Page 45 of The Rich One

A decaying dick and balls that look pretty familiar, reminding me of one dumpling-dicked asshole.

Everything I ate this evening is now in the bottom of the toilet, and I’m pissed. For many, many reasons.

One of them being that some motherfucking sicko knows where I live.

Jesus, this is all too much.

Kai, Tyler, the fucking weirdo a few weeks ago, the anonymous phone calls… and now this?

Fuck.

I’m spiraling and I don’t know how to stop it as my anger and anxiety get the best of me. Tears spring from my eyes and stream down my cheeks. My breaths are heavy as I allow myself to break down. I need to get out of here.

I need Kai.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

When I have downtime, I like to watch Netflix. More specifically, I love watching anything crime related.Luther, Dexter, The Irishman,it doesn’t matter. If it’s a mind-fuck puzzle, I’ll watch it. And if it’s True Crime, even better.

One thing I have never been able to understand is why victims are always seen with a blanket or shawl over their shoulders as they explain to the police what happened. Even in the summer.

It’s not until I’m sitting on my kitchen stool with a goddamn fleece blanket wrapped around me that I get it. Fear makes your extremities run cold. Wrapping something around your upper body helps with that and also makes you feel safe.

And that’s what I need. To feel safe.

My first phone call after receiving a literal dick in a box was to Kai. It went to voicemail after only one ring, which means he saw my name flashing on the screen and made the conscious choice to hang up on me.

I’d be enraged if I weren’t so fucking devastated.

My second phone call was to three-one-one—the number in New York City for non-emergencies. I didn’t feel a call to nine-one-one was warranted seeing as the danger wasn’t exactly imminent.

“Jesus Christ,” were the first two words the male police officer muttered when he opened the box. I think he grabbed his junk on reflex to make sure it was all still there. “That SNL skit is much funnier than this shit.”

The female officer wasn’t impressed.I feel ya, sister.

“Do you have any idea who could have sent you this?” I was expecting this question. It makes perfect sense to want to narrow down the list of possible suspects. Honestly, I couldn’t see any of my clients sending me anything, never mind a penis with its balls neatly placed underneath.

I shudder at the mental image that I probably will never be able to erase. The world doesn’t have enough bleach for this.

“No. I’m a life coach, my clients don’t know where I live since I go to them. My life is pretty limited as far as acquaintances are concerned.” Officer Nunez is jotting everything down on her phone and it goes against everything I’ve seen on television.

Aren't they supposed to carry spiral note pads? I’m staring at her phone and wondering if she’s actually typing out a text message to her husband, telling him she’s got a fun case to talk about at breakfast in the morning.

“Miss?” I blink up at the officer who’s staring at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry, yes?”

“Besides this…” She pauses, probably trying to find a better expression thandick in a box,and comes up with, “…unconventional gift, has anything else happened? Any other incidents that could help us?” The phone calls, the masked voices, the weird breathing. But fuck. I can’t tell her about the attack. How in the hell would I explain that? I have no name, no police report, and most of all, I’m a fucking prostitute. I doubt that little tidbit is going to please the officer.

“I’ve had a few calls, some of them freaked me out a little so I reported those to the police as well.” She continues taking notes, nodding like she approves of my leaving a trail for them to pick up.

“With our precinct? Sometimes communication is… difficult if the report is elsewhere.” Translation, paperwork doesn’t travel from one station to the other. I get it.

“Yes and it was… um, two months ago? Middle of August sometime. I’m sorry, I can’t remember the exact date but I have the report here somewhere.” I go to stand but she places a warm hand on my shoulder, looking me straight in the eyes with a kind of reassuring smile that brings some of the much needed warmth back into my hands and toes.

“You’re fine, don’t worry.”

“No one actually touched the severed, um, penis, right?” The male officer looks uncomfortable as he asks me the question. Just the thought of touching any of that sends a cold chill running down my spine.

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