Chapter 20 #2
“W-why do you have that?” He’s sweating now, the light sheen visible under the stark overhead lights.
“What, this?” I look down at it like I’ve never seen it before. “Don’t worry about this for now, big guy.”
Those expressive eyes are now saying, What the fuck? How do you expect me to ignore that? so I flip it around and smack him between the eyes with the handle. He yelps, and I grin.
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“Sure.” He nods, eager to please all of a sudden. “We can talk about whatever you like.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.” He’s straining at the zip ties as he speaks, trying to loosen them and praying I don’t notice.
I notice, but I don’t care. There are four on each arm and half a dozen on each leg, and that chair is securely bolted to the concrete floor. He’s not going anywhere.
“Okay. I’d like to talk about how I let you turn me into some kind of surrogate-mommy bang maid when we were together.”
His mouth drops in surprise. “What the fuck? I did not.”
“Yes the fuck you did,” I shoot back. “Let me refresh your memory.”
I tick the grievances off on my fingers with the flat end of my blade as I pace.
“Let’s see… you stopped keeping track of your family’s birthdays and holiday plans because I was ‘more organized.’ You refused to shop for your own clothes because I was ‘better at it.’ You quit doing, like, any chore ever after I moved in.
” Oh lord, the examples are pouring out of me now that I’ve uncorked the bottle.
“You once called while you were walking out of your dentist’s office to have me make your next appointment.
You had to ask me for the zip code of our own condo every time you filled out a form. ”
I’m breathing hard by the end of my litany, and his jaw works obstinately before he concedes.
“Okay, maybe. But I made all our dinner reservations.”
“Because you hate going places that serve something other than chicken parm.”
“You love chicken parm!” he says a little desperately.
“I love it in sandwiches on occasion, but not—you know what?” I hold up my hand, halting my own argument. His eyes zero in on the gloves again. “We’re not here because you’re a bad boyfriend, Gregory. We’re here because you’re a bad person.”
“What? No, I’m not.” He blinks a few times, and I can see his lawyer brain click into gear. “You’re not considering the evidence. I donate to the ACLU. I do that run for breast cancer every year. I’m a mentor to two different at-risk youths.”
He’s earnest and sincere. He’s a misunderstood man who never did a thing wrong in his life.
He’s the person I fell for, and he’s sure that if he just talks long enough, I’m going to let him out, especially when his eyes go melty and he says, “Rue. Rutabaga. Come on, you know me. Did you forget the kind of person I am after you dumped me and broke my heart?”
“Did I forget? Did I fucking forget?” I hiss, stalking toward him. “Or were you really fucking careful to hide your real self from me?”
He blanches at the venom in my tone, apparently realizing this approach isn’t working.
But he’s not giving up yet. He runs his tongue over his dry lower lip as he calculates a new approach, and I step back and flip my knife lazily while I wait, enjoying the play of the overhead lights on the iridescent color pattern.
“Every couple has secrets,” he finally says.
“But we know each other. I mean, you weren’t the easiest person to live with either, always running off with your girlfriends and taking trips out of town.
And don’t get me started on all your rules.
You act like you’re some cool chick, but you’re one of the most rigid people I know. ”
My brows lift as he digs himself a verbal hole, and after a glance at my knife, he hastily adds, “In an adorable way. I loved every second of it. Because I loved you. Love you.”
He gives me the smile that used to get him out of trouble and into my pants, back when I thought he was marvelous. But now I hear a trace of self-congratulatory smugness underneath it, like he just delivered an unbeatable closing argument that’ll finally make the little lady see reason.
Looks like he forgot that a little lady with a knife beats a man lashed to a chair every time.
I lean over him and run the flat of my blade across the front of his sweater. His nervous eyes follow my progress as I trace his collarbones with the metal, and based on the way his lungs are starting to work overtime, he’s starting to figure out that he’s in actual trouble.
“I bought you this for Christmas our last year together, didn’t I? So thoughtful of you to wear it tonight.” I rest the tip of the knife on the hollow of his throat. “You always did look good in green.”
Then I slice through the soft knit, leaving the neckline intact but parting the fabric below it to expose his stomach. Unlike Gomez, I’m not particularly careful with my blade and nick his stomach a couple of times. Oops.
The reminder of Gomez pulls a smile to my lips. I bet he’d love watching this. He’d probably throw me down once I’m done here and give me twice the orgasms this whimpering prick ever did.
Now Hugo, on the other hand…
God. Tears burn my eyes as I picture his horrified expression if he walked in right now. He’d be shocked, disgusted. He’d be terrified.
Desperate to shred the image of his affectionate gaze turning cold, I pocket my knife and slide onto my ex’s lap, straddling him as I trail my fingers down the solid muscles of his chest.
“You’ve been keeping it tight at the gym, haven’t you?” I purr.
He growls and jerks forward, but I easily dodge his attempt to smash my nose with his forehead.
“Behave.” I pinch his nipple hard, then throw my head back with a laugh. “Oh, Greg. Really?”
His cock hasn’t gotten the danger, danger, danger message, and I glide over the erection suddenly prodding my ass.
“Still wanna fuck?” I ask. “For old time’s sake?”
He glares up at me with a mix of hate, defiance, and lust. “If that’s what you want,” he grinds out.
“Oh god, no. I wouldn’t fuck you with your own dick.” I bounce on his lap. “Although that’s not the worst idea I’ve ever had…”
He moans, and it’s part torture and part want.
“I swear,” he pants. “If you let me go, I swear I won’t say anything.”
“Okay,” I say with another swivel of my hips. “I believe you.”
Then I grab my knife and cut through the last intact section of his sweater. And double oops, my blade sails clean through the ribbed collar and catches on the underside of his chin. Blood wells in the long, shallow cut before slowly oozing down his neck.
“What the fuck, Rue?” he shrieks, starting to thrash for real as I slide off his lap to avoid getting bled on. “Help! Help! Somebody call the police! Fuck, help!”
His face flushes red above the deep crimson trickling down his chest, the veins in his neck popping as he screams. I shoot a comical grimace at the camera, enjoying the irony of performing for Fi the way Greg performed for the Philosopher Kings.
Then I cross my arms and let the knife dangle between my fingertips.
“I’m going to leave you alone to scream yourself out like an overtired toddler, which is kind of what you are, in all honesty,” I say. “But while I’m gone, I’d like for you to think really, really hard about why I might have you strapped to my chair. When I come back, maybe we can talk.”
He glares sullenly up at me, blood still dripping from his chin. “Fuck you, bitch.”
“Such mean words, sugar,” I croon as I circle to stand behind him. “I’ve got three for you, too.”
His muscles tense when I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders so I can whisper into his ear.
“The Philosopher Kings.”
And there it is. A crack in his armor. It’s there in the hitch in his breathing, the new tension in his shoulders. His mind’s going to scramble over everything I might know, and the stink of his fear is the most delicious thing in the world.
“Wait!” he calls when I start to leave the room. “Why not give me a reason to cooperate?”
He just cannot stop lawyering, can he?
I turn slowly. “What, like a quid pro quo?”
“C’mon.” He tries to smile, but the movement pulls at the gash on his chin, and he winces. “You know how well I respond to incentives.”
Instead of rolling my eyes, I play along and pretend to think about it. “What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s say you take the restraints off.” He offers it like it’s the most brilliant suggestion in the world, but when I continue to stare at him flatly, he quickly adds, “Just one arm. Not even my dominant one, my left one.”
“Hmm.” I cock my hip and examine the arm in question. “I suppose it would make you more comfortable.”
“Yes!” More nodding. More smiling, which sends a fresh rivulet of blood down his neck. “And we both know comfortable people are more talkative.”
“That’s a great argument, counselor.” I nod and walk briskly over to him, setting my hand on his left wrist and sliding my knife over the first zip tie.
“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I swear, I’ll—”
With a quick motion, I reposition the blade so it’s over his pinkie finger, and with a hard downward thrust, I push it through skin, muscle, and bone, not stopping until metal hits metal and his finger’s on the floor.
“Comfortable now?” I ask as his screams fill the room. “I’ll be back when you’re ready to talk.”