Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
TRISTAN
Guy? Seriously? I thought she’d be more creative. I’m mildly offended that I wasn’t worth something better than ‘Guy’.
I don’t know why I care about some nickname her spoiled ass gave me. But I wish it was something more inventive—more me.
For half the drive down from Maryland to D.C.
, I try to think up a better nickname, until I realize I’m starting to sound like one of those losers in high school who tries to give themselves a cool nickname.
I guess “Guy” will have to do. It’s been a quiet ride since I need to make sure Daphne doesn’t start making noises if she wakes up.
Chloroform knocked Daphne out cold before I put her in the trunk of my car.
I was gentle. Gave her a pillow and everything.
Even sprayed some Febreze to get rid of any gym bag odor.
Hell, my trunk might be nicer than some of the motels I’ve driven past. Not that I’ve stayed in many, but the movies always make it seem like those side-of-the-road places are where you catch bedbugs, lice, or an STD.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should have dropped her off on the side of the road somewhere. But if someone worse than me found her before she woke up, I’d never forgive myself for putting her in harm’s way.
Now I’ll have her DNA in the trunk of a stolen car.
I’m trusting her enough to release her into the wilds of Capitol Hill, but I’m not entirely convinced she won’t run to the cops tomorrow morning.
How do I know she’s telling the truth? All I’ve got is the name of someone she hates, and a hope that she’ll follow through on her end of our bargain.
I’ll look into this Brent Sokolov when I’m home, but for now, I need to return her safe and sound.
Thanks to her info, Paul Furt’s risen higher on my hitlist. Pedophiles and rapists always make the top of the list. I can’t protect the world from them, but maybe I can protect a few Thai kids from Furt’s fucked-up idea of local flavor.
After grabbing a spare burner phone from my closet, I check up on Brent Sokolov.
His pictures show a typical asshat with a pretentious three-hundred-dollar haircut, three-thousand-dollar suit, and I’m betting no more than a three-inch-cock.
The guy doesn’t just exude confidence. No, he swaggers like a man-child who knows he’s untouchable, all thanks to his parents and the old boys club.
Brent’s dad and the president went to Princeton together.
D.C. is full of funny coincidences like that.
At Daphne’s house, I park the car, careful not to make any noise at three in the morning.
I tiptoe in my oversized boots to the front of her house and lift a potted plant to reveal a spare key underneath.
Why do people think they’re clever hiding those under potted plants or welcome mats?
I unlock the front door, dart to the garage, and open the door.
Luckily, there’s enough space for my car to slip inside, and I back into the garage before shutting the door.
No cars drive by. No lights are on in anyone’s home—a quiet suburban street with no one but me to terrorize it.
I pop open the trunk and ease my arms around the curves of Daphne’s body. So soft and warm, like holding a blanket I want wrapped around me.
Around all of me.
Something vanilla and feminine tickles my nose as I carry her out of the garage and into her living room.
Yap!
Yap!
Streetlamp lights illuminate a tiny fluff ball winding its way over to us, a pitter-patter of puppy claws tapping along the hardwood floor.
“Hey, Hawkeye.” We met a couple of weeks ago when I broke in to hack Daphne’s calendar.
After finding her vet’s office on a magnet stuck to the fridge, I hacked into their files.
Hawkeye’s a thirteen-week-old black and white male border collie with mismatched eyes who is up to date on his shots.
And since Daphne’s been with me all evening, the poor little guy hasn’t been fed or let out to do his business.
Careful not to step on the fluffball launching himself at my legs like it’s playtime, I set Daphne onto the couch. I always wanted a dog. That’s exactly why I run a dog shelter. It’s like having and helping a never-ending supply of lovable furry friends.
Dad was allergic, and when he died… Well, money was tight. And my work schedule was busy. I had a roof to keep over our heads, mouths to feed, and college tuition to pay for my siblings. I always found an excuse not to get a pet.
I’m impressed that Daphne adopted a dog on her own. Most people wait until they’re in a relationship—that testing-the-water level of commitment. But nope, she didn’t let a man hold her back. Strong, fierce, independent nepo baby that she is.
It’s annoying that I kind of admire her. She has this secret little life away from her political world. Her book accounts. Her puppy. It’s like she’s living with her own mask and hiding the real her from the rest of the Hill.
It’s not easy living behind a mask.
“Come on, boy,” I say as I pat my thigh for Hawkeye to follow. “Let’s get you some food.”
Careful not to put my gloved hands on anything unnecessary, I make my way to the laundry room and scoop out some of Hawkeye’s food into the bowl by the washing machine.
His food container is almost empty. Daphne’s calendar said she was going to go to the pet food and grocery stores after her date. Talk about a wild Friday night.
Guilt pinches in my chest. I’ll have to order some and have it delivered tomorrow.
As I set the bowl on the floor, Hawkeye dives into it the same way I eat…
Fuck!
A stench makes my stomach wretch. Little plops of dog shit are smeared along the floor.
“Fuck.” I hadn’t planned on picking up after Hawkeye, but as the poop-making fluffball finishes his meal, I find paper towels and wipe off the underside of my boots. The ridges were filled with putty to hide any markings, so they wipe easily. I clean up the floor and dispose of the mess.
As Hawkeye munches on his kibble, I scope out the kitchen. It’s pristine, like walking through an Ikea display without the price tags hanging.
I open her fridge. Her empty fridge.
A box of baking soda and a couple of condiments greet me.
I make another mental note to get her groceries delivered tomorrow morning to make up for tonight.
I’m sure a rich brat like her can afford food, but this empty fridge reminds me of the days after Dad died, when I was scrounging up loose change to buy a box of pasta to feed my sister and me.
I check the freezer and find a full ice cube tray and a carton of Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked. Prying off the lid, it’s mostly gone.
Hawkeye trots over and starts sniffing around my shoes.
“Not this time. Outside.”
Hawkeye trails behind me to the back door and bolts past my legs as I let him into the fenced backyard.
In a few minutes, he’s already managed to relieve himself. The fluffball chases his tail around the yard with a happy wag before trotting over to me to play.
Scoping him up, I walk us back inside, depositing him onto his dog bed by the back door.
“Now, you let Mommy sleep. I’ll come visit you again soon.” My fingers scratch behind his ears, triggering a yawn from Hawkeye as his head slumps onto the dog bed.
I hurry back to my car, close the trunk, and retrieve the burner phone from the passenger seat.
Going inside, I check on Daphne one last time.
Her blond hair splays over her pillow in a golden curtain.
Her dark lashes fan out on the edge of her cheeks.
Hawkeye’s fast asleep, worn out by food and exercise.
Damnit, he’s not cute at all.
Running my gloved hands over every nook and cranny of the plastic, I make sure I’ve scrubbed off any fingerprints before setting the phone on the coffee table, leaving my burner number face up.
202-555-1031 – text me when you wake up. We have a deal
Daphne rolls over, her back facing me as she burrows herself deeper into the couch. Despite the warm June day, it’s still cool at night.
There’s no throw blanket, so I hurry upstairs. I didn’t have time to scope her house last time I was here. She’d left her laptop on the dining room table, so I did what I had to and left before anyone saw me.
The first bedroom is empty. The second has only a small desk and a bookshelf that’s overflowing with romance books like the ones on her Wishlist. I scan the books, and half the covers look identical.
I pluck one off the shelf with two shirtless men and one nude woman with her back to me.
I flip the book over, and the back talks about two men and a single mother fighting in the zombie apocalypse, all trying to keep her daughter safe, only to fall for each other.
Judging by the no-clothes on the front, it’s one of Daphne’s spicy romances.
Eh, why not? It’s been a while since I read fiction.
I jam the book in my back pocket for later.
A camera is mounted on a tripod in front of a ring light that’s shut off. They’re situated in front of a blue wingback chair with the bookshelf behind it.
I shut that door and find the third bedroom—Daphne’s room. Did someone break in and rob her bedroom?
A couple of secondhand mismatched Ikea dressers line a wall with a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room.
Well, more like a mattress with some cheap bedding.
The metal frame on wheels keeps the bed a few inches off the floor, but there’s nothing else.
No headboard. No boxspring. Not even a framed picture on the wall.
A mattress, a matching blanket, and a pillow set.
I yank the blanket off her bed and head downstairs.
She doesn’t stir as I tuck her in. Something in my chest tugs as she peacefully sleeps, like she doesn’t have a care in the world—nothing to have nightmares over.
But her reminding me I’m not her first kidnapper settles uncomfortably in my chest like heartburn. I’ve spent too damn long in her house already. I should go.
“Sweet dreams, Princess.”