Page 100 of Tormented

“Shit, sorry.”

“Take the safety off.”

I turn it side to side, find the switch, and slide it off.

“Now point it at this asshole’s head and pull that trigger if he so much as fuckin’ sneezes.”

Sawyer waits until I’ve got the handgun trained on Cash and backs off, wiping his nose on his arm as he steps toward the kitchen. I keep my gaze glued to our host as he pants, sweating profusely in tiny beads across his forehead. The clatter of drawers flying open in the kitchen echoes off the walls around us.

“Let me go, honey,” Cash pleads on a whisper, “and I’ll get you away from him.”

I shake my head, frowning.

“Come on,” he tries. “Don’t you want to go home?”

The guy still thinks I’m one of them, one of those girls he hacked to pieces out of guilt.

My thumb strokes the butt of the gun as I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and study this guy. If I’d passed him on the street a week ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. He’s clean-cut, with a soft and friendly face. No visible scars, and no tattoos that I can see. He’s the epitome of the nice guy next door, albeit a little dirty, and yet he’s hacked three women apart in his basement and killed a fourth, because they tried to get away from him. And now he’s trying to paint himself as the knight in shining armor?

Odd.

“I can assure you, Cash, it’s not me you need to worry about.” I paint a pretty smile and roll my head to the other side.

He frowns, his fingers twitching where they lie on his stomach. The seconds tick by, each as critical as the last. I catch his foot move in my peripheral vision.

“Don’t.”

“What?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

“Try it. I know what you’re thinking.”

“What’s that?” His eyes flick toward the kitchen door as a triumphant yell comes from Sawyer.

“That you can catch me off guard.” I shake my head. “You can’t. I might be a terrible catcher, but I sure do know how to fire a gun.” I wink, just to round the speech out.

He sighs, relaxing into the floorboards as Sawyer rejoins us.

“I miss anythin’?” he asks.

“Nope. Perfect hostage,” I reply.

He holds out a roll of plastic wrap. “Got a job for you, baby.”

I take it from him, passing the gun over, keeping my eye on Cash the whole time.

“Wrap his head up for me, girl.”

I glance between Sawyer and Cash, frowning. Why?

“He won’t die from it yet,” Sawyer explains, as though understanding my confusion. “But I don’t need his DNA through the vehicle when Tuck’s boys move the body later. You know how it is,”—his eyes go almost entirely black—“hair, skin, spit, and all that.”

“Yeah, I get you.”

Cash has broken out in a fresh sweat. Can’t blame the guy. A wicked idea comes to mind.

“You’re going to take your time, right?” I ask Sawyer.

He frowns, jerking his head back as though he’s surprised I asked. “Well, yeah.”

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