Page 12 of Tourist Season
My breath catches in my chest. I don’t even blink. Fight and flight war in my limbs.
“Fuck, yes, show me those beautiful tits,” a man’s voice whispers from the shadows beneath a sprawling oak. “Move a little bit to the left. That’s it.”
Harper must be outside in the backyard with someone. Maybe that meathead from outside the gym. Maybe they’re fucking beneath the stars. She could be on her knees for him. The image is branded into my brain as soon as the thought appears. It leaves a burn behind. The taste of ash. The scent of rage.
My hands curl into fists.
Part of me wants to leave. I should save my vengeance for another day. But something about the thought of Harper with this utter douchebag, whoever the fuck he is, makes me so irate that I know I can’t trust myself to handle anything cleanly. She shouldn’t get to make catastrophic mistakes with no consequences, enjoying pleasures as sacred as love and intimacy when she ruins lives. But as much as I want to do us all a favor and wipe her from the face of the earth, I don’t want it to end in my own demise. And there’s a much higher risk of that happening if both of them are outside together.
I take a step back. My leather gloves creak as my fists tense.
“Now get that toy from the bag. Such a good fucking girl.”
My spine locks.
She’s not outside with him at all. She’s in her cottage. She might not even know he’s here.
I creep forward, keeping each footfall slow and methodical. I can just make out the silhouette of a man hunched beneath the oak tree on the other side of the garden wall. Lights are on in the cabin, and though I can’t see what he’s seeing, I can take a guess.
I sneak a step closer. Another. Blood roars in my ears. The ever-present aches in my body fade with the burst of adrenalinethat courses through my veins. I stop and lift my backpack from my shoulder, setting it at my feet. My movement is careful. Methodical. Every tooth of the zipper is a quiet tick as I open the bag just enough to reach inside. I grasp the first weapon I touch and can’t help but smile when I pull it free.The garrote.
I leave my bag behind in the dark.
“Yeah, baby. Just like that,” the shadow whispers beneath the tree.
My grip tightens around the handles.
He doesn’t notice me as I close in on him. There’s a low stone wall separating us, but I can still tell what he’s doing. His arm is moving rhythmically. His breath fogs in the dim light that reaches us from the cottage. He lets out a grunt as he pumps his erection. When I glance toward the house, I catch a glimpse of Harper, naked on a couch, a TV bleeding light across her spread legs and a vibrator clutched in her hand.
“Fuckyes,” the man hisses, returning my attention to where it belongs. My heart rate spikes. A mix of fury and satisfaction floods my veins when I get close enough to realize itishim, that gym bro douchebag I saw on the drone’s camera. I separate the two handles of the garrote, pulling the wire taut. “Put it in that pussy for me.”
Fury erupts in my cells.
I rush forward. Moonlight flashes across the thin wire as I whip it over the man’s head. A shocked breath empties from his lungs as the garrote slips beneath his jaw. His hands scrabble at the wire. He submits as I pull him back against the wall that separates us. It takes every last shred of restraint to stop myself from pulling it tighter and tighter until the metal slides through his flesh—until it strikes bone.
“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss as he tries to beg for mercy. His boots scrape against the stone wall. It’s a happy accident to have it between us, otherwise I’m sure he’d have a good shot at kicking me in the balls. But there’s still no way he could fight me off completely. I know it. He knows it. And so he begs. His plea resonates against the wire, and all I want to do is pull those handles tighter. A low growl rumbles from my chest when he tries to reach back and scratch at my face. “Settle the fuck down and I’ll let you go.”
Though he tries to dig his fingers between the wire and his neck, he still gives me a shaky nod. I ease the pressure just enough that he can take a breath.
“W-what do you want?” he stammers.
“Your name.”
His swallow is a vibration through the handles of my weapon. “J-Jake. Jake H-Hornell.”
I roll my eyes. He’s pissed himself. I can smell it lingering in the air, mixing with the crisp, crushed grass beneath my feet and his cheap cologne and the sweetness of an energy drink that must have spilled somewhere in the dark. “What are you doing here?” I demand.
“W-what do you think?” He thrashes, another attempt to twist free of my grasp. I pull the wire tighter and the struggling stops. “Just w-watching, okay? Watching.”
My focus slides toward the cottage. I can’t see Harper now from this angle, only the light from her window.
“Does she know you’re here? Is this some kind of little game?”
“N-no. She d-doesn’t know. I’ll stay away, I p-promise.”
Rage infects my veins. My molars protest the force of my clenched jaw. His panicked plea hums into my palms, my smile a caress against his ear.
“Well, then,” I whisper as I jerk my body downward, taking him over the wall. I feel the tension of his skin finally give way as I drag him from his hiding place and away from the cottage. Steam rises from the torrent of blood that spills into the night. “I’d better make sure that’s a promise you’ll keep.”
