Page 11 of Dark Horse

“What?” The handyman is back to work on the sink, and his brow furrows as he looks at me from across the room. I can see the skepticism written all over his face.

“My sister. She’s just buying a ton of makeup and clothes again. We’re gonna have to discuss her credit limits.” I lie through my teeth like it’s second nature.

“Oh shit. I got one of those. Not a sister but a daughter. She always wants something new. First, it was them big steel cups, and now it’s shoes. Always somethin’.” He shakes his head, a grin on his face as he gets down on the floor to fix the sink.

“Yeah. Always something,” I agree absently.

My mind’s too busy processing what I’ve just seen. I have to look again. I need to be sure I didn’t just imagine it. I angle the computer screen away from the kitchen, opening it and checking to be sure that he can’t catch a glimpse before I enter the password again.

The screen lights up, and I’m greeted with an image of Dakota. She’s spread out on her bed, mostly naked with a strategically placed cowboy hat just below her navel. Her face is cut off. Her tattoos have been edited out. But otherwise, it’s her.

There’s a ding, and a conversation window pops up, a small icon of a sword in a stone next to the screen name.

Swordmaster782:

You’re on early.

Couldn’t stay away?

I scroll upward and realize the photo’s on a website. It’s a subscription site—Dakota’s subscription site.

Or rather, RideHimCowgirl’s subscription site.

I’m through the fucking looking glass and in alternate reality where Dakota has a subscription site where she posts naked photos of herself and pretends to be a cowgirl living on a ranch when she’s not entertaining her subscribers. Our family ranch, judging by some of the photos I see in her feed.

I ignore the message from Swordmaster and go to the inbox. Dozens of messages are there. Some opened, others not. A few of them look to be much longer chains, and I open one with another subscriber. This one is GirthyGuy1020. There are messages of them saying goodnight to each other, but when I scroll up, there’s a much more heated conversation. One where he’s asking her to tell him how she’d ride him. I see a dozen voicemail attachments from her. I skip them for later; it’s not like I can listen to them with the handyman here.

I scroll further down, and there’s another image. She’s in a set of pale-peach panties with her fingers slid under the waistband.

GirthyGuy1020:

I bet you like to ride ’em big.

What’s the biggest dick you’ve ever had?

I bet I’m bigger. I bet I could bust that pussy wide open.

I bet I could break his fucking neck without even trying.

I slam the screen shut.

“That bad?” The handyman chuckles from under the sink when he hears the loud clink of plastic on plastic.

“That bad.” I grunt.

My thoughts are racing. She’d been smart in lying about who she was. In getting rid of the identifying marks on her body before sharing the photos. But there’s enough there. Enough that she could be identified by someone who was really trying. Lev could find her in minutes if I asked him to.

So what if they were tired of teasing photos and texts? Maybe they wanted her for real. My gut twists.

I have a high tolerance for a lot of things—cruel, gruesome, horrible things. But imagining what the wrong person might do to her has my stomach on the verge of retching and my blood pressure through the fucking roof while I think about tearing the imaginary man limb from limb.

I grab my phone back out.

You have anything yet?

LEV:

Takes a bit to get through all this footage. Forwarding as fast as I can.

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