Chapter 12 #2
“Feisty. You prefer pretty boy?” he asks.
“I’d prefer you don’t call me anything and leave me the fuck alone,” I say, wishing it didn’t come across as exasperated as it does.
“Oh, come now. You’re a smart guy, Reed Thompson. You wouldn’t have graduated with honors from the business school at the University of Wyoming if you weren’t,” he says. His eyes stay trained on the camera like he’s peering into my soul, but his hands rifle through the backpack at his feet.
“How—how do you know that I graduated with honors?” I ask.
I had to sign NDAs just to get this job.
Surely my position here isn’t public knowledge.
Did he take a picture and run my face through some stalker database?
Pull up a profile on me with everything from my Social Security number to my Enneagram number?
“Because I’m smart too, Reed, and I think you and I both know I wouldn’t go through all of this just to walk away empty-handed,” he says.
He pulls rings of neatly packed red rope and a hunting knife from his bag.
The blade, unsheathed from its leather casing, is a shiny threat placed carefully next to him on the bed.
“Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You choose.”
He lays into the word hard, and I wish it didn’t send a flagrant jolt to my traitorous cock.
“I’ll call the police!” I say. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“I don’t have to think because I already know you won’t,” he says with a pitch-black laugh. It strikes fear into my heart. “I saw you drop your phone out of the bathroom window on the security cameras before I cut the live feed. It was adorable watching you struggle like that.”
“Fuck you,” I spit back.
“You alr—” He stops. “You should watch your tongue.” His eyes narrow into slits inside the frame of his mask. What had he been about to say, and why did he stop himself? I can’t imagine he’s the type of man who minces words.
“Or what?” I ask, projecting what little bravery still stirs inside me.
His glare intensifies through the camera. He snaps the red rope between his hands, the sound echoing through the speaker system. “Come up here and find out, pretty boy.”
“I’m not your fucking pretty boy,” I hiss.
“Don’t make me have to wash that filthy mouth out with soap, pre—” He holds up his hands in mock apology. “I’ll come up with a better pet name for you while I’ve got a bar of La Mer lodged between your teeth to rid you of such a nasty vocabulary.”
“I’d like to see you try,” I say, peeved by how much he’s clearly relishing this. Also, by how much I’m clearly relishing this too. Thank god I didn’t choose video. There’s no hiding my boner in these barely there briefs.
“Does that mean you’re choosing the hard way then?” he asks, picking up the hunting knife again. I suddenly wish my skin were scaled, or better yet, armored with solid metal. Impenetrable to any outside hazard.
I tilt my head, adopting his irritating tease. I plan to give it back as good as he gave it. “Shouldn’t that have been obvious? I thought you said you were smart too.”
The smile he wears slips right off his face. His green eyes—closer to the camera now—go damp-earth dark, like a natural disaster where I’m the only victim. “Well, I was wrong about you because you just made a really stupid decision. As the old saying goes, ‘You can run but you can’t hide.’”
“I’m not familiar with old sayings because I’m clearly much younger and faster than you,” I say, making assumptions based on his voice and size. I can probably outrun him. I just need the opportunity to.
The jab earns me a begrudging chuckle as if I’m a comedian who won over a heckler. The low, punctuated sound rings familiar in a way I can’t explain.
“Brat,” he says.
“Bully,” I reply.
“Would a bully give you a ten-second head start?” he asks.
His gloved pointer finger taps the top of the hunting knife. Contemplation curtains his masked features. I wonder if he’s imagining what I’ll look like dead and flayed out. Will he harvest my organs and sell them on the dark web? What’s his endgame here?
“I don’t want your pity advantages,” I say.
“It’s not a pity advantage. I’m evening the playing field. The screen tells me exactly where you are,” he says.
Damn this high-tech house. Of course the one feature I need to be working is the alarm, and he’s made sure that won’t save me.
“If you really want to even the playing field, you’ll turn out all the lights,” I say, thinking that if the whole house is dark, I can more easily slide in and out of its shadows.
I won’t be as worried about being caught dashing across a hallway.
Maybe concealed, I can locate a better weapon.
Initiate a stealth attack against my assailant.
“Oh, but I really wanted to see you in these briefs up close,” he says.
He raises my worn pair from the bed using the blade of the knife.
They dangle in the air, sway a bit, like a tattered flag in the breeze.
Just for a second, I imagine him cutting the pair I’m wearing clean off my body. I shiver.
“Pervert,” I say to combat my own niggling fantasies.
“Takes one to know one,” he says, hunger in his tone.
What does he mean by that?
“Fine. We’ll do it your way. Just know that I’ll be able to track you down by your pheromones alone.” He huffs the pouch of my briefs like a bloodhound before slamming out the lights in the room.
I hate the way my dick twinges in my briefs at the fleeting sight.
Am I completely messed up?
Even more, am I going to make it out of here alive?
“Ten…nine…” he starts counting down, his voice clear as a bell.
I freeze for a moment, questioning whether I should go through with this. There’s a strong possibility I’m playing right into a trap he’s set for me. I could burst straight out of the sliding glass door, trigger the alarm, and run free to find help.
But my phone might be broken completely, the nearest house is over two miles away, and he might not be working alone. For all I know, he could have teammates posted all around the property. As counterintuitive as it may seem, I think I’m safer inside the house.
I need to come out as the hero of this situation. Running will make me look gutless to Wendell Blitz anyway. What kind of son lets their potential father’s house get looted by a sicko in a ski mask?
Wyoming has a “stand your ground” law and a “castle doctrine.” This man has spied on me, harassed me, and threatened me. I have every legal right to use force—even deadly force—to expel him from the property.
I’ll do whatever it takes to protect myself and this house.
“Six…I don’t hear you hiding…” the unknown caller teases. “Five…four…”
I end the call, pick up the hammer, and tiptoe into the hall. I keep count in my head.
Three…
I turn right.
Two…
I dip into the far bedroom.
One.
Come and find me, motherfucker.