DELIVER(12)

“Just take off your clothes, man,” Van said. “Do what she says, and no one will scar your pretty face.”

He held her eyes as he yanked his shirt over his head, toed off his work boots, and dropped his jeans and boxers in one shove. He didn’t cover himself. Just stepped out of his pants and let her peruse his body.

His thick neck expanded into cut after cut of muscle down his torso. Sinews and tendons stretched the skin in his arms and legs. It was a physique developed through rigorous labor and exercise, wrapped in golden flesh. And his cock— Her breath caught. In its flaccid state, it lay over a loose, full sac and reached a few inches beyond.

“Look at that.” Van circled to stand beside her. “And you thought it was the jockstrap straining his pants.”

The boy’s eyes widened, likely in realization that this wasn’t a spontaneous kidnapping. Yeah, she knew all about his jockstraps, but she’d never mentioned his package to Van. Didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about it. Warmth swirled, uninvited, through her body.

When she was sure she’d mustered strength back into her voice, she tapped the edge of the box. “Get in.”

A twitch in his socked foot was the only response.

Van rotated the aim of the gun down, up, left to right, as if deciding what body part to shoot. He settled the sights on the boy’s balls. “Liv, you sure Mr. E doesn’t bury the bodies in the backyard?”

Fear was the cruelest weapon. It victimized the mind and bred inaction. She despised the idea of scaring the boy. Fuck, she was scared every damned day of her life, but she maintained the bitchy role she was required to play. “I don’t want to know what he does with the bodies.”

Truth was, Mr. E no longer needed to dirty his gloved hands since he’d acquired her. His visits were rare, his identity masked.

“You won’t shoot me.” The boy rolled back his shoulders, flexing his pecs. “How much money are you making off me?”

She leaned up on tip-toes, using the nearness to examine the depth of his bright eyes, the sun-bronzed skin dipping in the hollows of his cheeks, and the velvet pillow of his lips. He was raw, unblemished beauty, mesmerizing, distracting… She relaxed her feet, dropping back. “Emily Carter has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning. Your mom goes every Saturday for her weekly allergy shot.”

A hitch shuddered around his mouth.

She reached behind Van, slipped her hand under his sweatshirt, and removed the Taurus PT-22 from its wedge between his spine and waistband. “The clinic’s not in a very good part of town.” She held up the .22, aimed at the ceiling. The intent wasn’t to shoot him. It conveyed a much grimmer purpose. “Would be a shame if she got carjacked.”

He stared at the gun, at the pink wood-grain grip. Horror tightened his face as he recognized his mother’s pistol. “No.” A heartbreaking whisper. “Please, no.”

Though he gave her the response she needed, her heart felt like it was shrinking. She relaxed her mouth in a painful smile. “I stole it from her glovebox a few days ago. She’s unmolested. For now.”

His breath wheezed hard and fast. A moment later, his lungs slowed. He looked at the box, and a long, deep inhale widened his nostrils. He blinked slowly, eyes lowering.

Then he jerked forward, fist reared back and aimed at her. Expecting it, she dropped in a crouch, dodged his punch, and slammed her shoulders into his knees.

The .22 clattered to the floor, a deliberate maneuver to distract him. He wobbled, skirting around her, and scrambled for the gun. She let him. After all, it wasn’t loaded.

As he bent to retrieve it, Van pressed a boot on his back and shoved the loaded revolver against his nape.

From a small trunk by the box, she gathered locking metal cuffs and a coil of chain, the clanking drawing his attention. “Van’s gun is loaded. Yours is not. Go ahead. Check.”

He did, wrinkles forming on his forehead. After a second check of the magazine, he set it on the floor and slumped under the weight of Van’s foot.

“In the box.” She kicked the .22 out of reach as he climbed in, his movements wooden.

The cuffs went on first, cinching tight. Next, she wrapped the chain around his wrists until the full length was used. The excess binding was more psychological than practical.

He allowed her to move his limbs where she wanted them, his eyes squeezed shut. What was he feeling? Frustration, denial, hope of rescue, utter terror? Her time in that box had covered the gamut.

With the ends of the chains hooked together, she raised his bound arms above his head and locked the cuffs to one of the many eyehooks lining the wood slats.

The box was a device in repression, used to send a degrading message. She controlled his actions, down to every sensory detail. In twenty-four hours, he would emerge sleep-deprived, hungry, and, with no access to a bathroom, humiliated. Weakened and at the mercy of her commands.

She removed his socks and repeated the shackling with his ankles. He stiffened each time her finger brushed his skin, likely repulsed by the feel of her. She swallowed around the knot in her throat. She didn’t blame him.

A yank at his arms and legs confirmed the detainment. She stepped back, followed Van to the door, and entered the code.

As he pushed it open, he swayed toward her, slanting his cheek against hers. She tensed. With his mouth so close, would he kiss her or bite her?

His nose slid through her hair, inhaling her scent. “I’ll let Mr. E know we’ll be ready for the videos in five.”