“I’m sorry, Dee. He stabbed me in the fucking shoulder. I had to give him something… thought that that would distract him, convince him that I was telling the truth. It worked, till he saw a photo of you. Then he—” his voice cracks a little. “He started to cut my fingers off. I broke—I couldn’t…”
A piece of me inside, a piece that I thought died in my family’s kitchen, rolls over in my heart. I clear my throat and go for a hard tone. One that doesn’t give away the sentimental tug inside of me. “Next time give him your own money. And from what your guard dog told me, it was more like part of a finger. Unnecessary skin. You need to man up. He was probably just fucking with you. It’s a finger, Mike. You have nine more.” My words come out level and in control. They hide the heartache that I’m experiencing at hearing the break in Mike’s voice. He sounds like a stranger, some broken and scared kid. Not my Mike, my sarcastic rock, the virtual badass who can accomplish anything I desire, the cocky sexual demon who flirts out of one side of his mouth while keeping my ego in check through the other.
His voice hardens, a bit of the man I know coming back. “You aren’t taking this seriously. You need to run as far away from your apartment as you can get. This guy is scary. He was not ‘fucking’ with me. He came here for you, was pissed to find me. I have a hole in my shoulder big enough to kill me. He’s got a hard-on for you, he’s—”
“Could this be about Ralph?” I interrupt. “You think that’s what this is about?”
“Are you listening?!” Mike’s voice is at a level I have never heard from him, and I have to smile at the shake in it. No joke, the man is scared. Really scared. Pissing himself, and it’s all over the sniffling, droolingalloverhimself wimp that is on my floor.
Honestly, after hearing the tremor in his voice, I’m surprised he didn’t hand over my Cayman account funds also. “Can you get my money back?”
“I could, but I’m not touching that shit. That psychopath let me live. Hopefully he will forget my name and move along on his merry way. I’m not doing something to bring him back here. I’m sorry, Dee, but I can’t.”
“Don’t worry,” I snap. “He’s not coming back. But you’re saying you don’t need any information from him in order to get the money back?”
“Not if it’s been left where I put it.” He sighs, his voice dropping off slightly, as if he has moved the phone away from his mouth. “If it’s been moved around, if someone did the smart thing, subdivided it and hopscotched it around, sent it offshore, put in a few trans—”
“Check it. Don’t take it, but check the account. Make sure it’s where you put it. Then call me back. Soon.” I pause, waiting for a response. “Can you handle that?”
“I don’t think you understand the shape of my body right now. I need some serious care. Like sexy-nurse-outfit-with-no-panties-type care.”
“Verify the money.” I smile at the tone of his voice.
“Run. Don’t try to be a badass. He’s not Ralph.”
“Which finger was it? The one he nicked?”
“Right index. It’s not nicked. I can see bone. Well, not right now because they—”
“Thanks. Check the money and text me the verdict.” My mouth curves as I drop my voice and use the sexy tone that he loves. “Bye, baby.”
I hang up, slide the phone back in my pocket, and pull on the mask, shoving open the door and stepping inside. The floor feels damp beneath my feet as I move closer to him and I prop up a foot on his body, shove with it until he rolls onto his side, his swollen eyes opening enough for me to see that he has calmed and is pissed. His face strains beneath the duct tape, a muffled curse sounding. I reach down and run my hand along the jeans, finding the bulge and digging into his back pocket, pulling out and producing his wallet. I straighten, glancing down, his red-rimmed eyes leaking as his pupils make the ridiculous path up my body.
“You like what you see…” I flip open the billfold, looking at a driver’s license with a surprisingly stern-looking face, a night-and-day difference from the red-eyed * before me. My gaze skips over to his name, my brain skittering briefly. “Marcus Renza.” FingerCutter has a name. A name that tugs on my memory. This is the dickhead from camming. The one with the rape record. The one who was so insistent on meeting. A name that clears everything up in one moment. God. Men and their *. I bark out a laugh as I run a thumb over his photo. Wow. First client who’s gone through the steps involved to grace the stoop of my fabulous abode. How neighborly of him. I yank with my foot, rolling him onto his stomach, interrupting his view with one strong motion. “Nice to meet you in person, Marcus. My name, as you now know, is Deanna.” I step back till I am in reach of the counter, my hand sweeping out and gripping my pruners, a Home Depot purchase from today. “And that man… the one you tortured to find me?” I move back, stepping over his body and bending over, grabbing the zip-tie chain and lifting it up, pulling his hands to an awkward vertical angle. “He’s mine. You, Marcus Renza, don’t fuck with what’s mine.” I yank at his wrist, enjoying the tightening of his face. “Now, I’m just gonna need one of your fingers, if you don’t mind.” I skip my fingers lightly over his, till I find and hold his right index finger firmly. “And I’m new at this. So I’m sorry if it takes me a few tries.”
Screams. I have fantasized about them for so long. It is a shame that, the first time I’ve really had a chance to savor them, they are muffled by duct tape.
An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. An index finger for an index finger.
CHAPTER 93
“FUCK!”
Jamie almost drops the glass at Mike’s yell. Turning off the water, she puts the glass gently into the suds, and hurries to his bedroom, pushing open the door and sneaking a glance inside. His cell is on the bed, his arms pushing at the blanket, any trace of sleepiness gone. “What’s wrong?”
“I need my computer.”
“Lay down. Will the laptop work?” She hurries to his desk, unplugs the laptop.
“Yeah. Bring it here. God, that girl’s stubborn.”