Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Standing straighter, he stretched his arms and rolled his neck. Sweat dripped down his bare shoulders covered in tattoos. He hadn’t bothered to turn the air up, despite the heat—he was too focused on the task at hand to move from his spot and possibly miss something crucial. An uttered word … a name dropped … a plea for assistance…
He cracked his knuckles, grabbed his whiskey glass and took it to the head. Letting out a loud sigh, he looked at each wall-to-wall camera in front of him, checking in on his world. It was as if he were in a cocoon. The belly of a whale. This room was soundproof so privacy was assured. All thirty-seven cameras he’d installed had rotation abilities, some focused on his house’s interior and exterior, and others on or inside where he conducted the majority of his operations. The minutes ticked by while nothing happened but at last, he caught some movement on one camera.
He pushed a number of buttons on the computer panel, altering the angle of the camera in his detainment room, which he’d nicknamed the skull crusher chamber. There, tied to an old uncomfortable steel chair, slumped over at the waist, was Honey Brooks.
The woman was going in and out of consciousness, her thick hair a disheveled mess. She shuddered then groaned deep and woefully before falling into another lethargic spell. He’d taken the liberty of putting her in something a bit more comfortable before tying her up. A pale blue shirt and long white pajama pants that contrasted with her smooth brown skin. He even covered her bare feet with thick white socks. Comfy. Cozy. He liked to start slow. Nice and easy.
If resistance was met, which he suspected she’d attempt, he would up the ante. She was not someone who’d give him all the information he needed on his first try. He’d read up some more about her, and it became painfully clear that this was no ordinary run-of-the-mill journalist. Someone had sent the cream of the crop to try and dismantle him. He glanced down at his phone where he had his Google search pulled up and shook his head.
Honey Brooks… awarded and celebrated photojournalist. She told stories through pictures. That meant she was observant. Impulsive. Calculating. She used pictures to elicit emotions. To toy with people. Fuck with their sentiments. Artists were always scheming and calculating. It was the nature of the beast. People like her were trauma vampires. He was certain he was the only person who may think of creatives in this manner, but to him, it was so very obvious. It was in their devious nature to twist and turn people’s brains to mush and hearts to bleeding, in order to draw from them the desired effect.
Sappy weakness. Cry for me. Lie for me. Die for me.
She was a one-woman wrecking machine with a camera.
Ain’t you somethin’? You don’t look so tough now, do you?
He looked at her on the screen and shook his head. Her dark hair fell in long, heavy, thick ropes. A beautiful black wild thing with wilted petals and torn leaves. The mugginess in the trunk of his car must’ve done a number on her tresses. When he’d lowered her into the confined space, she’d reminded him of a mannequin—a perfect, human-sized doll. When he took her out, she was sweaty and weak. Limp and loose. Her hair was fuzzier and bigger. Her body was clammy and the Cupid’s bow above her top lip filled with perspiration.
He shook the image of her out of his mind. He shouldn’t find her enticing—this was his enemy. In the corner of the room, he caught sight of her laptop, purse, and phone that he’d brought from her hotel. He’d attempted to jailbreak her phone, but she had it on lockdown. He’d try again later. Patience was a virtue.
He sat down and propped his feet up on the long, dark red desk. Crossing his ankles, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the camera, rubbing absently on his jaw.
She’s strong. Limber. Sexy.
In different circumstances, I might find her interesting enough to tie to my bed and fuck all night long.
After a few minutes, she lulled, then awoke as if startled, and blinked a few times. A wild cat trapped in a cage. He zoomed in on her face. She looked about the room, then immediately tried to free herself from the black wire ties wrapped securely around her wrists and ankles.
“Here she goes… 3… 2… 1…”
“AHHHH!!! AHHHH! LET ME OUT OF HERE!!!”
He stood, chuckling, then grabbed a microphone from the dashboard and spoke into it.
“Good morning, Honey,” he managed to say between her groans and curses. “It’s not a term of endearment. Just callin’ you by your first name. I hope you had a nice rest.”