She twists off the cap and holds it to his mouth, watching, her eyes wide, as Mike greedily chugs the water. The enormous relief of having liquid, of rescue, the release of every horrific nightmare held at bay, rushes him. A breakdown is coming, he can feel a snap somewhere inside as the magnitude of what has been survived hits him. He struggles to meet her eyes, struggles to find words as the black cloud of oblivion moves closer, threatening him with its sweet insanity. “Call Deanna,” he manages, the words more watery than he would have expected.
She meets his eyes, confusion in her own. He fights, his lips moving, a moment passing before sound comes out. “Don’t tell her… about me. About…” there is a struggle to explain, nodding to his legs, and her eyes soften, a gentle hand placed on his chest.
“I won’t. But Mike, where are the keys? The keys to the handcuffs?”
“No cops,” he whispers. Then blackness washes over, and he speaks the words that have chanted through his mind for days.
“Jingle all the way. Oh what…”
CHAPTER 78
CALL DEANNA. JAMIE stands in Mike’s bedroom and tries to make sense of his words. Who is Deanna? And why—with his body chained to a bed, a knife jutting out of him, blood over half of his torso, is he asking for her? She should call the police. An ambulance at least. Mike’s jaw is chattering, words humming through his mouth in an insane chorus, out of rhythm with the chimes that are echoing through the house. She snags a chair, drags it to the kitchen, and stands on it, running her hands along the top of the fridge till she reaches the box, the ridiculous Tiffany box that is blaring holiday cheer in the middle of freaking February. She gropes for its power cord, yanking the hell out of it until the music ceases and her mind can think.
Call Deanna. She walks over to Mike’s desk, looks for a phone. Nothing. Walks over to his chair, pushed into the corner of the room, far from the bed. A pain grips her heart as she imagines him chained to the bed, away from anything that could help him. How long was he tied up? Who did this? The TVs, computer, everything is still here. She leans down, digs through the pocket sewn into the side of his chair, and her hands close around the hard metal of a phone. She pulls it out, presses a button, and the screen floods with light. Fourteen missed calls. She dismisses the alert, a red battery indicating that there is 2 percent left of life. Swearing, she hurries to the bed, grabs the charger, and plugs it in, breathing a sigh of relief when the charge indicator displays. Then she scrolls through the contents till she sees the name. Deanna. Six letters, no description, no picture attached to the contact. Nothing to tell her anything. She presses the “Call” button and waits, the phone to her ear, unsure of what she will say.
“Hi, fuckface.”
The voice sounds pissed. Beyond pissed. The tone of the girl drags a long, sharp razor across Jamie’s skin. This voice doesn’t belong to the image she had in mind, that of a frilly bimbo, one of Mike’s hundred-dollar whores. This voice lives far outside Jamie’s life of pasta ziti and Real Housewives of Miami. She swallows. “Hi.”
CHAPTER 79
“HI.” THE MYSTERIOUS bitch, calling from Mike’s phone, says hi. Like we are sleepover buddies painting our fucking nails.
I had been on camera when the phone rang, a range of emotions flooding through me at Mike’s name on the display. Relief, then a sudden flare of anger. He is alive. He is fine. Has been fucking me around for two days just for the apparent hell of it. At the female’s greeting I set the phone down, pasting a smile on my face, and blow a kiss into the cam, exiting out of nude chat, a chorus of good-bye messages suddenly flooding the chat room screen. I end the chat and yank the black cock from between my legs. “Who the fuck is this?” I stand, naked, the cool air from my AC refreshing against my hot skin. I close my eyes, let out one long breath, and relish the cold breeze. Try to figure out the emotions that are full-out battling in the tight confines of my chest. I let out a long breath, struggling to release the anger that is growing with every stuttered word from MysteryBarbie’s mouth. It isn’t working. I want to rip someone apart, make a throat scream so loud that I come from just the sound of it, my orgasm spreading as the agony lengthens.
“My name is Jamie. I’m…” She pauses for a moment, like she doesn’t know what the fuck she is. I am furious, every emotion I’ve felt for the last forty-eight hours, every shred of hate and love I have for Mike flooding through my veins. I hold back words and wait for her to finish her pathetic sentence. “… I’m a friend of Mike’s.”