Chapter 43 HIM

Chapter 43

HIM

New beginnings are so full of promise. They're almost as fulfilling as proper endings. I ease off the gas pedal as I approach the park. Excitement hums through my veins, like three shots of espresso but better, so much better. I'm not into drugs, but I imagine this is what cocaine feels like. The anticipation of a fresh hunt is exhilarating.

Trees surround the parking area, shielding it from the road. I can't see the asphalt rectangle until I turn into the entrance. But then, seclusion is why I picked this park. The lot is empty. Perfect. Air-conditioning blasts from the dashboard vents as I select a parking spot under a tree, hoping the shade will keep the interior of my car from turning into an oven. I reverse into the spot so I have a comfortable view of the entrance. I want my vehicle positioned for a quick exit if necessary.

My new plaything, Daisy Mae, should be here soon, and I'm hoping she's as perfect as her name.

I like to arrive a few minutes early, to get the lay of the land, so to speak, and make sure the location is clear. As I suspected, the day is simply too hot for most people. At noon, the temperature is already in the nineties, with the humidity hovering at sauna level.

A few dark clouds hover on the horizon as I step out of the car and walk a lap around the picnic area. The air smells faintly of smoke from a distant wildfire. In the shade of a few trees, four long wooden tables with attached benches are arranged in the dusty brown weeds. On a slab of concrete under a small roof, two vending machines sell water, Gatorade, soda, and snacks. On the other side of the vending machines, a trail map marks the hiking and bike trails that branch off from this location. A small cinder block restroom in the corner of the clearing smells foul in the heat, even from a distance. I inspect it quickly. There are two single restrooms. Both doors are propped open. Both rooms are empty. In between the restrooms is a door marked MAINTENANCE. It's locked. I turn away.

The wind kicks up, sending a low cloud of dust across the parched ground. I see a flash of heat lightning in the distance. A storm would be welcome to break the heat and cut down on the dust. I scan the area. No people. No cameras. I am completely alone.

Satisfied that we won't be interrupted, I return to my car and lean on the hood to wait. She should be here in a minute or two. Being late—or early—isn't acceptable. I made that clear in her instructions. Sweat drips down the back of my neck. I check the time. She has another minute. A quick burst of anger warms my gut.

I hear the grate of tires on sandy blacktop. Right on time! Daisy Mae knows how to follow directions. I watch the compact gray SUV pull into the lot. The car matches her vehicle, Pennsylvania plates and all. She's here! I wonder if she is as excited to meet me as I am to see her.

And how she will feel in a few more days.

She said she's been a submissive before, so punishment won't come as a shock to her, like it did with Paige. I swear that one didn't even know what the word submissive means. Daisy Mae has some experience. Hopefully not too much, though. I like to deliver some surprises.

A few scenarios run through my head. I picture Daisy Mae as the lead role in my own private movie, and my pulse accelerates. My blood pounds, heady and ready. I forcibly contain my enthusiasm. The Master must maintain his composure at all times—at least on the outside.

I distract myself with the thought of Ken Wells sitting in a jail cell, his entire life being dismantled by the FBI. My setup worked perfectly. Ken is an idiot. The sheriff and FBI aren't any smarter. None of them suspect the evidence in Ken's trunk and garage was planted. The only piece of jewelry that matters is Paige's necklace. The rest were just random, but the cops will be searching for bodies for weeks. They're convinced they have their man. I'm in the clear—free to resume my hunt for the perfect woman. Maybe I'll plant Paige's body near Ken's house.

I've learned so much since I began this journey. I had little trouble manipulating authority figures from a very early age. If you can stare a person in the eyes and lie without blinking, they believe you're sincere. My parents were always easily fooled. As long as I can remember, I've taken pleasure in others' pain. I bullied weaker kids in school—not because of a tormented past. I picked on smaller kids because it was fun, and I enjoyed their helplessness.

I have never experienced the slightest bit of remorse. The more I hurt others, the more I like it. Childhood bullying escalated and women took the places of my classmates. Admittedly, I made some mistakes that cost me a career. I didn't expect those bitches to challenge me. I equated physical weakness with emotional. Since then, I've learned to break both the body and the mind. Both are satisfying. These inclinations—and my growing appetite—led me to BDSM, where women signed up to let me hurt them. At first, I played by the rules. Now I make my own.

The gray SUV approaches slowly. Sunlight reflects on the windshield, obscuring my view of the driver. The vehicle turns into a parking spot on the other side of the aisle. I see a sweep of long dark hair. Daisy Mae in the flesh. I push off the car and stand facing her, my weight evenly distributed, my posture strong.

Like a Master.

The door opens. A foot appears. She's wearing the stilettos I requested. She steps out and straightens. The dress clings to every inch of her incredible body. The skirt is short, revealing long, long legs. I congratulate myself on my choice. Her shoulders are hunched, and her face tipped downward. She definitely understands what it means to be submissive. Her hair falls forward in a shiny curtain and blocks my view of her face.

When she speaks, her voice is timid and soft, childlike. "Are you the Master?"

My hand drops to my pocket. I feel the outline of my stun gun. I won't risk a scuffle in a public location. I'm also carrying a real gun, a utility knife, and plastic ties in case she resists. She comes with me willingly or she comes unwillingly. By showing up at this meeting, she forfeits any ability to change her mind. She's seen me. There's no going back to her previous life.

I walk toward her. "I am."

She doesn't move but waits for my command. Oh. Yes. She is perfect.

And she is all mine.

"Come here," I order with a snap of my fingers.

She approaches. Her eyes remain appropriately downcast. My hand leaves my stun gun. I won't need it. She is as compliant as can be. My left hand seeks one of the plastic ties. She might be the perfect submissive, but I can't risk having her unrestrained while I drive. I pull out the ties. "You'll need to wear these in the car. Hands behind your back."

"Yes, Master." She starts to turn. Her hands drop. She whips back around, her body pivoting on one five-inch stiletto like an erotic dancer. Instead of putting her hands behind her back, she reaches beneath her dress to yank something from under the hem and produces a gun. "Sheriff's department! Show me your hands!"

What is happening?

Shocked, I can't process what I'm seeing. Even the gun pointed at my chest doesn't feel real.

The wind blows her hair away from her face, and I finally see her. Not Daisy Mae. Disbelief floods through me. It's the woman behind the YourDoll945 profile. My instincts were right. There had been something off about her. But a cop? I didn't suspect that.

She points it at me, the submissiveness in her posture evaporating, her voice commanding instead of babyish. "Don Dutton, you are under arrest."

A door bangs open. I freeze, my body burning with anger as I recognize the sheriff bursting out of the locked door near the restrooms, her gun aimed directly at me. She taps the mic on her lapel and yells, "Go! Go! Go!"

Bodies move in my peripheral vision. I'm focused on Daisy Mae, but I see uniforms. Of course Daisy Mae—or whatever her name really is—wouldn't come alone.

Moving only my eyeballs, I spy the FBI agent among the cops closing in. I don't move, but fury rages in my chest.

Those bitches played me.