Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TRISTAN
Tessa is a genius. I should start paying her—not like she doesn’t have access to billions of dollars with a few clicks of a button. But still, slipping her a twenty here or there would be a nice gesture.
Tapping my phone, I follow the sequence she provided, and a surge blackens the street and kills the electricity.
I ease my car into a parking spot, my headlights the only lights on the entire street.
Grabbing my duffel from the passenger seat, I quickly hurry up the driveway to Brent’s house, a McMansion with three stories plus a basement that, if the real estate website is accurate, was renovated into a home gym and movie theater.
I unlatch the side gate and duck into the backyard. As I make my way around to the back door, I follow the next sequence on my phone to disable his security system. Then recover power to the street before anyone starts causing a commotion because their central air system is shut off in August.
I twist the doorknob of Brent’s back door, but it doesn’t budge.
Plucking my lock pick kit from my back pocket, it takes me less than a minute before the lock opens.
Relief sweeps through me now that I’m inside.
Getting inside is the hardest part of a job.
Too many unknown variables. What if a neighbor thinks now is the perfect time to walk Toto around the block while a man in a mask breaks into an upscale house?
Police respond quicker in wealthy neighborhoods.
But I make it into the back of the house and quietly shut the door behind me, the knob slipping just slightly in my oversized gloves.
The swanky kitchen is decked out in steel and black accents.
Fancy fuck. He probably doesn’t even know how to use the oven.
I’d bet he has a private chef—the place stinks of money and Creed Adventus cologne.
Water trickles from upstairs, along with My Chemical Romance singing about scary teenagers.
Tessa loved that emo shit when she was in high school, and she was obsessed with that band.
I used to tease her about the posters in her bedroom—the goth boys she adored and the black eyeliner that made them look like they’d been punched in the face.
The idea of her having something in common with Brent Sokolov—even if it's just appreciation for MCR—makes my blood boil. Brent doesn’t deserve to listen to the same music as my sister. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Daphne.
Men like him don’t deserve to live.
Careful not to make noise, I lower my duffel bag onto the kitchen counter to retrieve a baseball bat, zip ties, and a pair of police-grade handcuffs.
Quietly, I ease my way up the stairs toward the master bedroom. A block of light illuminates the hallway wall from an open bedroom door; the rest of the hallway is dim. I’d hoped Brent would be asleep, but catching the fucker naked in his shower is poetic justice.
Poking my head around the door, I see the bedroom is set up similar to the pictures on the real estate website. To the right, the bathroom door is wide open, pale curls of steam wafting into the bedroom.
And he’s alone. No company tonight—except for me.
Entering the bedroom, I raise the baseball bat, ready to strike. My palms sweat against my gloves as I wring the bat tighter and take a deep breath to ease the nerves pulsing with each burst of adrenaline.
I enter the bathroom.
The pale globes of Brent’s ass greet me as he stands back up, his feet and legs covered in eucalyptus-scented suds.
“Knock, knock.”
Brent whips around, his eyes going wide as he drops his mint green loofa onto the shower floor. His body swivels, and his feet slip on the soapy tiles.
Like watching a car crash in slow motion, Brent’s body falls sideways as his feet fly out from under him. His shoulder slams into the soap holder with a crunching noise before his head whacks the stone on the way down.
The stone soap-shelf breaks off, clattering to the floor beside his head as Brent sinks into a heap.
Shit. Well, that was easy.
Brent’s eyes stay closed as water rushes around his lower half. Taking advantage, I lower the bat far enough out of reach in case he’s faking it—though I doubt it. That was a nasty fall.
Pulling out the cuffs, I move his hands behind his back. An angry red mark spreads over his arm, an eggplant-colored bruise already blooming. Dumbass broke his arm on the way down.
Shutting off the water, I grab a towel and loop it around my arms to keep me as dry as possible before I hoist a naked man off the shower floor.
Douchebag works out. He’s packed with muscle that only a strict diet and a personal trainer can buy. Probably eats all organic shit too. I make a mental note to check his fridge before I leave.
Lowering him onto the bed, I hurry downstairs and grab my bag. In seconds, I’m back, and Brent’s still out cold.
Undoing the cuffs, I tie his good arm to the bed first, keeping it high and tight to the post. As I loop the rope around his second wrist and knot it, I pull his arm up. The pain must have been enough to jerk him awake.
Brent shouts in a sharp yap, trying to bring his arm back down.
“What… who… Ah!” Brent screams as I loop the rope around the bed and pull, forcing his injured arm up higher. Thankfully, his neighbors live just far enough away that no one could hear him unless they’re walking past his house at ten o’clock at night.
“Your arm’s the least of your problems, Brent.”
Dumbass looks at me with watery green eyes. The little bitch is about to cry. Nothing wrong with crying. Real men cry, but then again, real men don’t rape.
“Please,” he begs. “I have money. Take what you want.”
“You sure about that?” He has no idea what he’s giving me permission to do.
He nods violently against his pillow. “Yes, anything. Take it. I’ll give you anything.”
I laugh more dramatically than I need to. “Interesting choice of words.”
Grabbing another rope from my bag, I make my way over to his right leg.
As expected, Brent starts kicking wildly. Grabbing his thigh, I avoid his flaccid junk flipping around like a baby eel out of water and tilt his body up and over until his weight goes on his bad arm.
“Fuck!” He screams again, giving me time to loop the rope around his thigh and step out of the way of the kick zone.
His body settles flat on his back again. “Please. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
“Well, you got that last part right.” Kneeling beside the bed, I wrap the ropes around the bedposts and pull. “You won’t be telling anyone anything.”
Brent’s leg rises. As soon as he realizes, he fights me to stop it, but I overpower him until his knee is bent and almost touching his shoulder before tying off my knot to the solid-wood headboard.
I tug on the rope, and it’s taut. Not even the slightest bit of give as Brent bucks against his restraints again.
I should have been a Boy Scout. I’m good with knots.
“Please. I’ll do anything. Just… please. Let me go.” The desperation in his voice rises as I stand to face him. He’s so scared, I’m surprised he hasn’t shit himself.
“No.”
Striding to the other side of the bed, he tries in vain to kick me with his free leg, but I quickly tie it up in the same fashion.
It’s a pretty nasty sight. With his legs hoisted up, he looks like a raw turkey on Thanksgiving morning, but with a hairier asshole and a sad excuse for a cock.
“What… what’re you…” Brent stammers.
I produce a leather ball gag from my bag. I’m surprised how easily he obeys when I tell him to open his mouth.
His limbs test their restraints, but he doesn’t protest as I shove the leather between his teeth, not bothering to buckle it behind his head.
“Can’t have you waking up the whole neighborhood.” Not that he could, but it’s a nice effect. And I won’t have to hear the fucker talk unless I want him to speak. “Now, do you want to know why I’m here?”
Brent’s head bounces in an eager nod. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but it’s not getting him out of this.
“I’m calling in a favor from the woman you raped.”
His eyes widen again as he shakes his head no.
“Do you know who I’m referring to?”
Brent pauses, then shakes his head no again.
And I believe him. He has no fucking clue. Is it because Daphne wasn’t the only one? Or because he genuinely doesn’t consider what he did rape?
“I’m going to remove the gag. Then I’m going to ask you one more time.” Gripping one of the straps, I yank the gag out of Brent’s mouth, and he gasps for more air.
“Do you know the woman I’m referring to?”
“I never raped anyone. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see my face. “Of course, that’s what a nice guy like you would say.”
He protests this time, whipping his head back and forth, but I manage to force the gag back in place and press it hard against his teeth. There’s a crack, and I’m pretty sure it was a tooth.
“I’m here on behalf of Daphne Fox. The First Daughter sends her regards.”
Brent’s eyes narrow and he bucks against his restraints in anger.
“Now, Daphne gave me free rein to do whatever I want with you, so long as I get the job done.” Anger rises from my gut like bile, scorching my throat as the words come out. “I’m here to get answers.” I lean down lower, my gaze meeting Brent’s.
His green eyes water over, narrowing as they try to silently challenge me to let him go. Like hell will I let this bastard free. Tonight’s the last night Brent’s going to fucking breathe.
“I’m going to remove your gag,” I start. “And you’re going to tell me exactly what you did to Daphne the night you drugged her.”