The Stalker #2
After giving him an eye roll, I circle around the chair in curiosity. My shoulders relax, and my brow raises in confoundment at the familiar face sitting in front of me. I turn to Zane, wondering what the fuck.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I ask.
“I found you a snitch,” he replies smugly.
The feeling I have in my chest is new. It's somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. Disappointment that it’s not the pig who fucking touched my girl, and dumbfounded that we have the fucker who sent me away for two years.
As much as I want to shake and get angry at Zane for making me believe it was the prior, it’s my fault for setting that expectation.
The man in the chair is Flynn Foster. A low-life piece of shit who always hangs out at the underground racing events. I knew something about him was off. Fucker was always lurking in the background, watching.
His dark brown hair is messy, pulled in every direction.
His eye is already swollen shut, and a ring of purple colors the skin around the raised area.
I look at him in disgust, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with him.
I had plans mapped out for a certain someone else; I hadn't thought about what I was going to do to the snitch. I lean against my kitchen island that he’s facing, propping an elbow to rest on the cold granite.
“So tell me, Flynn, was it worth it?” I ask, giving no context, but he knows damn well what I'm referring to. His head is slung forward, leaning side to side like it's unscrewed from his body. Droplets of blood land on my shoes as he laughs at me.
“Fuck you.” His words leave with a slushy sound.
“No, thank you. I’ll happily pass,” I respond, turning, meeting his face with my fist. His head whips to the right, and I cringe at the sound.
I have no problem doing this the hard way.
I want him to fucking pay for taking two years away from me.
Two years I fucking can’t get back. Should I just keep him locked in my basement for the same amount of time? Returning the favor, of course.
“Tell me what you got out of this, Flynn?” I pace the floor in front of him, rubbing the tension from my knuckles.
“I’m not telling you shit,” he scoffs.
Fine, have it your way.
I look over to Zane, rolling my eyes, and he chuckles.
This isn't our first rodeo, and this fucker is about to find that out. I open my hand, gesturing for Zane to hand me the rag, and he does. I put the rough fabric over Flynn’s face, holding it in place.
He squirms around in the chair, trying to move his face from underneath.
“W–What are you doing?” he asks in panic. Zane jogs around the island and approaches the sink, turning it on. I watch as he tugs on the small faucet on the side, pulling the tube along with it. He hovers the nozzle over the towel, and I nod, giving him the go-ahead.
Water aggressively spurts out, drenching the towel, soaking through it.
Zanes grip tightens on the little nozzle, and I can hear the water leak through as the snitch underneath starts to squirm and gurgle.
Waterboarding is an effective form of torture.
It’s worked for centuries, so I’m damn sure it'll work today.
We wait thirty seconds before stopping. Flynn gasps for air, coughing and wheezing.
“We can do this the hard way, Flynn.” I say, already bored of the time spent on this idiot. I keep the cloth in place, waiting for him to respond. He doesn't. Zane pushes on the nozzle, starting the spray of water again.
I struggle to keep the rag in place as his head thrashes back and forth. Zane’s other hand comes down on his skull, knocking him out. I don't know whether to be grateful or annoyed. I remove the towel from his face, throwing it onto the floor.
“Damn it,” Zane says, bummed at the outcome. I glimpse at the watch on my wrist. I’ve spent too much time on this and have gotten nowhere. Wishful thinking that he would be easy to crack. And that’s my impatience talking.
“Can you finish this one on your own?” I ask Zane impatiently.
“You’ve got somewhere to be? Come on, we waited so long for this!” he says, peeved at my question.
He’s right. We have waited a long time for this, but my priorities have changed. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still make him pay for what he did to me; I just can’t do it right now. I don’t have the time to do it right now.
“As a matter of fact, I do. You got a problem with that? Just deal with him until I get back.” I demand.
“I got a problem with the fact that I dragged this fucker here for you, and you don’t even want to put in the effort to teach him a lesson!”
He sounds like a nagging housewife. But what about my feelings? I mock him internally. I don’t see why he needs me for everything. I bend over to wipe the blood off my boots with the rag from the floor before responding.
“Like I said, I will deal with him when I get back.”
“And when is that?” he questions, crossing his arms.
“Jesus, Zane, I don’t know. I’ll be back.
” I turn to leave, grabbing the door handle and twisting it open.
Just as I’m about to leave, I turn back one last time and say, “Oh, and would you please put him in the fucking basement. I can hear him from the garage.” I slam the door shut, ready to head back out and see my Little Flower.