“An emergency…” His stare doesn’t leave my eyes, the hard look in his one that worries me. He is mad. Doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t, from the suspicion on his face, even trust me. It figures that my relationship would have an emotional breaking point today, at a moment when—at any second—my adversary could come striding across the parking lot.