Page 98 of Ruining Vanessa

I let up, but I kick Brad in the side. “Do piggies usually talk?” I ask Slayer. “Because I’m pretty sure they don’t. I’m pretty sure all they do is oink.”

Slayer nods, going to the bag nearby. “We’ll help him out. I guess we shouldn’t start by cutting out his tongue, huh?” he says, a little plaintively—and he probably is disappointed that he has to restrain himself.

Brad starts making frantic little oinking noises.

“That’s better.” I circle around Brad, who is either smart enough to realize he can’t make it to the door before we catch him or too scared to move. I can work with both. “Y’know what else? Most piggies don’t wear clothes.” I push my foot against Brad’s stomach. “But I’m generous. You get to choose, Braddy. You strip down to your undies yourself. Or you force me to do it, and then you’ll be completely naked.”

“I hope he makes you do it,” Slayer says, even though I know he has no interest in seeing another guy’s naked body. It’s a pity, but at least he’s good at playing along. Guys like Brad practically piss their pants when they think they’re being hit on by other dudes as it is, let alone in situations like this.

“I’ll do it,” Brad wheezes.

I step a little harder on his chest, just as a threat, before backing off. “All right. Don’t make me regret trusting you.” Then I laugh, loud and exaggerated. “Or do! Whatever floats your boat.”

Brad scrambles away from me, toward the back of the basement. “I’m stripping, I’m stripping!”

It’s a bit disappointing how easily he does this, but a rich kid like him, used to a cushy life where everything goes his way, probably has no idea how to deal with violence.

“Nice briefs,” I say, barely even looking at him. “Johnny, tie him up.”

Slayer grabs a set of rope from the duffel bag—the soft kind that we use when we don’t want to leave marks, not the kind we use for people who are getting dismembered and distributed across state lines. Lucky Brad. “Sure thing,” he says.

“You don’t have to tie me up,” Brad says. “I’m cooperating, see?”

“Oink for me and maybe I won’t tie you up,” Slayer says, grinning at him.

Brad looks pained, but he makes an oinking sound.

Slayer shakes his head. “Good try, but nah. I think I’m gonna have to tie you up anyway. What do you think, Sammy?”

I pick up Brad’s discarded pants and start rifling through his pockets, finding his phone. It’s got a thumbprint unlock, which has to be the worst kind of security you could put on your phone.

“Yeah, definitely tie him up. I need his thumb first.” I give Brad a wild grin. “I don’t care if it’s still attached to him.”

Brad lets out a choked little sound, holding his hands up. “No, no. You can just… Here, I’ll unlock it for you, man. You don’t need to get crazy.”

“Get crazy,” Slayer says, snickering. “Like you’re not already crazy as fuck.”

I hold the phone up to Brad, and he presses his thumb against it with trembling hands. When the phone’s unlocked, I pat him on the head. “Good little piggy.”

The first thing I notice is a text from some food delivery app. “Hey, your food got here! I’m gonna go pick it up. It’d be a waste to let it sit out there. Johnny, don’t have too much fun without me.”

Like he’ll have much time. I keep scrolling through the phone while I head back to the front door to pick up the food left on the doorstep. Brad really has terrible luck. If we’d shown up twenty minutes later, he might not have opened the door for us.

We’d have found another way in.

I pick up a chair from the kitchen and drag it down the stairs along with the food. Slayer ended up tying Brad’s arms behind his back, and Brad’s on his knees, legs spread wide.

“That’s just the right height for a blowjob,” I comment, setting the chair in front of Brad.

Brad pales even further and shakes his head. “No, man, come on. I’m not gay!”

“You don’t have to be gay to give a blowjob,” Slayer comments. He shoots me a look, as though daring me to remind him of that fact later when I want him to blow me.

I ignore the comment and pluck the receipt off the food delivery bag. “What did you order? Looks like… Italian? Are you serious? You paid…. Nearly fifty bucks for somebody to deliver spaghetti in tomato sauce? And, am I reading right, you didn’t even tip the guy?” I give Slayer a plaintive look. “I know I’m an asshole, but I always tip well. That’s just the bare minimum, right?”

“You can afford to tip well,” Slayer says, then laughs. “Oh wait. So can Brad.” He thumps Brad on the back of the head. “Just a dick move not to tip if you’re ordering out. Those people need to make a living, Brad!”

“The place is ten minutes away,” Brad complains. “And the company pays them. They don’t need a tip on top of that.”

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