Marcus Renza. I search my brain. The username had been Freebird-something. It’s been a while since I blocked him. A month or so. And we’d had… three chats? Four? He’d wanted to hire me for an in-person session, if I recall correctly. I look at the man before me, a slow, pained wheeze coming from his chest, his back arching off the floor as he squirms. I grin. Guess he got what he wanted. My undivided attention, my hands on his skin.
I crouch, examine him closer, my bare feet moving soundlessly as I stare. I can’t believe he came here, hurt Mike, all over being blocked, an act I do to a hundred men a week. It seems so excessive of a reaction. I look at his squirming figure, moans rolling across the space at me, and wonder what took four weeks. Why he hasn’t showed up sooner. What he found out about me in that length of time. What his plans for me had involved. I have the bizarre desire to interview him, examine the mind of an evil individual, and compare it to my own. I’m certain that evil was his intent. Otherwise, why condoms? Why zip ties? Why the syringe? He failed to get at me online. Probably felt disrespected by my block. Showed up to fix the situation. Reassert his manhood. But is it really that simple?
I lift my mask, testing the air. Better. Still rancid enough to make me cry like a baby girl, but nothing I can’t handle. I pull the mask back down anyway. Tears aren’t very intimidating. I stand and step closer.
To kill or not to kill? It’d be so easy. I could open up my safe and test every blade I have on his skin. Listen to his screams. Watch the slow slip of death as it claims his soul.
I need a minute. To think. To be intelligent.
I turn away from my prize and sit, in my desk chair. Roll back and forth, toward the man. Away. Toward the man. Away. He is still. Quiet. The sniffles stopped. The whimpers gone. This is the moment. The moment when the whispers of my insanity are quiet, my hands still, no shudder or shake in their movements. I am in control. So… now what do I do?
CHAPTER 95
“WHAT IS SHE doing?”
Jamie and Mike stare, as one, at the screen, this one from a different cam, one that shows the girl seated, staring at the man as she slowly rotates the desk chair—left, then right, chewing on her lip, a blank look on her face. “I don’t know…” Mike responds. “Looks like she’s thinking.”
“About what?”
He shoots her a perplexed look. “Do you have to ask?”
“Jesus. Should we call the cops?”
“I’m not going to even dignify that with a response.”
“We just saw her chop the guy’s finger off!”
“Cut. She cut his finger off.”
“And you think that’s the guy who fucked you up?”
He nods, absentmindedly cradling his injured hand. “It’s him.”
“What do you want her to do?”
He doesn’t respond. Just pulls the laptop closer and begins typing. Jamie watches as screens change, the process slower than she’s seen in the past, due to his injury. Their view into the apartment minimized, different sites popping up in its place. “Text her,” he says.
She picks up his phone, pulls up his texts, her cheeks coloring slightly as she scrolls down, their prior text streams primarily focused on one thing. “What do you want me to say?”
“Tell her I can get back the money.”
She types, her thumbs flying over the metal nubs. “Can you?”
“I don’t know. It’s not an easy process to find out. It would normally take me twenty minutes or so. With my hand…” He shrugs, his eyes on the screen. “It’ll probably take an hour or two. But I don’t want to stand here and watch her scrape off his skin. The news might cause her to step down.” He glances up, his blue eyes meeting hers. “Did you send the text?”
She finishes typing. “Yeah.”
“Then you should probably go. I’m good here. Thanks for breaking my window.” His mouth releases a grin, one that tugs at her.
“Leave now? With your psycho girlfriend about to do who knows what?” She hoists herself onto the bed, leaning her body against him and earning an irritated look for her efforts.
“Go. No need for you to become an accomplice.” He shuts the laptop. Fixes her with a look that is heart-tuggingly sexy in its firmness. Sexy and obtuse. A look you don’t argue with.
She stands, a twinge of jealousy moving through her. Realizing, as she stares into his eyes, that he, by kicking her out, by closing the laptop, is protecting Deanna more than her.
She shrugs, tries to mask her hurt with a smile. “Need me to do anything before I go?”
He watches her eyes, silent for a moment before leaning forward, reaching out with his good hand and pulling on her hand, pulling her over to him and resting his head on her chest. “I’ll be fine.” He sighs, keeping her close. “I’m just so… stressed.”
She knocks him on the top of his head, the motion causing a wince to come from him.
“What? I am!”
“I am not sucking your dick right now.”
He scowls in a way that is ridiculously endearing. “I wasn’t even thinking of that.”
She grins, leans down, presses a kiss on his head, feels his arm wrap around her. “Yeah you were.”
“Maybe I was. Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He pulls away, looks up. “Thanks, babe. Seriously.”
Her smile fades, and she perches on the edge of the bed. “This is fucked up, you know that, right? You almost died. I almost lost you.” Her voice trembles, his hand reaching out and squeezing her hand.
“I know. I’m sorry you had to deal with it.”
She laughs, the reaction a half sob in its composition. “Don’t apologize, Mike! Just don’t…” She sniffs, picking at the edge of her sleeve and wiping at mascara. “Don’t get involved in her shit. She’s psychotic. You see that, right? And she almost killed you! So… please stay away from this. Or call the cops and let them handle it.”
He nods. Meets her eyes in a way that tells her nothing. “You’re the best, you know that?”