Page 32 of Those Who Are Bound

Elliott

Elliottsatonthetrunk of the red Mustang listening to the cicadas as she stared at the number Lucy had texted to her. There was no communication from Lucy other than the number. Elliott’s request had been brief as well, simply asking for it.

But now she felt silly looking at it and blushing. What would she say?Hey, I didn’t mean to try to ride your cock immediately. Can I get a re-do?But she had meant it; the only re-do she would want would be one where he followed her up the stairs and it washishand down her pants.

Just the thought of it had her closing her eyes, her body heating. She allowed herself to indulge in the fantasy for a few seconds but opened them again when the throbbing became more uncomfortable than pleasant.

Shifting on the car, pushing a hand through her dark hair, she maneuvered her thumb on the phone, scrolled through her embarrassingly brief list of contacts, and hit a different number.She initiated the speaker option and bit her lip as she stared at the huge orange sun as it set, listening to the rings.

Maybe he wouldn’t answer. Maybe he’d see her name and decide after so many months, a few more months of silence wouldn’t hurt.

But he wasn’t like that.

Then, surely, a connection, and after a slight pause, a man’s deep and weary voice laced with curiosity, concern, and history, answered. “Hey, Ellie.”

“Hi, Becks.”

Another pause before he asked, “Are you okay?” He asked low, inquisitive, trying to read something through the atmosphere.

“Uh-huh, I am,” she assured him, forcing levity into her voice. “Are you okay? Am I interrupting anything?”

He answered, but she could hear doubt, probably regarding her answer, in his tone, “I’m fine, and you aren’t interrupting. What’s going on?”

Elliott looked at the trees, the sun, the pavement. Becks knew her better than anyone. She was calling out of the blue after months; she couldn’t blame him for assuming that something had to be wrong. “Actually, nothing. Something good, I think.”

He remained quiet on the other end of the line. She could imagine him bowing his head and waiting for more information, the contemplative frown that would add to his already handsomely aging face.

“I met someone.”

More silence. Now she could imagine him bracing himself; concerned, not jealous. He cleared his throat. “What’s his name?”

Elliott gave a low chuckle. “I’m not telling you so you can run him through a database. I want to get to know him on my own.”

“Ellie…” his tone rebuked.

“Please, Becks, he’s different. He’s not from around here, even. Oregon.”

His laugh was quiet and somewhat derisive. “That doesn’t mean anything; there are serial killers in Oregon, too.”

“I asked him if he was a serial killer; he said no.”

“He wouldn’t admit it if he was.”

“Actually, I asked him to tell me he wasn’t, and he said that was a low bar as far as my expectations,” she amended.

“He’s right on that.” Another small laugh; a breath. “What are your expectations?”

“Normal.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, kid, but no one is going to meet your expectations on that one.” He sighed. “How’d you meet this guy?”

Elliott debated telling him. Becks was a detective; he’d probably have Jonah’s blood type by the end of the night if she gave too much away. “Through a friend.”

Surprise came through the other line. “You have friends now?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m not, Ellie. You met a man, and I’m the number you called.”

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