Chapter 10
REED
At the bottom of my first drink—nerves settled a bit—and in the middle of a big action sequence between Nova Ranger and Dr. Nebula set against the CGI Milky Way, my phone rings again.
This time, I check the caller ID, and it’s the heavy-breathing creep from before.
No, thank you. With vodka-backed bravery, I send him straight to voicemail.
Hello, you’ve reached Reed Thompson. Sorry, I can’t take your call at this time. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.
Except in this case, for a return call, he shouldn’t hold his breath.
On second thought, maybe he should. He should hold his breath until he’s blue in the face and stops pestering me. I wonder how he even got my number in the first place.
Ding. The creep texts me this time.
I don’t like being ignored
I want to type back, I don’t care what you like, but that would require me giving this weirdo attention. Freaks like him thrive on even the tiniest morsels. I won’t make that mistake.
The phone rings again. A sizzle of fresh annoyance ignites in my fingertips as I smash the Ignore button.
Returning to the wet bar, I mix a second drink even though I know I probably shouldn’t, while the movie plays in the background.
Its score grows louder and screechy as Nova Ranger comes in contact with Stargazine and his powers start to waver.
Ding. A new text.
If you know what’s good for you, you’ll answer the phone.
What’s good for me? Who does this person think they are?
Ding.
Another text.
You’re being a very bad boy right now.
I shake my head and roll my eyes. Both at this freak and at myself.
The phrase a very bad boy sends a militia of goosebumps charging up my arms. I can’t help it. I’m hardwired to want sexual punishment, and the idea of someone disciplining me makes my shorts start to tent.
Another call blares in, causing me to spill the club soda all over the marble countertop and my four-inch athletic shorts.
I curse as I scramble for a rag to clean up the mess.
I drop my shorts in the laundry room across from the gym, growing more pissed as I parade around in my underwear.
The obvious half-erection is more exposed than before, and I’m certainly not going to take care of it myself while my phone is blowing up.
Ding.
All right, enough. This time, I’m blocking the psycho.
The new message splashed across my phone screen stops me.
Cute briefs.
I glance down at my bikini-cut gray underwear. How does he know what I’m wearing?
Blood drains from my face. I spin around, afraid that I’m not alone.
A fearsome, masculine wail cuts through the room.
My heart clenches and my gut seizes until I remember the movie playing on the TV.
Nova Ranger is being shackled to the wall of Dr. Nebula’s cave-like lair with Stargazine chains.
The contact of the mineral on his skin burns and draws out his powers.
The more he fights against his restraints, the weaker he gets and the worse he screams in agony.
I down my second drink to keep my wits about me, even as my heart speeds.
My phone rings, and this time I can’t let it go to voicemail. The person on the other end can see me, and I need to figure out how and what I can do to stop it before this situation gets out of hand. Before I have to call Erin and tell her I was downplaying it before.
“Now that’s more like it, pretty boy.” The voice is gruff, masculine. It sounds the way calloused fingers feel roving over bare skin. I shudder. I can’t find my words, which makes me lose my nerve. Paranoia pumps away in my veins, and I do the only thing I can think of. I hang up again.
Not even a second later, the phone rings.
A stream of texts pings in.
Don’t keep me waiting.
Waiting makes me angry.
You don’t want to see me angry, pretty boy.
“Hello?” My throat is thick like I’ve swallowed a gallon of cement.
“You’re testing my patience,” the unknown caller says.
“Who is this?” I ask, throwing the full weight of my bravery behind the question.
There’s a snap on the other end of the line. “I can be anyone you want me to be.”
Even scared, I don’t care for the pissing contests some men like to have to assert their authority. Annoyed by his blatant machismo, I roll my eyes.
“Sassy,” he says.
I bristle. He can see the movement of my eyes.
I wonder if he’s that close, or if whatever he’s viewing me through has excellent zoom.
I scan the windows for figures lurking on the periphery.
I half expect to see a mask-clad head, two watchful eyes peering in at me.
“How do you know what I’m wearing?” I ask.
“I’ve been watching you,” the unknown caller says. I can hear the telltale signs of a wolfish smirk spreading across his face.
“Prove it,” I say, hoping to catch him out. Call his bluff.
“Oh, you want to play a game?” he asks. “What are you going to do? Hold up some fingers and ask me how many?”
“No, too easy for you to guess,” I say.
He ups the ante. “How are you enjoying the movie?” he asks.
“I like this one. I especially like the part where Dr. Nebula shapeshifts himself into Nova Ranger to gain the trust of the city’s mayor and then kills him on live TV during that press conference while Nova watches in horror, unable to stop it.
Oops. Spoiler alert.” He sounds like he’s having too much fun messing with me.
“Who are you?” I ask. Agitation blooms hot in my chest.
“I’m a friend,” he says, evidently delighting in my confusion and nervousness.
“Yeah, right,” I say.
“I can be a friend, or I can be a villain like Dr. Nebula. That all depends on how you behave, and how well you listen and follow instructions, pretty boy,” he says, voice darkening even more until his words are black clouds crowding out of the phone.
I fold my free arm over my chest, not liking the way my stomach swoops and clenches at this. My hormones have a hard time differentiating between real and simulated fear. The longer I stay on the line, the more this feels like a real threat.
“Why would I follow your instructions?” I ask.
“So you don’t get hurt,” he says.
“You think I can’t take you if you try something?” I say, unconsciously flexing every muscle I can. Alpha-mode activated. I venture into the gym, searching for something to use as a weapon should I need it. And I worry I will pretty soon.
“How much do you bench?” the unknown caller asks, further confirming his eyes on me. I inspect the camera in the corner. They’re motion censored, and the red light swivels toward me.
The hairs on my arms prickle. “More than you, motherfucker.”
He chortles. Full-on goads me with masculine mockery. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says.
My nostrils flare. I slam the lights off in the gym. Still not secure in the layout of the house after a day and a half, I pivot to orient myself in the hall.
Billionaires have collections of guns and tasers and Samurai swords, right?
If Wendell Blitz does, I doubt I’ll have access to them. The garage, however, might have construction tools that could inflict some damage, or at the very least scare off this weirdo from trying anything physical.
“Can’t you bother someone else?” I ask, climbing the stairs.
“No,” he says definitively.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re in my way,” he says.
I almost lose my balance on the free-floating staircase. I glance over my shoulder. No one is there, but that brings no real relief. Anticipation pressurizes the air inside the house.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
“I want you to pack up your shit and leave the house ASAP,” he says.
It’s my turn to laugh. I can be cruel too. “That’s not going to happen.”
“It is,” he says. “Whether you like it or not.”
If I leave, I can kiss that big payday and any chance of connecting with Wendell Blitz, regardless of the paternity results, goodbye. I’m not throwing an opportunity away over this dude’s ill-timed prank. He’s messed with the wrong one.
I push into the garage. My gaze lands first on the row of cars.
I’m sure I could break in and hotwire one if I needed to.
Especially the low-lying Hadron. I’ve seen enough hacks on social media where teens have tripped their computer systems to make them start.
Wendell got a lot of mileage from that when bad-mouthing Elton Mills, Hadron’s CEO, on some podcast or another.
To my right, a ladder leads up to a work loft. I’m about to climb when I’m struck with a thought. Why does Wendell Blitz own a Hadron when he has a public beef with the company’s CEO? Wendell and Elton are practically nemeses.
“I don’t hear the wheels of your suitcase clicking,” says the unknown caller, reminding me why I came in here in the first place.
In the loft, I dive straight into the first drawer I come across, eager to get my hands on something I can swing or shoot. Anything will do at this point. I’ll protect this house at all costs. As if it’s my own. Because one day it very well could be.
“You’ll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming,” I say as I sort through the weapons at my disposal. Wrenches, screwdrivers, nail guns.
“That can be arranged,” he snarls.
My hand wraps around the thick handle of a blunt-force object.
This man doesn’t know who he’s messing with.
My whole childhood, I never fought back when my mother or her many failed boyfriends laid hands on me.
I accepted the punishments and vowed to do better, be perfect, to avoid mistakes.
If they had nothing to hit me for, I thought, then they wouldn’t do it at all.
Logic proved wrong. They didn’t need a reason. The bruises they left were purple tattoos inked on my skin for weeks at a time, reminding me that my mere existence was a blotch, a stain. Something to be hidden and covered.
But I’m on my own now. Like Nova Ranger after having defeated Dr. Nebula a million times over, I’m better for all I’ve gone through. And this psychopath on the phone doesn’t know how much fight has been simmering inside me since birth. I’ve got hidden powers begging to bust out of me.
“Oh yeah?” I say, lifting the tool and swinging it a few times for practice. “I’d like to see you come in here and try it.”