Chapter 11 #2
I curse again, grab my car keys and an ice box I had lying around, drop the bowl with the dick inside, and head straight to the bar.
I park in the back alley and check for cameras, don’t want anyone seeing who it is, and end up with a possible murder investigation on my ass.
I’m in enough shit as it is. Then, I throw my hoodie over my head and drop the box in front of the bar.
Someone will pick it up soon because I see a delivery van parked out front, so I suspect there’s someone inside, probably getting their bill signed.
That gives me a small window to get back to my car before anyone sees me, and before anyone starts wondering why I’ve got my hood up and ski gloves on.
Best I could do on such short notice. No way I’m leaving fingerprints on anything.
Just hope Ares was smart enough not to leave his.
Or maybe he wasn’t, and this will end up with a one-way trip straight to jail for him.
Honestly, I don’t give a shit at this point.
I check my phone. There’s a text from Josh.
No worries. Rain check?
I don’t reply because I don’t intend to reply to him anymore—for his own sake, of course. I just stop at the 7-Eleven and buy the biggest bucket of coconut and chocolate chip ice cream I can find. Doesn’t compare to a good fuck, but at least I’m guaranteed I get some satisfaction out of this.
I also pick up some basic groceries too, because my fridge has been empty for weeks. Nothing major, though. And definitely nothing healthy either. I’m not planning to live forever, so I’m sticking to pre-made crap over organic, two hour-to-cook meals.
I scramble for my keys, arms full of grocery bags, then somehow manage to wedge the key into the lock and kick the door open with my foot. It takes real skills to reach this level, and even better ones to shut it back with my foot, while still holding all the paper bags.
I’m walking toward the kitchen to dump the groceries on the counter, but I freeze a step short of dropping them on the floor when I see a large red box sitting in the middle of the living room. This time, there’s a note attached.
Fucking shit. What did I get myself into?
I just pray it’s not a head. The box isn’t tall enough for a face. That gives me some kind of comfort, but it is still big enough to fit a few limbs.
I lean in and grab the note. No blood this time, so that’s… something.
It’s the same handwriting, and I don’t doubt it could be from anyone but Ares.
October 26th. The Breach.
I know that date. The club’s throwing a Great Gatsby pre-Halloween party. It’s the ‘in’ thing lately. And that means a shitload of money. The entry ticket alone is a grand, and that doesn’t even cover high rollers' drinks, only the basic package.
I still don’t know what’s in the box, but I’m hoping it’s not something that used to be attached to a person.
Still, I untie the bow and kick the lid open so hard that it flies across the room.
I’m not usually so jumpy. But then again, I never received a real-life dick as a present before.
At least not one that doesn’t have a body attached.
There’s fine silk wrapping paper hiding whatever’s in the box. And I only grab one corner, yanking it back so I can see inside. Being this close to any kind of gift from Ares still gives me chills.
But I calm down fast when I see a dress, a pair of shoes, and even a pair of panties.
The manipulative, controlling asshole! I curse, knowing damn well he wants me to wear it. All of it.
I take the dress out, it’s black with a few gold details braiding the hem like veins. Beads and feathers come together in what looks like an absolutely insane designer piece.
This shit had to cost a fortune. I’m no expert on clothes, but I recognize the brand as being of the highest luxury, and judging by the work and design, I’d say it’s hand sewn.
Any girl would be impressed and probably fall flat on her back.
Not me. I might like the dress, even the matching red-soled shoes.
But not the panties.
Well, I don’t have anything against these particular panties because they’re sexy as hell.
But they’re in that box to send me a message—I belong to him.
He has rights and power over me. Or thinks he does.
And it’s not just work-related. That’s the message he wants to send, and I got it loud and clear.
This might be leverage in finding out exactly what I want, but it could also mean trouble.
Despite the asshole behavior, Ares is dangerously easy on the eyes and has the complete package to ruin any woman he sets his mind to. Allowing him into my life could complicate things, especially if my suspicions turn out to be right and I’ll have to kill him.
I don’t want to, but eventually, I try on the dress and heels, and suddenly, a whole new woman is staring back at me in the mirror.
And if this is the version of me he wants, fine. This is the version he’ll get.
So, I can get what I want in return—answers.