Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rocking on the porch, a plate of campfire breakfast on my lap—eggs, beans, hot sauce, and sausage tossed into a cast-iron pan and fried up— I sigh as the first bite settles on my tongue and the delicious rush of nostalgia hits. I’m starving, but more than anything, I miss the simplicity of life.
Dee sets a mug of hot coffee on the floorboard beside my chair before claiming hers.
We don’t speak while we eat. It’s too early for that, given how bone-tired I am.
It’s been a long couple of days, and I hate sleeping here.
It’s never restful. The cot is too hard, and the air is too thick with humidity, so it’s miserable, especially at night.
You can’t sleep in anything you don’t want soaked through, and the air feels like breathing water.
The cool shower I took this morning helped some, but standing in a makeshift shower stall with an old hose dangling from a hook isn’t ideal.
It wasn’t when I was a child, and it’s even less so now that I’ve experienced modern amenities like indoor plumbing.
Last night, after Dee finished dissecting her kill, we returned to the cabin with Peanut. She fed her creatures their fresh snacks, then showered. I fell asleep before she turned in. Whatever time that was.
We polish off our breakfast and slowly sip our black cup of joe as the sun makes her full appearance, and the world wakes for the day.
I love this time of morning. The fresh air.
The newness. The birds’ happy chirps. There’s something magical about dawn.
Dee and I have loved it our whole lives.
It probably has to do with hunting. Dad always had us up early for that.
Now that neither of us hunts anymore, not for animals, anyhow, we enjoy it for other reasons. Quiet time with my sister, for one.
Any minute now, I need to break the seal of silence so we can discuss today’s plans.
We haven’t talked much since we dragged our drugged captives out the back door of the Hampton house, to the beach, where we loaded them onto sleds and pulled them behind a quad to the boat Harold moors at a private dock.
There wasn’t time to chat while we were dripping in sweat, terrified someone would come along and find us hefting six unconscious people onto a boat.
In case you were wondering, no, I would never do it this way again.
But we didn’t have much of a choice. Given the location, cameras, and all the stuff rich people have in place to keep this kind of thing from happening, we made it work with what we had.
It was hell, but we’re here now, and that’s all that matters.
Setting my empty plate on the porch to wash later, I glance over at my sister, her feet on the rocker, knees up, in cotton shorts and a tank top. She flashes me a big, beautiful smile. It’s light and carefree, as if the weight she carries is temporarily gone.
“Who are you working over today?” I ask, secretly hoping it isn’t Maxim. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but I can’t help it. There’s just something about him that I find fascinating. Our conversation from last night keeps running through my head on repeat.
That earnest thank you.
Good heavens, I can still hear it in that low, almost broken baritone.
He’s the first mark I’ve talked to as myself, not as a character I’m playing. Dad forbade us from conversing with men as ourselves, regardless of whether or not they were marks. They aren’t to be trusted because they want only one thing—to use us for their benefit.
Over the years, given what I do, I’ve realized Dad was right all along. Harold, or any of the others I got close with, never gave a damn about me as a person. Not that I expected them to. But a glimpse of something more would have been nice. Just once, I would have liked to be proven wrong.
Dee snaps her fingers, yanking me from my thoughts.
“What?” I grumble, with more irritation than she deserves.
“Harold,” she states. “I said Harold.”
Right. We were talking about who she’s working over today.
“Sorry,” I apologize, looking my sister in the eye so she knows I mean it. “I was thinking.”
With a low, it’s-fine, you’re-forgiven hum, Dee gets out of the rocker, collects our dishes, and carries them inside.
Harold’s going to die today.
Now this I can’t miss.
Harold, the man who gets off on murdering women.
Harold, the trafficker.
Harold, the man who said he wanted to marry me.
Yes, he said that, more than once, actually. Sometimes alcohol was involved, but most of the time he was sober. He, like most men, is not used to being denied access to women, and I’m a master at denying men, which only makes them want more, more, more.
Are you ready for a little secret? From one woman to another?
Stop giving men what they want. Stop granting them access to you when they haven’t earned it.
The more you adopt this mindset, the more they will react in one of two ways—either they get angry and try to put you in your place, or they crave you more.
If it’s the former, call me, and we’ll take him off your hands, free of charge.
I could have Dee collect a little souvenir for your trouble. A tooth, perhaps? A lock of hair?
Now, if it’s the latter, own that man until he’s on his knees, begging to kiss your feet just so you’ll smile at him.
It really is as simple as that.
I wish it wasn’t. I wish I had some profound wisdom to impart. But men are simple creatures ruled by their dicks, money, and ego. I’m sorry if that offends you, but it’s true. Using that as leverage is the only way to get what you want.
Following my sister inside, I join her in our bedroom, collect what I need to fix my hair and makeup from the plastic storage container I keep at the foot of my cot, then sit on the floor to get ready for the day as she laces up her boots.
Once Dee pulls her dark hair into a sleek ponytail that swishes like a pendulum down her back, she pauses at the doorway and lifts her hand with all five fingers spread, indicating that’s how long until we leave.
“Ten,” I call to her retreating back.
“Okay,” she replies right before she clomps out of the cabin, no doubt going to check on her opossums in the doghouse to make sure they stay put today. Peanut following us yesterday was a one-off, and it’s not safe for him or any of them to visit there. It would kill Dee if they got hurt.
Setting a small, cracked mirror on the floor, I quickly do my hair, lashes, and brows. Adding a touch of blush to my cheeks and some tinted lip balm, I’m ready to watch Harold die… then maybe talk to Maxim, too. I need to bring him and Penelope food anyway. It’s the humane thing to do.