Page 134 of Carnal Urges
My wrists are bound behind my back by handcuffs. The handcuffs must be attached to the chair, and the chair must be bolted to the floor, because despite several vigorous attempts, nothing budges.
“Don’t bother. You’re not going anywhere.”
I look over my right shoulder.
A man leans casually against the wall in the corner, his arms folded over his chest, one leg kicked up against the wall. He’s about thirty-five. He’s wearing an untucked red-and-black flannel shirt, faded jeans that are molded to his muscular thighs, and a pair of work boots. His hair is thick, wavy, brown, and looks like it hasn’t seen a comb in ages. His eyes are brown, too. So is his beard.
He looks like the Marlboro Man, big and outdoorsy. There’s a pale circle of skin on his tanned left ring finger where a wedding band used to be.
In a deep voice with a Boston accent, he says, “Good morning, Sloane.”
“You need a haircut. Was your ex the one who made the appointments for you?”
Surprise registers in his eyes for a split second, then recedes as he draws a curtain of practiced blankness over his gaze. “I’ll be the one asking the questions.”
He pushes off the wall and comes to stand in front of me, his back to the panel of black glass. Crossing his arms again, he looks down his nose at me, projecting power and danger from every pore.
Dear god, how many times am I going to be kidnapped by alpha males this month? It’s getting ridiculous.
Looking at his muscular forearms, I say, “I like your tats. Very Celtic. Did you know those spiral knots near your wrist represent a person’s journey through life and into the spirit world, or did you just think they looked pretty?”
He tilts his head to one side.
I smile at him. “I’ve done a lot of reading about spiritual journeys.”
Nothing happens for a while, until he says, “I’d like to talk about your boyfriend.”
At least he’s getting straight to it. I thought we might be here forever.
“Let me just stop you right there. I don’t keep boyfriends. They’re way too high-maintenance. Too much of a commitment. May I please have a glass of water? Even better, orange juice. Fresh squeezed if you have it.”
He frowns. “I don’t think you understand what’s happening here.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, dude, don’t let the D cups fool you. I know exactly what’s happening.”
I can’t tell by his expression if he’s amused or annoyed, but I know he’s intrigued, because he says, “Which is?”
“You want that five hundred bucks I owe from last year.”
He blinks. I don’t think he means to. It makes me smile again, this time wider.
“Honestly, I’m impressed. You guys must’ve gotten a sweetbudget increase from the new administration. I’d love to hear how you’re going after the corporations who owe lots of back taxes. The big fish must get an entire squadron of Navy SEALs coming after them, am I right?”
He leans down into my face, planting his hands on his massive thighs. When we’re eye to eye, he says softly, “I’m not with the IRS, sweetheart. And this isn’t a fucking joke. You’re in big trouble.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last. Do you like blondes? I know a girl who works at my yoga studio who’d go crazy for your whole Grizzly Adams vibe. Though she’s got one of those annoyingly high baby-talk voices, but if you can look past that, she’s really sweet. You look like you could use someone to look after you.”
When he only stares at me with thinned lips and flared nostrils, I add, “Was it ketamine you gave me? Because I know how that messes up my memory, and I can’t remember anything between when the creatures from the black lagoon pulled me into the water and now. I’d love to know how I didn’t drown. By the way, props for ingenuity. James Bond would be proud.”
After a beat, Mountain Man straightens. He throws a look over his shoulder toward the glass, then slowly walks behind my chair and stops there.
His voice carrying an overt warning, he says, “Declan O’Donnell.”
“Nice to meet you, Declan.”
I look directly at the glass when I say that, smiling my shit-eating smile.
I hope whoever’s watching me behind that two-way mirror is having a meltdown. People hate it when you’re not terrified like they’re trying to make you be.
