by A. R. Torre
“Oh.” FtypeBaby. In all of this packing, all of this preparation, I’d forgotten all about her. My beautiful wild child. My getaway girl. I lift my chin and smile at Brenda. “Thank you.” She drops the keys into my palm and I close my hand around them.
“I’ll be at your hearing. I’ll see you then.” It’s a threat, though I don’t know if she intends it to be. I smile politely.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to personally come by. I appreciate it.”
“I was so sure that you were guilty.” She shakes her head and laughs a little. “I’m not wrong very often.”
I say nothing and she steps back. Turns a step later and faces me. “That night you jumped out the window… I have enough just from what we saw to charge you with something. We don’t have to have Simon and Chelsea file assault charges to arrest you.”
I shrug. “You have a job to do. I understand that.” But I won’t be here if you come back.
I watch her walk down the hall, then I step backward into my apartment and shut the door. Drop the bag and the keys onto the floor and press my forehead against the door. Freedom. It is almost here.
I hear the familiar wheeze of a delivery truck outside, a sound that has so often brought me joy, and I blink back tears. I stay in place, the cool metal of the door comforting, and let the tears drip free. When the knock sounds, I step back and wipe my face. Open the door and smile at the two men who stand there, nodding my way through their introductions. When they mention the pickup, I step to the side and swing open the door.
“Come on in. You have a cart?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Great. It’s the stack in the kitchen.” I take the package the first man offers and scrawl my signature across his pad. I carry the thin parcel to the kitchen and rip the top of it open, shaking out its contents. A passport, birth certificate, and social security card. I open the passport and see my face, a gold credit card tucked in between its pages.
My name is Whitney McTucket. My birthday is February 16, 1989. My parents are two names I will memorize later. My passport photo is a good one, and it looks like I’ve already been to four countries.
“Ms. Madden?”
“Yes?” I glance up and set down the passport.
“We loaded up everything in that stack. Is there more?”
Loaded up everything? I thought it would take three trips, maybe four. But the two of them have stacked the boxes in neat order on their cart and there are fewer than I remember, only ten or eleven boxes, all of my life that’s worth keeping and 80 percent of it is sexual. I glance at the other two piles and shake my head. “No, that’s it.”
“Here’s a receipt for the pickup.” The shorter of the two steps forward and passes me a thin slip of paper.
“Thank you.”
“Have a nice day.”
Ha. I smile, they smile, and then they leave. I look at my suitcases, two of them, next to the door. Nothing to do now but leave.
CHAPTER 92
Two Weeks Later
CAN I SEE your ticket?”
I straighten and dig in my pocket, pulling out the yellow square and handing it to the man.
“She yours?” the man asks, tilting his head toward FtypeBaby.
“Yep.” I kick a tennis shoe up on the railing of the barge and lower my sunglasses. I could suffocate him with enough of those tickets. Stuff them down his throat like pushing batting into a pillow.
“She’s a beaut. You’ll certainly turn heads on the island.”
I force a smile and hold my hand out for the ticket. He passes it back. “When we land just get in and idle. The attendant’ll wave you forward. Welcome to the Cayman Islands, Ms. McTucket.”
McTucket. A horrible last name. “Thanks.” I stuff the ticket back into my pocket and close my eyes, resting against her side, the ocean breeze bringing the scent of salt with it. Two weeks of freedom down. I took the scenic route, driving south through Texas, then across the border into Mexico, spending a night here or there as I skipped across the country, my foot heavy on FtypeBaby’s gas, the top down, music up. Mike was my guardian angel, watching Tulsa PD for any sign of alarm, but they didn’t realize I’d left till the hearing and I was already in Mexico by then. As Brenda said in an e-mail to her boss, I turned myself in for an attempted murder I didn’t commit. Who’d have thought I would run from a misdemeanor? I bought a gun in Monterrey, and a knife in Tampico, both only for protection. And now, my baby’s first boat trip, one that would take us to our final destination and to the rest of my funds: two and a half million dollars, transferred from Deanna Madden’s accounts and now in Whitney McTucket’s possession. It’s enough for a small house on the beach and a new life.
There, in the sun, the car’s warm curves against my back, I almost feel hope.
Dear Jeremy,
I did love you, that is the one truth I ever told you. You are a man who deserves to be loved. You are a man who is honest and good, one who protects the weak and sees the best. You are a man who works hard and thinks harder. A man who deserves a woman by his side whom he can be proud of, one who can be a mother to his children and a partner in life.
I never really told you about my mother. I know that you know what happened, that she killed my brother and sister and our father. But I didn’t tell you that there was a piece of her mind that was broken, and that she passed that piece on to me. Maybe it was in me all along, but I didn’t discover it until I was seventeen. Until the night I walked in and found my dead family, my mother in the midst of it. I killed her that night, J. It was me, not suicide. I killed her.
That first night, the start of our relationship? You brought me flowers and I asked to borrow your truck. I never told you where I went that night and you never asked. I killed my first man that night. I got back in your truck with his blood on my clothes. He was a horrible person but his life wasn’t mine to take. And I took it because I wanted to, because my hands shake and my blood pulses and I get motherfuckin’ excited at the thought. I drove back to Oklahoma and slept for three days because I was hungover from killing. Because my body was spent and my mind was reeling. And, for a short while, I was fine.
The first time you almost died? In the hospital you told me you didn’t want to know, in case the police questioned you. I didn’t get to you in time because I was getting rid of a body. Because after I killed him, I lay on his body and slept. I didn’t kill him because of you; I didn’t even know about you. I killed him because I wanted to. Because I had a free pass and a sliver of motive and I grabbed hold of it and unleashed hell. I risked your life because I was cocky and too badass to just be normal for once in my life.
And now, you lie in a hospital. I didn’t kill Simon and Chelsea for you, but I would have. You can thank Lily for their lives, for her calling the cops when she did. I’m not going to thank her. I’m pissed at her for taking that from me. A double kill… it would have been so beautiful. But I do believe that Simon’s actions were, at least initially, an accident. You should forgive them. You will forgive them. I know you; it’s what you do. It’s what a truly good person would do.
Don’t forgive me, Jeremy. Understand me. Understand that there is a part of me that is broken and it can’t be fixed and it doesn’t want to be fixed. It is how I was made; it is how I will be until the day that I die. I am not the girl that you fell in love with. You fell in love with a girl I played, a part I do so well that I can sometimes escape to her place and pretend that it’s real. That is what I did with you: I pretended. I pretended until the day when the game stopped being fun. I pretended until the day that my plastic world crumbled around the hum of a ventilator.
My game killed you, J. And I’m sorry that I ever asked you to play. I’m sorry that I ever stood in my doorway and let you see me. I’m sorry that I lied. I’m sorry that my heart is black and I didn’t let you see that until now.
It was a fun game. And now it is over. I pray that you one day get a chance to read this letter. You deserve life.
You deserve happiness. You deserve truth and someone who doesn’t have to hide it from you.
Sincerely,
the girl in 6E
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I know there is a large group of you, dear readers, who will be upset with me. I don’t have a response for you, except to say that Deanna is a big piece of me and she spoke very loudly in the writing of this book. One day, should you ever decide to write a book, you will understand that I, as the author, have very little say in the direction that my characters take. It was a very emotional journey, the writing of this book, and I still—even after five rewrites and three editing sweeps—tear up when reading the final chapters. Please know that as emotionally attached as you may be to the characters, I am even more so. I have lived and breathed these souls for over two years.
As far as whether I will write another book in this series—I think that I probably will. I want to explore Deanna’s journey further and see where she goes and what happens to her. And I have a few surprises still tucked up my sleeve that want to be pulled out.
To all of the readers, bloggers, and other authors who have loved Deanna and experienced this series: THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for embracing this wicked girl and taking her under your wing.
With love,
Alessandra Torre
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Maura Kye-Casella, my angel of an agent, for embracing my little self-pubbed evil child and growing her into this franchise. Thank you to Susan Barnes for seeing her beauty and making her into so much more. Thank you to the entire team at Redhook for perfecting her and then sending her out into the world to be read. A special thanks to Lindsey Hall, Alex Lencicki, Ellen Wright, Laura Fitzgerald, Wendy Chan, Andromeda Macri, Rachel Hairston, Anne Clarke and Tim Holman.
A second giant thank-you to Kiki Chatfield with The Next Step PR and to Tricia Crouch—the greatest assistant an author could ask for. You ladies are amazing. Another thank-you goes out to Perla Calas, whose sharp eyes helped make this book shine.
To Joey—thank you for taking my crazy and pouring kerosene on the fire. I love you so incredibly much.
And to the readers and bloggers. Without your support, these books would never happen. Thank you for reading them, reviewing them, and recommending them to others.
MEET THE AUTHOR
Photo Credit: Romona Robbins Photography
A. R. Torre is an open pseudonym for Alessandra Torre, an award-winning New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of eleven novels. Her books primarily focus on romance and suspense, all with a strong undercurrent of sexuality. Torre has been featured in such publications as Elle and Elle UK, as well as guest-blogged for the Huffington Post and RT Book Reviews. She is also the Bedroom Blogger for Cosmopolitan.com.
You can learn more about Alessandra on her website at www.alessandratorre.com, or you can find her on Twitter (@ReadAlessandra) or Facebook.
INTRODUCING
If you enjoyed
IF YOU DARE,
look out for
THE GIRL IN 6E
A Deanna Madden Novel
by A. R. Torre
My life is simple, as long as I follow the rules.
1. Don’t leave the apartment.
2. Never let anyone in.
3. Don’t kill anyone.
I’ve obeyed these rules for three years. But rules were made to be broken.
CHAPTER 1
I HAVEN’T TOUCHED a human in three years. That seems like it would be a difficult task, but it’s not. Not anymore, thanks to the Internet. The Internet that makes my income possible and provides anything I could possibly want in exchange for my credit card number. I’ve had to go into the underground world for a few things, and once in that world, I decided to stock up on a few fun items, like a new identity. I am now, when necessary, Jessica Beth Reilly. I use my alias to prevent others from finding out my past. Pity is a bitch I’d like to avoid. The underground provides a plethora of temptations, but so far, with one notable exception, I’ve stayed away from illegal arms and unregistered guns. I know my limits.
The UPS man knows me by now—knows to leave my boxes in the hall and to scrawl my name on his signature pad. His name is Jeremy. About a year ago, he was sick, and a stranger came to my door. He refused to leave the package without seeing me. I almost opened the door and went for his box cutters. They almost always carry box cutters. That’s one of the things I love about deliverymen. Jeremy hasn’t been sick since then. I don’t know what I’ll ever do if he quits. I like Jeremy, and from my warped peephole view, there is a lot about him to like.
The first shrink I had said I have anthropophobia, which is fear of human interaction. Anthropophobia, mixed with a healthy dose of cruorimania, which is obsession with murder. He told me that via Skype. In exchange for his psychological opinions, I watched him jack off. He had a little cock.
While I may go out of my way to avoid physical human interaction, virtual human interaction is what I spend all day doing. To the people I cam with, I am JessReilly19, a bubbly nineteen year old college student—a hospitality major—who enjoys pop music, underage drinking, and shopping. None of them really know the true me. I am who they want me to be, and they like it like that. So do I.
Knowing the real me would be a bit of a buzz kill. The real me is Deanna Madden, whose mother killed her entire family, then committed suicide. I inherited a lot from my mother, including delicate features and dark hair, but the biggest genetic inheritance was her homicidal tendencies. That’s the reason I stay away from people. Because I want to kill. Constantly. It’s almost all I think about.
Over the last three years, I’ve learned how to optimize my income. From 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. I use a site called Sexnow.com, which has a clientele of mostly Asians, Europeans, and Australians. From 6 p.m. to 11 p.m., I’m on American turf, on Cams.com. In between shifts, I eat, workout, shower, and return emails—always in that order.
Whenever possible, I try to get clients to use my personal website and also make appointments. If they go through my website, I make 96.5% of their payout, plus I can hide the income from Uncle Sam. The camsites only pay me 28%, which officially constitutes as highway robbery. I charge $6.99 a minute. On a good month, I make around $55,000 and on a bad one, about $30,000.
Camming makes up seventy percent of my income; the rest comes from my website, which allows men to watch my live video feed. I broadcast at least four hours a day and charge subscribers twenty bucks a month. I wouldn’t pay ten cents to watch me masturbate online, but apparently two hundred and fifty subscribers feel differently.
The $6.99 a minute grants clients the ability to bare their sexual secrets and fantasize to their heart’s content, without fear of exposure or criticism. I don’t judge the men and women who chat with me and reveal their secrets and perversions. How can I? My secret, my obsession, is worse than any of theirs. To contain it, I do the only thing I can. I lock myself up. And in doing so, I keep myself, and everyone else, safe.
Sometimes I allow myself to be delusional. To daydream. At those times I tell myself that one day I will be happy—that I am banking all of this money so I can move to the Caribbean and lie on the beach. But I know that if I did that, the sand would be covered in blood soon enough.
I try to sleep at least eight hours a night. Nighttime is when I typically struggle the most. It is when I thirst for blood, for gore. So Simon Evans and me have an agreement. Simon lives three doors down from me in this shithole that we all call an apartment complex. He has, over the last three years, developed a strong addiction to prescription painkillers. I keep his medicine bottle filled, and he locks me up at night. My door is, without a doubt, the only one in the complex without a deadbolt switch on the inside.
I used to have Marilyn do it. She’s a grandmotherly type who struggles by on the pittance that is her social security. She lives across from Simon. But Marilyn stressed out too much; she was always worried that I would have some personal emer
gency, or fire, or something, and would need to get out. I had to find someone else. Because I worried over what was coming. At night, my fingers would start to itch, and I would come close to picking up that phone, to asking her to unlock my door. And then I would wait beside it, wait for the tumblers to move and my door to be unlocked. And when I opened it, when I saw Marilyn’s lined and tired face, I would kill her. Not immediately. I would stab her a few times, leaving some life in her, and wait for her to run, to scream. I like the sound of screams—real screams, not the pathetic excuse that most movies tried to pass off as the sound of terror. Then I would chase her down and finish the job, as slowly as I could. Dragging out her pain, her agony, her realization that she had caused her own death. I had gotten to the point where I had picked out a knife, started to keep it in the cardboard box that sat by the door and held my outgoing mail and various crap. That was when I knew I was getting too close. That was when I picked Simon instead. Simon’s addiction supersedes any concern he has for my well-being.
BY A. R. TORRE
The Girl in 6E
Do Not Disturb
If You Dare
AS ALESSANDRA TORRE
Blindfolded Innocence
Masked Innocence
End of the Innocence
The Dumont Diaries
Sex Love Repeat
Black Lies
Tight
Hollywood Dirt
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