Chapter 63
The pill was a benzo, something they often used to relax a third wheel but also to help cloud their memories of what would happen. Mark took one also, the drug softening any possessive tendencies that could turn the vibe dark.
While darkness often was the tone for Mark and Willow’s roleplays, any threesomes were designed as more of a worship session of Willow. Four hands instead of two. Two mouths on her body. An interaction designed to bring her pleasure and torture Mark with jealousy instead of pain.
On these evenings, she was in charge of two men instead of one, and she enjoyed using the power to push the limits of her husband and any guests who were along for the ride.
David, as it turned out, was all about the ride.
The man produced two Viagras from his pocket, guzzled them down with a swig of whiskey, and all but flung himself down the basement stairs at Willow’s invitation.
He spotted the room’s bed, then the Saint Andrew’s cross, then the cage.
His grin widened and he rubbed his hands together, then looked to Mark.
“Who spanks who?” he asked, but it wasn’t cruel.
It was interested, and Willow shrugged, then gestured to the room.
“Go ahead. Explore. Let me know if there’s anything you want to try. ”
It was the shock clamps that he chose—an interesting option, and one that Willow had never cared to take out of the box or use.
Mark had purchased the pair, and she had deemed them too extreme, preferring to stick to her wheelhouse of verbal domination, denial, and mild forms of abuse.
Mark was loud enough as it was. Run an electric current through him and he might have a heart attack from the exhilaration.
David didn’t seem to be concerned over the risks, and when Willow made it clear that the device was for him and not her, his enthusiasm grew even greater.
Within minutes, he was spread-eagle on the bed, handcuffed by his wrists and ankles, his hairy thighs stretched open, his smooth shaft as erect as a flagpole as she attached the clamps to each of his nipples.
She turned the dial on the control to 5, halfway up in intensity, and turned to Mark. “Go face the corner,” she ordered. “You don’t get to see this.”
Later, she would question why she had made Mark turn away.
Why she hadn’t started at a lower intensity.
Why she hadn’t read the directions on the kit.
She pressed the button, and David surged off the bed. A spark came from both nipples, and he let out a yelp of pain. Mark turned to see and she barked at him to stay put. Horrified by the scent of burning flesh, she leaned forward, looked at the clamps, and let out an involuntary gag.
David twitched and grunted, his face turning red, and she touched his cheek, soothing him. “Shhh. It’s okay. Let me take them off.” His eyes bulged in panic and he reached up, trying to yank at the cords, but the handcuffs were too tight.
“Wait, wait.” She looked at the shock device, double-checking that it was off. He was twisting against the bed, and she tried to pin him down long enough to unclip each clamp.
“Mark,” she said, and he was immediately by her side. “I think something’s wrong. Get his handcuffs off. David, are you hurt?”
Mark freed his right hand and David groaned and clutched at his chest, his eyes wide open and darting around the room. He wheezed again and her alarm spiked. “This is bad, Mark. What if he’s having a heart attack?”
There were dots of sweat along his forehead, and she wiped them, her heart sinking at the cold, clammy feel of his skin.
His gaze stilled, his body losing all strength, and she reached forward, shaking him.
“David!” she yelled but he didn’t respond.
Leaning forward, she put her ear to his mouth, but there was no air movement.
“Mark, feel for a pulse. Do CPR.” She fled the room and pushed through the basement door, pounding up the stairs and to her phone.
She grabbed her purse off the couch and dug through it, then dumped the bag upside down and shook the contents out onto the coffee table.
Lipstick. Brush. Mints. Wallet. Receipts.
Hairbands. Charger. Where the f— She shot to her feet and ran through the butler’s kitchen and into the garage.
Mark’s sedan was unlocked, and she jerked open the driver’s-side door and leaned in, spotting her cell phone in the magnetic holder on the dash. She grabbed it.
A heart attack. Maybe a stroke. Either way, Mark should be doing CPR.
He had been a lifeguard in college, spent seven years on the swim team—CPR should be second nature.
She burst into the basement and down the steps and into the makeshift room they were using.
Mark was on his knees beside the bed, pumping David’s chest. He looked over at Willow, his eyes glazed from the benzo. “He’s dead.”
She paused, her finger mid-swipe on her phone, bringing up the call app. “What?”
“He’s dead.” He stopped his efforts and looked at her. “I’m not even sure he had a heart attack. What did you give us?”
“What do you mean? Keep going!” She pointed to the man, who was staring straight up, his eyes open.
Mark might have been right. He looked dead.
Horror seeped through her, and she circled around to the other side of Mark and fell to her knees.
Dropping her phone, she touched his chest tentatively, then felt for his pulse.
He didn’t react, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, and she let out a low sob. “Mark,” she whispered. “Keep going.”
He started CPR again, pumping his chest, then breathing into his mouth, then pumping his chest. She found her phone on the floor and picked it back up. “I was going to call 9-1-1,” she said and waited for him to respond. That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?
“What did you give us?” Mark repeated, lifting his mouth free.
“Um, benzos. The two-milligram ones. Same thing you’ve taken a dozen times.” Same thing she’d taken a dozen times. They were safe. “There was no way they would have caused this.”
“We drugged him and electrocuted him, Willow. You can’t call the cops. How are we going to explain this?” He held up David’s wrist, and there were cuts from where he’d struggled against the handcuffs.
She looked at the man’s face, and his eyes were still open, staring up at the ceiling.
They could explain this. Tell the truth.
It was an accident. Manslaughter, her sister’s voice whispered in her head.
An accidental death is manslaughter. Up to eleven years in prison.
“Do it more,” she said desperately. “Just try it for another two minutes. Just in case.”
It would take an ambulance ten minutes to get there, at least. Her mind ticked through the realities of the situation. They wouldn’t be able to restart his heart, even if she had immediately called them. The CPR wasn’t working, and Mark was right.
David was dead.
She was suddenly aware that she was completely naked, her teeth chattering from the chill in the room, and she rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to warm up. “Please, Mark.”
He was already resuming his efforts and she stood. “I’ll be right back.”
“Get me a water,” he rasped, and his cheeks puffed out as he blew into David’s mouth.
Willow walked slowly up the stairs onto the main floor, then up to the second.
Her feet felt heavy, like she had done an hour of squats and lunges.
Like her legs might give out. The detachment that came with a copious amount of alcohol was there, but the buzz was suddenly gone, and she felt like a balloon that had lost its air.
David was dead. Downstairs, in their basement, naked.
What had they done? Had they done something?
It was a heart attack, surely. She had seen one before, in a restaurant she had worked at in Burbank, a customer in the first booth by the door had clutched his chest in the same manner.
Gone gray in the same manner. The ambulance had shown up within a few minutes and taken him away, but she had called later, once her shift had ended, and they told her that he had died.
Maybe even if they had called the ambulance right away, as soon as he had started to act strange—maybe he still would have died.
All that was so fast. Before she even found her phone.
It had been, what? Two minutes? Three? It would have taken an ambulance at least ten to get into Crestmore and way back into their portion of the gated neighborhood.
In their closet, she dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt. She worked her arms into a zip-up hoodie and put her hair up into a ponytail. She went into the bathroom, pulled down the sweatpants, and sat on the toilet.
The bathroom was so hot, and she felt clammy. Maybe this was shock, this detached emotion that was somewhere between hysteria and numbness. She should get in the shower. Spray herself with cold water.
“We drugged him and electrocuted him, Willow. You can’t call the cops. How are we going to explain this?”
Mark was right. Even drunk and high, he was thinking clearly when it came to covering their asses. They couldn’t call the police. What would they say? Confess to giving David drugs and alcohol and handcuffing him down to the bed and putting shock clamps on his nipples?
The timetable calculations on the ambulance didn’t matter. Their actions had triggered the heart attack, and those actions might not even fall under manslaughter. They might fall under murder.
She finished peeing and flushed the toilet, taking her time in cleaning up and washing her hands.
She looked into the mirror. Her eyes were hollow.
Dead. Her lipstick was smeared. With trembling fingers, she used a cotton pad to wipe at the red stain.
David had kissed her, on their way into the house from the car. He’d tasted like liquor.
From downstairs, Mark yelled her name.
She inhaled deeply and dropped the pad onto the counter. The man had a job and a wife and a life, one that had just been extinguished with one stupid night. Willow had fucked up a lot of things in her life, but this was unforgivable.
For the first time in a long time, she had no idea what to do.