Do Not Disturb

by A. R. Torre

  “I bought a car.”

  “You bought a car.”

  “Yes. Jeremy drove me.”

  “So… you bought a car. In person.”

  “Yes. Was that a mistake?” I let out a long breath, trying to understand why I am shaky. What it is about the last hour that has me so worked up. But I know what it is. It’s the same reason I am calling him now. Because I feel like I’ve gone too far. I’ve accelerated my assimilation to an unhealthy level.

  “Why didn’t you ask me this before you bought a car?”

  “It was kind of an impulse decision.” And it had been. Purely impulse. A fleeting thought in the shower that I had grabbed with both hands, squeezed with unrestrained glee until its head had popped off, spewing out a new Jaguar that I now have no earthly idea what to do with.

  What was my plan? To rejoin the human race? Run errands? Go for Sunday drives? This is my home. This is my safe place. These walls are what have protected me. Protected others from me.

  “I don’t like the new path you are taking. I understand that you are tired of isolation—”

  “No, you don’t understand. Stir-crazy is a term for a reason. You try to spend three years breathing the same air. Forget killing other people; I’ll start chopping at my own neck pretty soon.”

  “Deanna. You were content, you were happy. Four months ago, you were perfectly adjusted and comfortable with the idea of living in that apartment till you were old and gray. What happened? What changed? Why now are you champing at the bit for change?”

  Because four months ago I stepped outside. I stepped outside and felt the sun. I kissed a boy. I drove across the country and killed someone. All things I can’t confess to. Can’t discuss with the one man who could help me move past them. “Nothing happened.” I lick my lips and search for an excuse. “I’m just… I don’t know. I changed. Maybe it’s my period.”

  The unmentionable period. The one word that causes every man to shut his trap, change the subject, move on and away, ready for anything but to discuss that. Every man except, apparently, Derek.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, your period has never had that effect before. Is it Jeremy?”

  My stomach clenches. “No. Don’t try to take that away from me.”

  “I can’t take anything away from you, a fact evidenced by your continued denial to listen to any of my advice.” His words are terse, and I smile. This is comfortable, this is what I know. Derek preaching, me arguing. I feel a bit of my tension ease.

  “Can you take the car back?”

  I laugh. “I didn’t ask if it was refundable, but I’m pretty sure the answer to that question is no.”

  “You’re enabling yourself. That car is a key to some very dangerous doors. You need to get rid of it. Immediately.”

  And just like that, the purchase turns sour. I knew. I knew before I dialed his number. I knew when my heart was racing in the stairway that I’d made a mistake. That I am biting off more than I can chew and that this piece of candy will pull me around by the mouth until it drags me off the cliff and into hell. But hearing the words from his mouth, knowing the wisdom behind them… it cements my fuckup. Quite possibly my most expensive fuckup ever. I slump, sliding off the end of the bed and leaning back against the mattress. I listen to Derek’s steady breath, and wish he were here to hold me. Hug me. I bet he’s a good hugger. A good, responsible hugger who makes you feel like he is taking some of your worry with the embrace. I close my eyes.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Deanna—don’t—” He pauses. “Just don’t drive anywhere. Give yourself a few days to think. Promise me you won’t drive till we talk tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up the phone and look at the car key. Lying lonely on a worn linoleum counter. Waiting for something more. A life to explore. I close my eyes, drop my head back against the bed, and feel its pain. Another thing we have in common.

  I need to get online. I roll over and push myself onto my feet. Distraction will help.

  CHAPTER 48

  NICK HOPPER SITS in a parking lot, the adjacent restaurant’s free Wi-Fi sending a weak but usable signal to his laptop even after the hours pass and the interior lights go out. He starts with a few simple searches, tracking down the Internet DNA of one Jess Reilly, Internet superstar. There is the face that someone shows, the makeup that smears a pretty façade over their online presence—then there is the truth behind the makeup. The un-Photoshopped images, the fat body behind the close-cropped Facebook profile pic, the lease that sits in the glove box of the Porsche. He finds the makeup easy enough, the camgirl’s location too clearly displayed, a P.O. box as easily found as clicking on the “Contact Me” tab of her website. She can’t be that stupid, can’t be that stupid and still be alive and online. Some psycho, some version of the man he has just left, would have tracked her down by now. Corrupted that sweet smile in ways that keep single women up at night.

  Nick’s heard the stories about the man who signs his paychecks. He’s been at Renza Development for two years, his start date a couple of months before the man was sent away. The rumors had swirled during his initial weeks of employment, rumors backed up by the courtroom drama that was broadcasted on truTV for the whole world to see. The man is seriously fucked up. Two years later and Nick can still picture the chick, Katie something-or-other. The girl’s face had looked like that of a stroke victim, the right side unresponsive when she spoke, the testifying doctor stating that it was a result of tissue damage. She sat on the stand and revealed that the damage was done with his fists, his belt, and—at one point—the toes of his dress shoes.

  He closes his eyes to the memory and types on. Peels back the façade of Jess Reilly and digs deeper. Her cover is impressive, going five or six levels deeper than is necessary. He slurps a Big Gulp and breaks a few more federal rules involving privacy. Focusing on her website, skirting past the private registration and moving closer, the scent of her fills his car as he hacks his way closer to the brunette’s truth.

  It isn’t a quick process. Someone with skill had set her up. But he finds a few holes. Pushes them wide open and crawls in. And finally, hours later, he has an address. A long way from her fake Iowa address. An even longer way from Marcus Renza’s Miami mansion. Maybe Mr. Renza won’t go there. He can’t, right? He is under house arrest. For now at least. Nick writes down the address with a reluctant hand. Then he starts the car and heads back to the mansion.

  CHAPTER 49

  HackOffMyBigCock: hey killer

  “EASY THERE.” I stick out my tongue and lean over, open up the drawer that contains my outfits of the schoolgirl variety. “You in the mood for green or red plaid?”

  HackOffMyBigCock: just get naked. skip the outfit.

  I pause, stockings already in hand, surprised. We’ve chatted for three years, and he’s about worn through every schoolgirl outfit I have. Straight nudity is a new thing. “What—your prep school girlfriend dump you?”

  HackOffMyBigCock: keep laughing. Ill find a new fetish. Maybe turn into a furry freak. Make you spend some of that cash on some big ass costumes.

  I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t have enough closet space for furry fans. And I’m sweating my ass off as it is. I can’t imagine being under these lights in a twenty-pound kangaroo outfit.”

  HackOffMyBigCock: fuck kangaroo. I wanna fuck polar bear ass. youd be a sexy polar bear.

  I laugh, spinning on my knees till my back is to him, and unclip my bra, glancing over my shoulder at the cam, and give him a teasing smile.

  HackOffMyBigCock: turn around. Let me see em.

  Mike is the only person on this earth who knows about my wealth. I’m pretty sure there is very little about me he doesn’t know. I didn’t think he knew about Jeremy. Didn’t think he had made that level of invasion into my habits. Guess I was wrong on that front. But, my love life notwithstanding, the bigger deal is that he knows who I really am. Knows my family history, my address, my banking info. Even knows about th
at night in Georgia. Knows that I left with blood on my hands. He’s the one who orchestrated the money transfer to Annie’s family. I trust him explicitly. I don’t have much of a choice. He, for a long time, was my lifeline to the world. He provided me my false identity, my Internet access, my firewall that (he guarantees) is impenetrable. And, that night in Georgia? I’m pretty sure he committed enough felonies to earn a jail cell right next to mine. He knows and protects me in a way that Jeremy will never be able to, is my friend in a way that no one else covers. Yet I’ve never seen him. Only memorized the sound of his voice. The grate of his chuckle when he laughs. The hiss of his breath when I bring him to orgasm. It is a strange relationship. He gives me so much and I pay him with the unemotional gift of cash. It doesn’t really seem fair, but he hasn’t complained yet so I keep my mouth shut and appreciate it.

  I obey his directive and turn, covering my breasts initially before sliding my hands lower, uncovering inch by inch of skin, my breath quickening a bit.

  HackOffMyBigCock: fuck bb. my cock is so hard.

  “Show me it.” A futile request, yet one I always throw out. He never shows me his cam. I lean back on the bed and pull my panties off, now fully naked before him.

  HackOffMyBigCock: give me camera control

  “Please,” I growl.

  HackOffMyBigCock: pretty please u gorgeous fucking woman

  “That’ll work.” I grin. I lean forward, waiting, then clicking when a box pops up, asking for remote access. I’m pretty certain he has a way to get around my permission’s control, but I appreciate his not going there. The extra step of granting him access makes me feel like I have some semblance of control. I click on the permissions box and then lean back, watching the screen as it pans out, my cameras working without touch, zooming and focusing as he takes control of our session.

  HackOffMyBigCock: lie on ur side. then open those legs for me.

  “Do you want me to touch myself?” I watch the screen and wait for his response.

  HackOffMyBigCock: no. use a toy. 1 of your small vibrators. Hold it gently on your clit. Turn slightly so I can see your pussy.

  I angle my body toward one of the cams, keeping my knees bent and my sex open. I grab a toy and turn it to low, lying down on the bed and running it gently over my clit, whisper soft. My body instantly responses, lubricating my inner walls, my clit standing at attention and straining for more contact. I close my eyes. “Turn on your mic.”

  There is an electronic beep, and I hear his breath, the sounds of a life somewhere else, far from me and my apartment of solitude.

  “Hey there.”

  “God, you are beautiful.” His voice is gruff, heavy with need. I love his voice. It brings to mind a face I will never see, a touch I will never feel.

  I smile, my eyes closed, and imagine his mouth on me, replacing the toy, making an unhurried path across my sex. “I want you to fuck me so bad,” I whisper, the statement eliciting a thick groan from him.

  “Tell me. Tell me what you’d do to me.”

  “I’d get myself ready on your bed. Touch myself while I listen to you work. Imagine your hands on my skin, your mouth in between my legs.” I arch my back, needing more stimulation, and turn the vibrator up, moaning softly when it bumps hard against my clit.

  “Come here. I want you to crawl to me on your knees.”

  I don’t move. “Not just yet, I want you hard and ready before I take you into my mouth.”

  He swears. “God, you are a tease. There isn’t a thing on this planet harder than my cock right now.”

  “I’m picturing it right now.” I move the toy lower, and slip the tip of it into my sex, the intrusion perfect. I open my eyes, hearing the movement of the cam, and watch on-screen as he zooms in, focusing on my lips around the toy. “I want to feel every ridge on your cock as you tease me with it. I want you to slide the tip of it in and out of my cunt and feel how hot and tight I am for you.”

  A low, guttural sound comes from him, and I arch my back, pushing further, my body greedy for more, the view of my sex pulsing around the hot-pink plastic erotic, even to me. Even to my eyes that have seen this view thousands of times.

  “Please,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Deeper.”

  I push it fully in, and the sounds of his orgasm rip through the speakers.

  Some men are quiet when they come. There is a sudden pause, no sound at all. No soft breaths, no gentle moan. Their entire body clenches in a death grip of silence. Other men are vocal, moaning, speaking, gasping loudly as they expel their pleasure all over the keyboard. I had a shrieker once. A high-pitched shriek that blew out one of my speakers and made me fight back a smile. Mike is a groaner. He groans my name in a deep, guttural voice that runs a possessive touch down my back. His orgasms are long, enjoyable, and I feel a shot of arousal zip through me as he finishes. I squeeze my core around the toy, waiting, hoping that I might follow suit, my orgasm triggered by his. But the arousal fades, my attempts at catching it futile. I slide the toy slowly out, the camera zooming in on the action, his interest still piqued, and I hear him sigh as the length of it is exposed. “Fuck,” he sighs. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you just avoided sucking my dick.”

  “You complaining?” I move the mouse, turn off his access to my computer, and switch the video feeds, choosing the cam that shows my face. I grin, and hear him chuckle in response.

  “Not at all. You always take care of me.”

  “As do you,” I shoot back, my eyes studying the timer for our chat. Seventeen minutes thirty-eight seconds. “Talk to you soon?”

  “You know it, babe.”

  He clicks off and the “ENDED CHAT” message fills the screen. Eighteen minutes. A hundred and twenty-five bucks. Though for Mike, I’d have done it for free.

  CHAPTER 50

  THE MAN BEFORE Nick stands like a roadblock, framed by the arched doorway. A bright red roadblock, the man’s flushed skin almost matching his hair in intensity. “It’s late, Nick.”

  He glances at his watch. “Mr. Renza said he wanted it.”

  “I’ll give it to him in the morning.”

  “It needs explanation. Can you just check—”

  “Why don’t you just tell me the explanation, and I can pass it on?”

  Nick looks past him, his gaze sweeping over a perfectly kept space as he tries to think. Fuck it. He has a girlfriend at home waiting. “It wasn’t easy to get. The girl has a really complex misdirection set up. The whole appearance is that she’s in Iowa. At a college there. It’s really tight. All the roads led the place they should. I almost stopped looking and brought you the Iowa apartment info I found.”

  The houseman sighs as if bored. “Just give me the info.” He holds out a hand, the sleeve of his button-up riding up to reveal a watch that looks too dainty to be on a man’s wrist.

  Nick hands over a single piece of paper, the address on it. “I woulda had it sooner, but it wasn’t easy to get. I had to track it down through the hosting account on a sub website, an old URL that isn’t being used anymore—”

  “I’ll let him know.” The man snatches the piece of paper, turning, his hand on the knob as he swings the door shut.

  Nick sticks out a hand, stopping the door. “He told me I’d get a bonus.”

  The man’s eyes glare at his hand, as if it is offensive. “It’ll be in your paycheck.” His gaze drags to Nick’s face, the edge of his mouth curving slightly. “Your final paycheck. Your services are no longer needed, Mr. Hopper.” He shoves at the door, Nick’s hand moving just in time as the wood clicks shut with a loud finality.

  He stares at the walnut surface, confusion giving way to irritation. Well… shit. Staring at the knob, he contemplates breaking down the door and getting her address back. Instead, swearing under his breath, he kicks at the nearest planter, the ceramic pot falling over with a satisfying crack, dirt spraying over the marble surface. His boots stomp down the gritty steps as he leaves.

  CHAPTER 51

&
nbsp; November 12—Two Years Earlier

  “WHAT THE FUCK happened?”

  The voice of Katie’s father. Loud. Louder than when she crashed his Range Rover into the country club’s entrance. Louder than when she had announced her teenage pregnancy, only to lose the baby three weeks later. Katie McLaughlin blinks her eyes and tries to focus, but can only see white. White fuzz. She closes her eyes tightly. Tries again.

  “We aren’t sure.” A strange voice. One she doesn’t recognize. Soothing. That’s a mistake. Her father doesn’t like to be soothed or coddled. Hugged or loved. He likes to be respected. A soothing individual doesn’t, in his mind, respect him. The soothing stranger continues. “She was brought in by a couple of girls; they found her on Sixty-sixth Street just after four this morning. Curled against the back door of Maloney’s.”

  “What the fuck’s Maloney’s?”

  “Mr. McLaughlin, she’s lucky to be alive. We pumped her stomach as soon as she arrived, which removed much of the drugs before they could take full effect. She’d been heavily drugged. Had we not gotten to her when we did, who knows the effect of that cocktail on her system, on her brain and memory receptors for that matter.”

  “She takes drugs.”

  No! Her brain screams the word. She doesn’t do drugs. Hasn’t for four years. He should know this, she has told him. He doesn’t believe her. She blinks, fire-hot liquid pooling, vision unchanging, her brain infuriated by the white cloud that won’t lift from her eyes. Tries to turn her head but can’t. There’s a brace of some sort keeping it in place. Swallows. Tries to speak. Her tongue is not cooperating, nothing is coming out.

  “These weren’t recreational drugs. They were Rohypnol, GHB. We cleared them from her system, and—other than short-term memory loss—there shouldn’t be any lasting effect.”

  “You don’t know my daughter. She’s a drug addict.”

  The soothing voice starts sounding like someone with a backbone. Katie perks up, listening, while another part of her brain wonders where her mother is. “Mr. McLaughlin, focus. Your daughter has abrasions on her wrists and ankles indicative of being tied up. She has anal and vaginal tearing consistent with rape. Her right cheekbone and eye socket are fractured as if she was punched repeatedly by a strong fist. She has broken ribs and lash marks as if from a whip or belt. This is not from a party or her own doing. She is a victim.”