Page 9 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

TATUM

PRESENT DAY

Abi Kincaid is an asshole. Of all the assholes who have ever assholed, my Russian captor reigns supreme. Tonight is the first night in months I’ve managed to escape the prison he’s constructed for me, and thanks to the wallet I stole from his back pocket when I was pretending to squeeze his ass simply for the thrill, tonight’s drinks are on Abi. It’s not that I’m a thief or anything, but he keeps my ID with his, and I knew there was a chance I might need it. His debit card was simply a casualty of this idiotic war, and he has no one else to blame for any charges he sees in the morning.

Freedom’s never tasted this good. Don’t get me wrong, he doesn’t keep me chained to the bed anymore, but with the way his unnecessarily muscular body stretches across me at night, pinning me down, he might as well. Worse, he doesn’t just keep me weighed down with his body, he also has a habit of sticking his finger up my ass and just leaving it there. He tells me it’s because my eager entrance is where hebelongs, but, as with his sense of personal boundaries, his perception of reality is a bit flawed.

One night of freedom. It’s all I want. A single night away fromthem. Scotty’s going to think I’m abandoning him three weeks before his wedding, but I’m angry with him for landing me in this position in the first place, so we can call it even. As for my captors, it isn’t that I don’t enjoy their company, I’d just like to have a bit of personal freedom. I mean, I can’t even take a shower without Abi’s prying eyes exploring every inch of my body, recording me with his phone. I haven’t showered without my jockstrap in months, just to keep his prying, peeping-tom eyes off me. Months!

I only have two goals tonight: flirt with pretty boys and get wasted. I rarely have the chance to drink anymore—not after last time. I mean, did I get a little tipsy and set all Fiona’s clothes on fire after I caught her holding Abi’s hand? Yes, but Abi also claims later that night, he woke up with me trying to sit on his cock, and I know that’s a fucking lie, so he’s hardly a reliable narrator.

It’s nice not having him here, watching my every move. Abi tends to wordlessly scare away any man who gives me a passing glance, and Fee has a habit of seducing any man who catches my eye. She can call it “preventative maintenance” until she’s blue in the face, it doesn’t change facts; she only fucks them so I don’t get the chance. Their jealousy makes absolutely no sense to me. I’m not in a relationship with either of these lunatics, but they both treat me like Abi’s fated mate, and it’s driving me insane.

Will they be angry at me when they realize I bolted out of the car when we stopped for gas earlier, high tailing it to the nearest gay bar? Yes. Do I care? Not in the slightest.

Music blares from the speaker beneath me. I’ve been dancing on it for the last hour, shaking my ass for anyone who wants to see.

A gay bar is the only place I could fit in wearing my current attire. Abi claims the reason he keeps me in nothing more than a jockstrap and a cutoff shirt is because my body is a work of art that deserves to be admired. While that’s certainly true, it isn’tthe whole truth. I think he keeps me wearing next to nothing so I won’t run away. Occasionally, I’ll get the odd pair of flip flops, but even those are a rarity. The strange thing is, I don’t mind it all that much. Anyone else might object to both Abi’s possessive issues and the slutty clothing selection, but not me. I love the way I look in his favorite outfit. The way the shirt clings to my chest like a second skin. How the jockstrap lifts my already perky ass higher to the heavens. Part of me enjoys him selecting my outfit, because it’s one less thing for me to worry about. I’d never tell him that, though. Just as I’ll never tell him what does or does not transpire at this bar tonight. This is my night. It belongs to me. Not Abi Kincaid. If I decide to suck off a stranger, that’s my prerogative. Should I decide to hop on the nearest cock and ride it until dawn, it’s no one’s business but my own.

Ahead of me, men move in time with the song’s beat, making it seem like the only thing ahead of me is a sea of cock. If I were still me—if I were still the Tatum I was before Abi Kincaid stole me away—I’d probably dive right in, wanting to ride those rolling rapids. To surf the crowd as their fingers touch places they have no right touching. During my weekend shifts at Manhole, Benito’s bar in Texas, it’s the way I ended each night. I would dip and pop for the crowd as my boyfriends—Benji, Bennet, and my now ex-boyfriend Austin—danced at my feet or sides. Then, when the bartender rang the bell, indicating last call, I would lunge toward the crowd and surf my way across the room.

I have to swallow down the bitter taste of sadness when I think of my ex-boyfriends. It’s been six months, and it feels like yesterday. We were happy once. When it was just Austin, Benji, Bennet, and me, we were a family. Sure, we’re all strict bottoms, so we had to rely on toys for penetration, but we made it work. Our polyamorous grouping was one of the highpoints of my life. Then,hecame along. Benito fucking Blankenship. In less than three months, he stole the hearts of the Bens and destroyed my relationship with Austin. During the final descent of ourrelationship, we were lucky to see each other once or twice a week; the Bens usually choosing to stay with Nito on the sleeper sofa in his office at the bar, Austin retreating to his stepfather’s house, leaving me alone in a super-size bed.

There’s no point dwelling on the past. They’re happy. I know they are. I’ve followed their lives via social media these last few months. The Bens and Benito seem happier than they ever were with me. Granted, they’ve only uploaded two pictures since I left, but in those images, there is a lovesick look in their eyes. Austin, on the other hand, seems to be taking a break from sharing endless selfies with the world. As much as I want to reach out to him, I know it’s pointless. He’s moved on. He said as much the last time I spoke to him.

No. No point dwelling on the past, at all.

There’s some sort of contest starting in five minutes. That’s what the flashing neon sign above the stage says, at least. I’m not exactly sure what this contest entails, but the bouncer at the door told me it involves “lewd and immoral acts” unfolding in front of a live audience. Apparently, I’m in my slut era, because those four words made me harder than I’ve been in months, and I scribbled my name on the sign-up sheet before the bouncer even finished his sentence.

I hop down from the speaker box and make my way to the bar, wanting a shot of liquid courage before the competition. As I move through the room, I feel like a star. Every eye in the crowd is locked on me, and the sea of twinks and bears splits down the center like I’m Moses. I’m not sure why they seem so enthralled by my presence; it isn’t like I’m the only one wandering around in just a jockstrap and a crop top. Yes, I’m the only one who can rock the ensemble so effortlessly, but that’s neither here nor there.

When I make it to the bar, the bartender stares at me with a raised brow. I’m not sure what the look is about, but I’m not curious enough to ask for clarification.

“Can I get a shot of Patron?” I holler over the music.

She darts her eyes behind me and the color drains from her face. Rapidly shaking her head, she says, “We’re all out.” It’s my turn to arch an eyebrow, and I lift my hand long enough to point to a half-full bottle of my favorite tequila, but she just continues to shake her head, saying, “It’s just water.”

“Fuck it. Fine. I’ll take any tequila you’ve got.”

Again, she looks over my shoulder before shaking her head. “We don’t serve tequila,” she quickly adds.

Okay, well that’s clearly a bold-faced lie, considering there’s a bottle of Jose right behind her. “Vodka, then.” She refuses my request with another shake of her head. “Then what do you have? Just give me something that will make my head foggy and my body loose.”

She peeks behind me again, piquing my interest. I need to know what it is that’s stopping her from assisting in my quest to become inebriated. Confusingly enough, when I turn to look behind me, there’s no one there. I mean, yes, there are a few stray bears and otters patiently waiting their turn, but their attention isn’t focused on me or the bartender.

“We’ve got soda,” she says cheerfully. “Any kind you like.”

I blink at her. “I’d like liquor. The stronger, the better.”

She grabs a rag from behind the bar and begins halfheartedly cleaning the counter. “No liquor here, sunshine,” she says with a smile. “Just soda.”

I scowl at her. She’s lucky I’m not in a sour mood. All it would take to punish her would be a borrowed phone and a quick call to Abi.

Wait . . .

Abi.

I close my eyes and sigh, because it’s the only explanation that makes sense.

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