Page 59 of Judge's Mercy

Blinking my eyes open, I pray I didn’t go blind from too many orgasms, because I can’t see shit. That doesn’t seem possible, so I look around until I can see the faintest outline of objects in Judge’s room. There’s no telling what time it is, and I’m too comfy to get up and search for my phone, so I close my eyes and think about the events that led to me sleeping in Judge’s bed.

Well, I don’t know if I fell asleep so much as I passed out. That man has given me the best sex of my life, though I’m not sure if the sex is what I should be focusing on or the fact that he’s currently spooning me from behind, his hard cock resting between my bare ass cheeks. It’s everything that happened between the sex that’s more concerning. I’ve let him in far more than I intended, and he’s opened himself up completely, showing me a vulnerability that I don’t deserve.

I know this will only end up one way, yet I keep making the same mistakes over and over again. For what? A good dicking down? I’m losing focus and spending precious hours with Judge when they should be spent deleting assholes from the face of the Earth.

Now that my oxytocin or serotonin or whatever the stupid-ass brain chemical is called that keeps making me fuck Judge is at a normal level, I feel the need to extricate myself from this situation right the hell now, and I’d prefer to do it without waking him so my brain doesn’t get all dick-drunk again.

Moving slower than a snail, I roll out of bed. Judge stirs, and I think I’m caught, but then his breathing evens out. I know my shirt and bra are in the kitchen, but what did I do with my pants and panties? Crawling on all fours, I feel around for fabric until I come across my shorts. Finding my panties is a lost cause, so I give up and stand to feel for the door.

It creaks the way everything does in this old cabin, but I’m far enough from the bed that I think I can make it out before he catches me. Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that, and I’m able to get dressed before sneaking out the front door.

The cool night air of the desert has goosebumps spreading over my skin, and I almost regret leaving Judge’s warm bed. Almost. Looking at the skyline, I see the barest hint of sun, telling me it’s early morning. Shit, did I really sleep for that long? Double shit. Everyone will have seen my bike parked in the lot all afternoon and night, and I’m sure they noticed Judge’s disappearance. This is getting too messy.

Gravel crunches under my boots as I walk through the backyard and to the side of the clubhouse. I hear a soft whir and look up, seeing the flashing red light of one of the security cameras. I flip it off, knowing the guys will be laughing their asses off when they watch this.

My bike is the only one in an empty lot, since the Sons who live here park in a gated section, giving their bikes a second layer of defense from anyone wanting to do them harm. I wish I was strong enough to wheel my bike to the road before starting her up, but it outweighs me ten times over. Climbing on, I remember how she kept stalling earlier and worry I won’t be going anywhere, but she starts up like a dream. That’s when it hits me that she stalled because I didn’t bring up my side stand before accelerating. I’m such an idiot. I could’ve saved myself so much trouble if my emotions had been in check earlier.

I can’t regret it, though. Not when I’m certain I helped Judge in a way no one else has or could. The events of his childhood instilled so much shame in him that he couldn’t explore his fantasies without thinking there was something wrong with him. Because that’s what that was: a fantasy.

There’s no way to tell if his curiosities came only from his abuse, but even if they did, what does it matter? He needed to know that there’s nothing wrong with him for wanting it, and I proved to him that not only is there nothing wrong, but that it can be something to share with the right partner.

With my good deed done and a strike of karma in the right direction—for once—I start my bike. Thankfully, I still have the gate code memorized from when I stayed here, and even better, they haven’t changed it. The wrought iron screeches and squeals as it opens, seeming so much louder now than it does during the day. Would it kill these guys to squirt it with a can of WD-40 now and then?

Once I’m on the road, I relax, despite my jean shorts rubbing against my already sore vagina. It’s good that I decided I’m not fucking Judge again because the girl needs a break. Maybe I could handle it if it was boring vanilla sex, but there’s nothing vanilla about what happens when we fuck. Memories of all the orgasms, the squirting, the milking, and the biting flit through my mind, sending heat straight to my core.

No. Bad vagina. It was good sex, but sex can’t heal the part of me that needs revenge. Judge is just a Band-Aid on a bullet hole, and my kill list is the surgeon. The Band-Aid will temporarily keep me together, but the surgeon will heal my soul.

As I park in the lot outside my apartment, I dismiss thoughts of Judge and remember that I ended up in Judge’s cabin because of my sister. Technically, this is all her fault. She’s the one abandoning her own sister for a guy, and I know it’s stupid to think that a ring and piece of paper will take my sister away from me, but that’s how it feels.

We’ve grown apart so much over the last two years, our relationship already weak at best. Now, it feels like the tether between us has snapped, and I’m nothing to her. She didn’t even bother to call me when it happened. I found out along with everyone else within earshot. That’s so messed up. I’m her identical fucking twin. We shared a womb, and she can’t even shoot me a text when one of the most monumental things in her life happens?

Opening the door to my apartment, I walk right into the puddle of bloody clothes from the day before yesterday. Is that right? It feels like forever ago. So, as I stew over how my sister has been treating me, I grab a plastic bag and dispose of the evidence.

I’ve heard the old adage about how we’re born alone and we’ll die alone, except I wasn’t born alone. Tinleigh is supposed to be my ride-or-die, but little by little, she’s pushed me away until I woke up one day and realized I was on the outside looking in on her life. It’s not right, especially considering I’m only here because of her. And even though she’s taken responsibility and apologized for failing me, I guess I haven’t really forgiven her. Everything that’s happened to me over the last three years—good or bad—is because of her. If she hadn’t gotten the job at the Thirst Trap, I wouldn’t have been tied up while vile men laughed as they violated me and tossed me out of a car like trash.

Doesn’t that earn me some goddamn loyalty?

It just proves that you can’t trust anyone. So, I’ll prioritize myself. I’ll finish my list and then. . . well, I don’t know what I’ll do then, but whatever it is, I’ll do it knowing I’ve evened the score and the monsters didn’t win. Maybe I’ll date. Women, of course, because men have proven themselves utterly untrustworthy.

Any thought of romance turns my stomach, and a sickening feeling spreads like a disease. My mind tries to argue that being with Judge doesn’t feel wrong, but if that was true, why am I not still in his bed? No, what we have is convenient and comfortable. We fill some twisted roles in each other’s lives that no one else could possibly play. He distracts me from the fact that I’m out there committing heinous acts of murder by fucking me brainless, and in turn, I flog him for his nonexistent sins because he has some sort of compulsion for punishment. It’s a sick cycle of toxicity, not romance. We may fit together perfectly, but it’s destructive and dangerous.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I dig a pair of black jeans and a black, long-sleeve T-shirt out of my dresser and step into the shower. I’m not proud as I tug the front pieces of my hair to my nose so I can get one last whiff of Judge’s shampoo before I wet my hair, but after that momentary weakness, I metaphorically and literally wash Judge off every inch of my body.

I’m not fit to be loved, and neither is he.

Removing my helmet, I set it on my coffee table and shake out my hair. It’s getting warmer by the day, and even an evening ride has me sweating under all my gear. I slide off my leather coat and unlace my boots before kicking them off at the door. Sighing, I fall onto the sofa, basking in the air-conditioned room.

Once I’ve cooled down enough to think straight, I reach into the pocket of my coat, remove a little surveillance camera I purchased online, and pop the SD card out of the side. Since plugging it in or connecting to Wi-Fi wasn’t an option where I planted it, I found a battery-operated one that used a memory card. Plugging it into the adaptor that’s connected to my cheap laptop, I pull up the video file and hit play. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I watch as a man walks into a bedroom that looks as though it belongs to a five-year-old.

A white dresser is adorned with dolls that likely belong to the dollhouse in the corner, and framed pictures of carousels hang on a soft pink wall. A round, fuzzy rug in the same shade of pink covers the floor, and in the center sits a small table and chair set up for a tea party, with miniature tea cups and a teapot.

The only thing that’s out of place is an open kit containing small balloons of drugs, a spoon, a lighter, and some syringes next to one of the empty tea cups.

Though I can’t see it, I know that next to the window—the one I climbed through to set up the camera—is a small bookshelf that’s stuffed with books suitable for toddlers. Across from it is a bed with pink and white bedding covered in stuffed animals and pillows. It’s a dream bedroom for any five-year-old. However, the girl lying on the mattress isn’t five. Despite her frilly dress and pigtails, she has to be sixteen or seventeen.

A man in a suit walks in and unbuttons his coat. Already knowing where this is going, I stop the video and skip to the end. It was a smart choice because when I cut to the last thirty seconds of the clip, the girl’s naked and abused body is curled into a ball, and the man is walking out, straightening his tie.

I’ve been watching David Grace for a week now. Like all the others, he keeps a regular schedule. He’s up by five in the morning, grabs a protein shake, and heads to the gym. By seven, he’s back at home for coffee and a shower. At nine on the dot, he strolls into his office building downtown, where he works as a VP for some geothermal energy company.

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