Chapter 8 Bolton #2
I stagger upright, almost falling again from a major lack of hand-eye coordination. Come on, Bolton, get your shit together—Cal’s life depends on it. This fucker is not taking my husband away from me! He can do it over my dead body.
“Where is my husband?!” I scream, flicking the knife out of my pocket and angling it at him.
A distorted laugh flits out from behind the mask. He must have a voice modulator…just like the villain does in my latest book. It’s surreal for something born of my own imagination to feel like a living nightmare.
“You won’t do anything with that knife, Bolton Blue.” Each word from him feels like a promise that something painful is coming my way. He extends his hand, making an expectant motion. “Hand it over.”
He must be fucking insane if he thinks I’m going to hand my only means of protection over. I finally meet a superfan of my books, and he’s not only a psychopath–he’s a dumb one. Maybe this will work to my advantage.
I take a few steps forward, like I’m going to hand him the knife. Then I lunge at him, coming so close to stabbing him in the side before he leaps away.
“You’re going to regret that,” he sing-songs.
For someone so large, he moves swiftly enough for me to barely clock him shoving my body against the shipping container behind me and pinning me to it.
The knife clatters to the ground, and I curse myself for not taking a self-defense class or hitting the gym.
I feel so weak with his hands circling my wrists.
Every hair on my body stands on end as his dead eyes stare down at me, as if they’re cataloguing everything about me, even the way I breathe.
He brings his head down until our faces are almost touching. I can feel his breath through the mouth hole in his hockey mask as it warms my upper lip.
“What are you going to do now, pet?” he croons, running his massive, gloved hands through my hair. He took a nickname right out of one of my books…
Shivers run down my spine, and like the traitor it is, my dick hardens in my sweatpants.
I was rushing and forgot to put on boxers before I left the penthouse.
Not like it matters now, though. As long as the media doesn’t run ‘Renowned writer Bolton Blue found dead on Brooklyn dock without underwear’ as my murder’s headline, I should be fine.
It finally hits me—this fucker is going to kill me, then Cal.
He’s going to end our lives before we ever have a chance to really live.
Before we take our big trip to Europe, or adopt a baby.
We’ll never get to move to a grand house like we’ve been planning.
I’ll never get to write gay romance. Cal will never take up playing his piano again.
It’s been sitting in our penthouse, untouched for years, waiting for him.
We overcame so much and pulled ourselves out of such a dark place in our marriage, only to end up at the last page of our book. I don’t want our story to end…
Well guess what, you murderous prick? Not today.
Cal and I have a whole life planned, and I’ll be damned if this psycho takes it from us. I headbutt him, square in the forehead. and it’s enough to make him loosen his grip. I take the moment, and run.
Do I run fast? No, because I’m not an athlete, but I’m putting distance between us. Hopefully, I’ll be able to find Cal in this death maze and we can go home…if he hasn’t been murdered yet.
My breathing stutters with every step as panic squeezes my throat. I can hear footsteps behind me, but refuse to look back. Cal needs me to push forward. He needs me to find him and bring us home.
“Want to find your husband? He’s closer than you think!” he shouts, his voice sounding nearer than it should. I don’t heed the burning in my legs and chest, pushing myself to keep moving.
I’ve made so many twists and turns in this maze that I have no clue where I am.
I hesitate for a second too long when I come to a dead end, not knowing which was to turn.
The killer grabs me by my hoodie, pulling me down to the ground.
He flips me over onto my back and sits over my legs, pinning my wrists down with one hand again, as if to taunt me about how much weaker I am.
Unbidden heat pools in my stomach, and I feel disgusting. This man is recreating murders from my books…hunting down my own husband… He shouldn’t make me feel this way.
I try to kick him and wriggle around to free myself, but his grip is too strong.
He inches his mask up his face enough to uncover his mouth.
His lips are full, and feel soft as he buries his mouth in my neck.
He licks a line of fire from the base of my neck to my jawline, and it feels like pure fire burning my skin—a taboo brand before he turns me into his next corpse.
His teeth sink lightly into the side of my neck over Cal’s bite, applying pressure. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to let me know he could if he wanted to. A total power move that has my dick leaking in my sweats.
He laughs again, but this time the modulator is missing.
It’s a decadent sound with a slight rasp, like something straight out of an ASMR video.
The sound skitters down my back, lighting up all my nerves.
My nipples harden beneath my shirt, the slight friction magnified by his menacing presence.
Maybe this is a flight or fight response, my brain screaming at my body how it’s in danger.
But all I can feel is a sick sense of anticipation. What will this psycho do next? Will he play with me before he kills me, like a cat with a mouse? Or will he make it quick? Maybe he’ll torture me first. Or maybe he’ll do something equally wicked to me…
He covers his mouth with the mask, then takes a zip tie out of his pocket. I thrash my body as hard as I can, desperately trying to buck him off before he immobilizes me, but he forces the tie around both my wrists and pulls it tight.
“Want to know what happened to your husband?” he taunts me. “Your dick is awfully hard for someone who’s so concerned about his wellbeing.” He grinds himself into me, and I leak—my underwear is soaked. Maybe I’m just as sick as he is.
It’s an involuntary response. I’ll keep telling myself that…
“Where is he?” My voice breaks—from fear, or something more twisted.
He runs his hand over my throat, collaring it lightly. His fingers press into the sides just enough to restrict my airflow, so every breath is shallow. So every second I wonder if he’ll squeeze harder and take my air completely.
He runs his other hand over the growing bulge in my pants. A dark, satisfied chuckle vibrates from behind his mask. “You’re sick in the head, pet. I can see it in your eyes.”
A direct line from my book, Dark Water.
My heart practically stops as all the pieces click into place. Dark Water opens with the villain stalking and almost drowning a young woman. He calls her pet…chases her through the docks. He lets her live because of her lack of fear—because he realizes she’s just like him.
The Christmas Cleaver set this exact scenario up in real life. Maybe I need to play along. Just long enough to stay alive and find Cal.
“Like recognizes like…” I reply, just like the heroine in the book.
“I know. I see you, too,” he responds solemnly.
He gets up, standing tall above me like a statue, an immovable block of granite given life. The dock lights glow behind him, turning him into a dark angel of sorts. An angel of death. He peers down at me, his cold, cruel eyes staring through me, right into my soul.
Then he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.
“Let’s go see your husband.”