Slick as Ides (11 page)

“Because he sliced my neck open with the precision of a robot in less time than it takes me to blink, and then put some kind of clear, sticky tape over the wound that dried within seconds. I think it has some kind of super glue on it or some shit,” I answer.

“Well, super glue’s what hospitals use in place of stitches nowadays, unless they absolutely have to use sutures, then—”

“Christ! Is that sanitary?” I gulp.

“It is.” He sounds like he’s fighting off a laugh.

“I hope so. I don’t want to have to scrub that spot. It stings like a fucking viper bite.”

“Don’t you mean Vapor bite?” He chuckles this time.

“Why do I keep you around? I do
not
need a court jester,” I say, pulling out the rubbing alcohol and paper towels.

I head out to my car, only to find it missing. “Son of a bitch!” I yell.

“Calm down! What now?”

“He stole my car, and my fucking prototype! Sue that motherfucking ball-less shit right now!”

“I’m your lawyer, but I—”

“Now. N. O. W. Not next week, now!” I slump down on my buffed, sparkly garage floor.

It’s more slippery than my shower wall.

“I’ll get the process going, but you’re already due in court this week,” he reminds me.

I set the phone next to me, laying it on top of the paper towels. “What for?” I bang the back of my head into the wall repeatedly.

“For that prototype you’ve now lost possession of. They contacted me last night.”

“Why? This was a private drafted up deal with—”

“I know, I know,” he huffs. “But you know this stuff happens. You missed the drop off, and now they’re citing all sorts of broken laws on this one just like we worried they might.”

“Cover it for me. We already went over this before I made the changes.” I roll my eyes. So typical that the bastards that drafted it up and asked for all sorts of illegal shit on it are now taking me to court over it. I stop hitting my head and rest my arms on my knees, then take a few deep breaths. My feet start to slip a little on the shiny, smooth surface.

He pauses. “You know I would if I could, but this time they’re demanding the CEO of the company, and that’s you.”

“Uuuuungaaaawd! I can’t take it—you know I’ll flip out if I have to step in there. Criminals pass through that place. And what are the chances a criminal actually ever washes his hands after he takes a trip to the little boys room?”

“Wear gloves. You’ll be fine.”

“You better bring over all the ingredients for me to make my hand sanitizer. I wasn’t able to get them,” I admit, my throat closing up on me as I think about entering a store for anything other than groceries.

He laughs. “That sounds like you actually want me to come over—almost like a date.”

I close my eyes. He flirts. Boy, does he fucking ever. “We’ve discussed this before. I’m not interested, and I’ve told you this a million times—I don’t date. I don’t act like a girl. I just need my shit so I can be prepared and not have an episode.”

“You haven’t had an episode in over two years.”

“And the last time I did was . . .” I trail off.

“Oh . . . I wasn’t thinking . . .”

“Yeah—my dad’s last lawsuit in court. The bailiff grabbed my arm when I started shouting, and he’d just licked his fingers after he ate a fucking sandwich. It was revolting.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to try and shove his nose up into his brain. That was overkill, hon.” He chuckles again.

“Whatever you want to call it—the man was a Neanderthal and probably uses his palm in place of toilet paper when he soils himself. I about died that day,” I say, my voice cracking at the end.

“I know. I had to carry you to your car.”

I can hear the satisfaction and a little bit of a seductive tone in his voice.

“Don’t remind me.” I try to push my butt closer to the wall since I’m slowly sliding away from it.

“Hey, Dena . . .”

“Yeah?”

“We’re friends, right?”

I shift away from my phone. The tone of his voice—it makes my head ache and my chest pound as my limbs go cold.

“Yeah. We’ve been friends for a long time.” He’s my only friend, but I don’t tell him that because he’s my lawyer, and I pay him to handle shit he shouldn’t have to, but he does it because . . . Well, dammit—I know he does it because he’s interested in me. “And as your friend, are you ever going to let me help you with your marketing? Because you honestly suck at it, and it bugs the shit out of me. You’re smart. Your inventions are incredible.”

“Not as good as yours,” he says. “You don’t even market at all. People just clamor for your stuff—it’s that amazing.”

“Some of yours are right up there, and I
did
market my inventions in the beginning. We can get you there—you’ll see. They just need a little more—”

“
You
,” he interjects, filling in the end of my statement for me.

“I was going to say a little more of the Chad Thayer mark, and then they’ll be ready.”

“I hacked into your computer,” he blurts, the thought seemingly coming out of nowhere.

“I know.”

“Yesterday,” he continues with his admission.

“I
know
.”

“How?”

“Because I monitor everything you do. You’ve always known I have issues. I have to make sure you’re not stealing from me.” And he didn’t see anything on my hard drive I didn’t want him to. It was fine.

The line goes quiet, and then there’s the sound of wheels squeaking from his office chair.

“You don’t trust me?” His voice breaks.

“I trust you more than anybody. I don’t trust
God
or any of the monkeys he turned into humans. It has nothing to do with
you
. I’m a sick freak—you know this.”

“You’re not a freak,” he says with a slight whiny edge to his voice.

I get up, grab the rubbing alcohol and the paper towel and start cleaning the door knob leading into the house since I don’t have a car to detail and sterilize.

I snort. “
Yeah
? What do you call a woman that was once thrown up on then spiraled out of control by turning into a certifiable hermit with extreme mysophobia?”

“I call her brilliant, and at least that title has a nice ring to it,” he offers.

“I’d rather be the typical, fat gamer-chick that complains about her cankles and uses pink tanks in her games to destroy men’s egos halfway across the world,” I say. The knob squeaks as I buff it to a ridiculous shine. I stare at my arm. “I mean, shit, I’m not even cool enough to get over my fear of germs to get a tattoo. How pitiful is that?”

When I’m done cleaning the knob, I lean over, grab my phone and step inside the house and find the next door knob to antagonize.

“Being fat’s no joke,” he says, his voice tight like he’s speaking through a clenched jaw.

“I never said it was.”

“It took me over a year to lose all that weight.”

“And you look great. All your time at the gym has paid off.” I sigh. “I wasn’t referring to you anyway.” I scrub harder on the shiny metal. “Look, you know I’m awful at holding any kind of real conversations . . .”

“You’re fine. It’s me. I just get . . . sensitive sometimes.”

“You’re not sensitive. You put up with all my brusqueness and all my quirks. I love that about you.”

“You said
love.
” He sounds all breathless.

“Okay, hanging up now—talk to you again later. Get me out of the court hearing if you can.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Bye, Riot. Have a fun day and do an extra set of crunches just for me—curse my name while you do it.” I end the call and make my way through the house for the next hour, polishing each knob in my house until I can’t take the smell of the alcohol’s fumes any longer.

Damn, I need more rubbing alcohol . . . I’ll make sure Riot gets a lot more than the usual amount with my supplies.

* * *

I stir from a dead sleep as something warm slaps softly up against my cheek.

“Go away,” I mumble and turn over.

“Why should I?”

I gasp, and right before I can sit up and do anything at all, ropes are twisted around my wrists, and I’m once again secured to my iron headboard.

“Shit!
You
again? I thought I wiped your germs off the island,” I huff.

“Lights,” he says, and somehow, they turn on.

“I deactivated that chip.” My breath hitches.

“I know. I reactivated it. Good, right? C’mon, you can tell me.
Who’s a good little Vapor?
” he asks, using a baby-talk voice.

“You know, I’d flip you off, but some asshole’s too afraid of me to let me have the use of my fingers.”

He chuckles and rubs his hand over his dick, sticking out of his pants—tall, proud and bare.

It is very impressive, but I’d never tell
him
that. He’d probably do something hideous like make a five foot marble statue of it and place it in my front yard for all to see.

Birds might nest there. Ewwww!

“Nice wardrobe—what’re you supposed to be, a thief, or something?” He’s dressed all in black, and fuck, he looks tastier than my Lucky Charms.

“No. I’m supposed to be the man you want to suck off.” He climbs onto the bed, straddles me, and when I’m about to knee the back of his balls, he ducks to the side. “Uh, uh, uh . . . I have enough rope to tie those ankles down as well.”

I glare at him.

“Now, lesson number one.” He climbs back over me and tips my chin up. “Balls—go here.” He drags a finger across my right palm. “Dick—here.” He runs his finger across my lips. “Eyes—here.” He points at my eyes and then his. “Questions?”

“Unless you’ve got the most elastic nuts on the planet, I don’t see how I’m supposed to hold them and cup them and whisper sweet nothings to them with my fingertips while they’re tied up over here above my head.” My eyes jerk up to my hands.

“I’ll release you, if you do something to earn it first.”

I groan, and it comes straight out of the pit of my stomach. “What now? You break into my house, because obviously, the Oprah rerun tonight was boring as shit, and expect me to do something for
you
? You’re nuttier than I am.”

“No fucking doubt.” He licks his lips and starts pulling my pajama pants off.

“I thought I was using my mouth on you,” I remind him.

“I like to keep my options open. As a criminal, I have to be flexible.”

“That’ll be a big bonus to you when you’re in prison and Paco needs you to be his bitch after his afternoon siesta,” I say. “It’s great that you’re practicing since I’ll have you behind bars within a month.”

He laughs, but it’s hard and biting in sound.

“Why don’t I practice on you right now? I’ll be Paco, and you be my nasty bitch, since I know you’re good at it,” he says through his teeth. “And I’m not averse to anal. Not at all.” His eyes twinkle with mischief, the twisted fucker.

“What the fuck did I ever do to you? Piss on your sombrero?” My fingers flex. “Overheat your tamale?”

“Something like that.” He slides my pants the rest of the way of, and smirks when he sees I lack panties.

“Wash day,” I say, deadpan.

“I’ll bring my laundry over later, and we can do a load together—you know, conserve water since there’s a drought.”

“Listen, just ‘cause you can’t get a pussy wet around here, does
not
mean the rest of us are experiencing droughts.” I sigh like I’m bored.

“Oh, yeah? And how many dicks does this lovely, tight little pussy entertain?” He sprawls out over my legs, effectively trapping them and swirls the tip of his pinky finger around through my pubes like he’s doodling there and spreading the hairs out in an artistic pattern. “The last time we spoke online, you made it pretty clear you didn’t have a social life, so I’m assuming that includes cocks around this area.”

“I entertain enough that I don’t feel like I have to break into someone’s house and tie them up.” I yawn.

He pulls out his phone and smiles.

“Take a picture,” I say, then stick out my tongue.

He does it and grins so wide, I think I’m blinded by that much gleaming whiteness.

Lord, he’s so happy and gorgeous, I stupidly say, “Take another one.”

This time I tip my head back and mock a “come face.”

He snorts and takes another one.

Only Nick could ever get me to do stupid shit like this. I don’t know how he does it, but it’s apparently a big problem I probably need some medication for.

Tomorrow . . .