Chapter Nine
Ryder
“That’s it,” Cock Daddy purrs as he grips my hair in his fist while he slams his cock into the back of my throat. “Be a good little slut and make Daddy come.”
He doesn’t waste time as he pummels my mouth, my throat, and I try to keep up with him, but between his motions and the drinks I’ve had, and the fact I haven’t come yet—because he told me not to—I’m not feeling so good.
My stomach twists, and then his hand tightens in my hair as he keeps up his rapid pace, and just as I brace myself for his cum down my throat, he pulls out of my mouth with a loud pop, and comes with a low moan.
All over my face.
And that’s what does it.
I push him away, needing to get up and find the nearest bathroom, but as soon as I try to move, I realize I can’t because I’m still bound.
Shit!
“What the fuck?” he barks, as I turn over, and let out all my bad decisions. Right onto his carpet.
I groan as the room spins, and finally when I find my voice, I ask him to untie me.
“Sorry,” I say, my vision blurry as I rub my wrists. The rope marks are bright red, and I know I’ll have to wear something to cover this up tomorrow at work.
I wait all of ten seconds for him to tell me it’s okay, that he’ll take care of me, or that I should drink some water. I wait for him to offer to cuddle or hold me until I come down properly.
But the seconds drone on, and so does the silence. He picks up my clothes, and I think maybe this is it. Maybe this is where he tells me to get in the shower or the bath, and he’ll make everything okay.
He holds my clothes out to me and slowly I take them.
“You need money for a cab?” he asks, his voice cold. The snow is still falling outside. It’s late.
“It’s like… two in the morning,” I say like an idiot.
“Yeah, I know. And now I have to clean up my cum and your fucking puke, so when my wife—”
The world thins around me, and I just nod, putting on my clothes. I said I wouldn’t do this again.
But here I am.
Here I fucking am.
I should demand money, more than the standard cab fare to get me back home, but I don’t have the energy.
I just want to go home… though, I’m not really sure I know what home is anymore. Not really.
Instead, I get dressed, pull on my coat and boots, and make my way out into the cold. The roads are a slushy mess, but there’s still some traffic; mostly cabs and rideshares coming back from the bars. I manage to hail one, which is a damn miracle.
The whole way home, I feel like I’m going to throw up again.
I lean my head against the window, watching the snow taper off, the streetlights shine over the sparkling white powder covering everything with a perfect layer, like lace.
When I finally make it back up into the apartment, I am surprised to see Tori sitting on the couch, fully awake, remote in hand, bowl of popcorn in the other.
Her dark brown hair looks almost black in the light, piled into a bun on top of her head, which exposes her elegant, old English 13 beneath her ear.
I know she has several tattoos, because I’ve seen them, but most of the time she keeps them covered up, so when she doesn’t… it’s rare.
At least for me. I’m sure my sister’s seen every one and then some.
I eye her bowl of popcorn as my stomach growls. The scent of the butter smells awful and delicious at the same time. The television light pours on her, bathing her in a brightness that only adds to her creep factor.
She glances up at me with those dead eyes, and her smooth voice cuts through the silence.
“You look like shit, Ryder.”
I scoff as I drop my coat over the armchair, kicking off my boots. I sink down into the opposite end of the couch, running a hand over my face.
“Thanks. I was going for rock bottom.”
Tori chuckles. Fucking chuckles! Which sounds weird as hell, but also… kind of oddly normal, too. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh. At anything.
“Well, you succeeded.”
I scoff as I stare at the television screen.
“What’s this one about?” I ask, not wanting to talk about my bad decisions. Or the fact I keep making them.
I pull my knees to my chest. Tori pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth.
“You ever heard of the Red Rose Killer?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
I glance at the screen, at the footage playing. Some reporter’s video of a cop carrying out a kid from some busted up place in Chicago.
I can’t see the kid’s face, but I’m kind of glad for that.
“When was this?” I ask, noting how the footage looks sort of old.
“Ninety-six,” Tori says calmly.
“What did he do?” I ask, my gaze flashing to her bowl of popcorn. I probably need to take it easy on food right now, but I can’t deny I feel empty. In more ways than one.
Tori sets the bowl down between us, but doesn’t look at me. Instead, she leans back into the cushions and stares at the screen.
“Kidnapped and raped thirteen women,” she says carefully. “Killed twelve of them. Displayed them like Snow White in glass coffins.”
There’s a coldness to her words, to the apathetic way she says them.
But the look on her face as she watches the tv is anything but cold.
Her eyebrows are furrowed, and she looks almost pained. Sad, even.
“That’s awful,” I say as I reach for the popcorn, but it’s too far away. I scoot a little closer to the bowl, but Tori doesn’t seem to notice, so I pull the bowl towards me.
“He said it was art,” she says softly. “Like they were his own personal dolls.”
I look at the screen, then at Tori, wondering if this is it—the moment she actually murders me.
But then she turns to look at me, and I notice her eyes are a deep shade of green that is oddly familiar.
“I get it, you know,” she says, her smooth voice low and soft. Softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“Get what?” I ask as I suck all the butter out of a popcorn piece.
“Wanting to be alone.”
I look at her, mid popcorn haul, and she reaches for some popcorn.
“You think it’s easier.”
I shift on the couch, glancing back at the screen, at the headline.
Rose Red Killer Released! And note the same cop and small boy are on the steps of a courthouse as someone delivers a speech, and then I see him.
The Red Rose Killer; all tall and dark and handsome, dressed in a suit, being led out of the same courthouse, but it’s a different view, I think.
“Think no one can hurt you if you don’t let anyone in.”
I shift my position again, leaning into the back cushions as Tori shifts next to me.
“I didn’t mean to be a dick,” I say softly. I look up at her deep green eyes, deja vu striking me. Or maybe it’s just the exhaustion, the shame. The guilt.
“To you. Or my sister.”
Tori nods slightly. “One temper tantrum hardly makes you a dick.”
I let out a sarcastic, dry laugh, fixing my eyes on the screen.
“Who’s the kid?”
Tori tenses beside me. “Huh?”
“The kid?” I point to the screen. “They keep showing footage of that kid, with the cop.”
Tori is quiet for a moment, and I think she’s over her momentary lapse in judgment of being nice to me. But then she speaks.
“His son.”
“He had a kid?”
Tori stares at the screen, her gaze almost lost in the artificial light.
“Kids,” she says carefully. “He had a daughter, too.”
She clears her throat. “Allegedly.”
“Jesus. Those poor kids,” I say, closing my eyes. “Can you imagine?”
And as I drift off into sleep, in that state of half awake, half asleep; I swear I hear Tori whisper, “No, I don’t have to imagine it.”