Chapter 11
eleven
-Brynn-
I can’t describe what I’m going through—anger, embarrassment, or satisfaction. Truth is, my body’s never felt this way ever before, this free, this wired… I can’t really describe it because I don’t even have a name for it.
Silver dropped me off in front of my apartment building, and as soon as I got inside, I stripped off my clothes like they were on fire and jumped into bed.
I just want to sleep it all away at this point, praying it’ll somehow help me clear my mind. Or better yet, wipe Ares out of it. I need to chase away the memory of his fingers between my legs. But it’s still there, like a curse, pulsing in my clit every time my thighs brush together.
I’m angry enough with myself for feeling anything for the man I suspect killed Elias. I might not have gotten a full confession out of 404, but everything connects too neatly. He’s the hacker Ares sent me to get, the one who’s behind the game where Elias was murdered.
I toss and turn between the sheets. I usually only sleep when I’m too exhausted to function because otherwise nightmares haunt me.
It’s evening when I get out of bed, frustrated that I couldn’t get a damn minute of real sleep.
I check my phone. No text from Ares, and I know better than to show up at the club without him summoning me there.
I don’t want to provoke his anger—or even worse, his possessiveness over me—so I’ll give it a couple more days before making any rash decisions, and hope that I’ll get a sign from him.
I try to watch TV, but the images flicker past without me taking them in. It’s like I’m seeing through the damn thing. My own movie playing in the back of my head. His grip in my hair, his hand in my pants, his hot breath sliding down my neck…
I need a drink, and as tempting as going to the bar where Josh works and having a Brynn may sound, I’m not desperate enough to chase a man, especially one who isn’t even the man I really want.
I shake my head, chasing the thought away. I don’t want Ares. I don’t want anything except revenge.
I go to the store downstairs and buy myself a bottle of vodka along with some orange juice. I splash barely a drop of the juice in the vodka, just enough to flavor it a little, and I pour myself an oversized glass.
I spent the whole night staring at my phone. It’s been almost forty-eight hours since I last slept. Not that I usually get more than four or five hours of sleep a night anyway.
Despite all that training, the weapon I have in my nightstand, and the fact that I can take on a full-grown armed man empty-handed, I still don’t feel safe.
Nothing I do ever makes me feel safe. I learned that the hard way.
Days and nights spent training, fighting to get better, trying to become invincible and smother the broken girl that’s still hiding somewhere inside of me.
I finally manage to get some sleep in the morning, and I don’t wake until past noon.
I check my phone before I even make coffee, hoping for a text from Ares, but it’s someone else who’s been texting me
Josh 10:30:
“Hi, beautiful. Wanna grab coffee?”
I look at the time, and it’s almost 4 p.m.
Me:
“Just woke up.”
I’m halfway through making coffee when the three dots pop up on the screen.
Josh:
“Any chance of an early dinner or a very late lunch before my shift at the bar starts?”
I give it a few seconds before replying, mostly because I still haven’t decided what the hell I’m doing. But something is telling me that sitting around and waiting for Ares to text or call is the worst thing I can do.
And maybe Josh is just hot enough to get Ares off my mind for a while.
Me:
“You don’t waste time.”
Josh:
“Life gives you few true opportunities. I feel this is something I shouldn’t pass up.”
Wow, straight to the heart.
If he keeps talking like that, he might just talk his way straight into my panties.
Me:
“I’m complicated.”
Josh:
“I only like complicated.”
Me:
“Okay. Consider that your fair warning.”
Josh:
“Does that mean you accept?”
Me:
“It doesn’t mean I don’t accept.”
Josh:
“Will you send me an address so I can pick you up?”
It’s not that I’m paranoid, but I’m not handing out my address even before we’ve been on a date.
Truth be told, I might just change my mind and end up inviting him over for a hookup by the end of the night.
But that’s still up in the air, and he does have to go to work, so the odds aren’t great anyway.
Me:
“I’ve got my car. Besides, you’re heading to work after, so I’ll need a ride back.”
Josh:
“Okay, got the message. Not going to push it. Meet me at The 50s? Say, in an hour?”
That’s a small restaurant across town, fancy enough to avoid diner vibes, but casual enough not to put pressure on the evening and make this feel like a date. Or maybe it is. Whatever.
Me:
“Two hours, I literally just rolled out of bed.”
Josh:
“Great! Can’t wait to see you, Beautiful.”
I actually feel good about this—not good as in he’s The One or anything, but good in the sense that he might help me take my mind off things while I wait for Ares to make his next move.
Deep down, I know I’m just fooling myself.
It’s not Josh that I want. But it’s not Ares either—at least, I can’t allow myself to want him.
I hop in the shower, throw on a pair of black leather pants, a beige tank top, and just as I’m reaching for my heeled boots, I realize I left them in the trunk.
I wore them during my last shift at The Breach.
I sometimes swap shoes mid-shift, so my feet don’t hate me, and I never actually went back to grab them.
So, I throw on a pair of sneakers and head down to the parking lot.
I’ve got plenty of time before I’m supposed to meet Josh.
I don’t even know why I’m excited about—seeing the guy or actually getting a chance to get Ares out of my head for a couple of hours.
Not that it’s a real possibility. Especially since everything that man does seems to haunt me.
I pop the trunk open, and right as I lean in to grab my boots, I spot a black package tied with a red ribbon.
What the fuck is this?
I don’t exactly have that many secret admirers, and even if someone wanted to send me something, it would’ve shown up at the door.
This feels off, just gives me a weird vibe, especially since it doesn’t even have a note.
Nonetheless, I grab the package and untie the ribbon.
I need to see what’s inside; maybe I’ll figure out who sent this.
I lift the lid, then slam it back a second later.
This isn’t what I think it is. It can’t be.
I take a deep breath, then take a mental pause because my brain fully checks out. I don’t reopen the package. I just snatch it up and hurry back to my apartment, pretty sure I saw a note next to what I suspect is a severed dick.
I get inside and lock the door behind me. My heart is pounding, and chills crawl down my spine. I’m not the kind of person who gets scared by this shit, but this is just gross.
I work up the nerve to open the package again, and yep, the severed dick’s still there—along with the note.
“No one touches what’s mine.” It’s not signed, but I know who well fucking sent it.
And as I look again at the chopped limb, something about it looks familiar.
Not familiar, as in I’ve seen it in person or anything.
Just… memorable, in that it-might-be-the-ugliest-damn-dick I’ve ever seen way.
I quickly realize it’s the dick from that picture the bartender sent me last night.
My first instinct is to slam the lid shut and throw the box somewhere no one will ever find it.
But I’m still human, and the damn thing looks freshly removed.
So, I grab a bowl, a bag of ice from the freezer, and toss it there to chill.
I don’t know if anyone could sew it back on, but since I know who it belongs to, I’d feel bad not returning it.
I just hope Ares left the guy alive so he can be reunited with his… limb.
Ares is such a dick. Strange choice of words—I know. But he crossed a line.
Imagine I hadn’t checked the trunk for a month… my mind refuses to even go there.
I change into something more casual. An oversized black pair of joggers and a matching hoodie, something that won’t draw attention, while all I can think about is: how the fuck did Ares find out about him?
He must’ve gotten into my phone, since the guy's dick was in my messages. Which also means he probably saw the texts from Josh. He’s probably going to fucking kill him, too.
I need to cancel the damn date, but I don’t want Ares getting the satisfaction of knowing I’m canceling because of him. God, I can’t wait for the day when I rip his heart out of his chest.
Still, I don’t want to see Josh hurt. Not because of me. And not over something this stupid.
I grab my phone and text him:
Sorry, something came up. Can’t make it.
Just like that, I just killed the only shot I had at getting Ares out of my head. I only hope it’s enough to get my psycho mobster off his back.
Now it’s time to play delivery girl and get the fucking dick to the bar where the guy works—if he’s still alive.
Hopefully someone there knows what to do with it, like, take it to a hospital or something.
These days, they can sew anything back on, as long as it gets there fast enough.
I’ve seen The Hangover Part II. I know how these things work.