4. Brody

There's a note on the counter when I get home. Fiona's going to be out of town for a week on an assignment with Kincaid. Good. With a face covered in dried semen, the last thing I want is for her to see the evidence of my shame. Sure, we've got an open marriage, but I don't fuck with men. I don't let them bust loads on my cheek. This new Brody Frost, whoever he is, scares the hell out of me.

I grab a beer from the fridge and head to the living room, picking up my laptop along the way. Once I'm in my recliner, I wait for Daisy to trot over. I pick her up, setting her at her usual place on the armrest. There's another email waiting for me from the agency. I guess they've decided their threats aren't worth the time it takes to write them, because all the email says is "Three weeks, Mr. Frost."

I sigh, slamming the laptop lid closed. The action startles Daisy, who lets out a high-pitched squeal. Great. Now I feel like an asshole. I set the laptop on the arm of the chair before scooping her up and laying back with her in my arms, cradling her like a baby. "Sorry, little girl." She looks up at me, her fearful eyes shifting back to their usual, carefree state.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I pull it out, I groan when I see the name on the message.

TARGET: Are you okay, Daddy?

I lock the screen because I can't fucking cope with this freak right now. He's the reason my life is on the line. I've never gone soft on a target before. My killings are quick, and they're merciless. The last man I killed had begged for his life the whole trip. He'd sat in the back seat, duct-taped neck to ankle, blubbering about his family. I don't normally let my feelings interfere with my job, but the man deserved everything he got. Honestly, he deserved worse than what I gave him. The man had been placed on the agency's hitlist after his wife found him in their daughter's room the night before. He hadn't gotten the chance to lay a hand on the kid—thank God—but the intention had been there. Now, he'll never have the chance to touch anyone again. Not lying in the backseat of his car at the bottom of Lake Ouachita.

My phone vibrates again, and I sigh, looking down at Daisy. "He's not going to shut up unless I respond." I'm not sure which of us I'm trying to convince.

I've never given a man a second glance, but with Scotty, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the tight hole as it swallowed his finger. Seeing such a small opening spread around him, swallowing his finger whole, had sent a strange, unfamiliar feeling through me. One I'd never felt with anyone—not even Fiona.

When I unlock my phone, I see that the latest message is a picture. The thumbnail is small in my notification bar, so I swipe to the message app and click his name. To my surprise, he sent me a picture of his soft cock. In the picture, he's lying in his bed—the one we'd cuddled in earlier—and he's holding his hot-pink briefs down under his ball sack. Unlike earlier, his bush is trimmed short, neat and tidy. Did he do that for me?

I type out my response and hit send.

Me: Never contact me again.

Immediately, I'm bombarded with a laugh/cry emoji with a big, red heart beside it. I see the ellipsis flash, indicating he's typing, and groan. One request, and he can't even follow it. Why the hell does he keep invading my space like this? I mean, I know I'm trying to kill the guy, but he's breaking every personal boundary I put up.

Target: Answer the question

His next message says and then another pops up.

Target: Are you okay? I've been worried.

The words are typed and sent before I even realize what I've done. Why I sent a message saying, I'm fine. Thank you, is beyond me.

I groan, because as soon as the message shows read, his name pops up in the center of the screen. He's FaceTiming me. What the fucking fuck? This man just crosses one line after the next.

I answer and scowl into the phone. "What the fuck do you want?"

Despite my agitated tone, he smiles at me like a love-sick puppy. "Hey, Daddy." Fuck. I hate when he calls me that. I'm only nine years older than him. Not to mention I'm literally trying to kill him. A gentle smile settles in the corner of his mouth. "You said you're fine, but you don't look fine. What's wrong?"

"Well, I've got a fucking pervert calling me for some reason, for starters. Secondly, you sent me a picture of your little worm." I glare at him. "Don't ever send me nudes again. Do you understand me?"

He just smiles dreamily and wiggles his eyebrows a little. "Counteroffer, how about I send you all the nudes? And maybe you could stop calling my penis little. It's not nice, my love."

"I'll stop stating the obvious when you stop saying weird shit like ‘my love.' You don't even know me, man."

"I know your heart. I know it beats just for me."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You remember when you said you didn't understand why you couldn't land a boyfriend? This could have something to do with it. You're being fucking clingy and creepy, man. Is it any wonder nobody wants you?" The second I see tears spring from his eyes, a rush of regret washes over me. "Hey," I soothe, trying to bring his attention back to me. "Scotty, look at me." He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Now he's crying loudly, making choking and gasping sounds.

"Why—why would you say that? Why are you always so m-mean to me? Everyone else is cruel to me, I can't take it from you too. When w-we're playing our game it's okay, but I j-j—" He chokes out another sob. "I just wanted to check and make sure you were okay. I've been s-so worried about you since you left, and now you're—you're . . ." He covers his face with his hands, hiding himself away from me.

"I'm sorry." I don't know why I'm apologizing, but I can't help it. The sound of him crying feels worse than when he threw that damn remote at my head earlier. I want it to stop. I need for it to stop. But I guess if I'm going to get him to calm the fuck down, I'm going to have to join him on his crazy train. "Baby, look at me."

The endearment stops him dead in his tracks, and he sniffles before wiping his eyes. "Baby?"

My cheeks burn, and I try to harden my voice. "I don't know what the hell you think you just heard, but it wasn't ‘baby.' You hear me?" I wait for him to nod, and when he does, there's a knowingness in his eyes. Shit. There's no fooling this guy. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that to you, Scotty. You just frustrate the fuck out of me." I remember the way he said he thought he was unlovable earlier. Thoughts like that don't have any business swirling in his head. He might be a fucking headcase, but he's got a good heart—public indecency aside. "You're not unlovable." I clear my throat, hoping it might clear the tense atmosphere. "Now, I want you to shut the fuck up. Enough crying. You're not a kid. You're a man."

"I'm your man," he says. His eyes glance at the side of his screen, and he smiles widely at me, tears fresh in his hopeful eyes. "And who is this adorable little furbaby?"

I stare down at Daisy, still cradled in my arms. Tilting the camera down so he can get a better look, I say, "This is Daisy." Her ears prick up when she hears her name, and she pants her approval. "Say hi, baby girl." She stares at me with the same love-drunk eyes the freak on the phone usually gives me, and I breathe out a heavy breath through my nostrils, because she isn't listening to my instructions, either. "Don't be rude. Say hello." As if she can understand every word I've just said, she stares at the screen and barks.

Scotty squeaks with enthusiasm, his mouth opening into an even wider smile. "She's adorable!"

"She sure is something."

"When do I get to meet her?"

I arch an eyebrow at him. "Never. Why the hell would you need to meet my dog?"

"Because she's like our little baby. Our love child." He pauses, chewing his cheek as he falls deep in thought. "So, to her, you're Daddy. What does that make me?"

"Pardon?"

"Like, will I be Papa? Dad? I guess there's always Papi, but I'm not Hispanic, so that kind of sounds like cultural appropriation. Maybe Da-Da?"

I blink slowly at him. "I think The Man I Plan to Kill Tomorrow has a nice ring to it."

He winks at me. "We'll see."

I just roll my eyes and groan. Daisy, clearly done listening to me make a fool out of myself, hops down and heads into her open crate, cuddling up in her dog bed.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he tells me, and I see his shoulder moving in a strange motion. What the hell is that about?

"Try harder."

"You're just so beautiful, Brody. Your face. Your big, brown eyes. How did I get so lucky?"

"Someone paid me to kill you," I remind him. "That's how."

He chuckles softly. "Will you do me a favor?"

"No."

"Can I see your cock?"

The surprise of his request makes me jolt in my chair, sending my laptop crashing to the ground and startling Daisy, who lets out another high-pitched yelp from her crate. "You see?" I hiss into the phone. "Dammit! I asked you not to say gay shit to me. I've asked you over and over."

"Wanna see it, Daddy. Please?"

"I'm not showing you my penis."

Don't ask me why, because I don't have an answer for it. There's a phone screen and twenty miles between us, and still, the second he lifts the blowtorch into view, my hand reaches for the waistband of my joggers. I've got a hand around my cock before the action even registers.

"Then take your shirt off, at least."

I glare at him. "You keep your hands where I can fucking see them. You don't get to touch yourself while you look."

He bites his bottom lip and nods, cradling the blowtorch to his chest. "Yes, sir."

God damn.

Why the fuck am I getting hard at the mere sound of that word?

"Good boy," I find myself saying. I look over at the crate and see Daisy is eyeing me curiously. Refusing to strip under the watchful eye of a dachshund, I stand up, shielding the sight of my straining erection with my hand, and head toward the bedroom. She must know something is up, because she doesn't move to follow me.

"Oh, are we going on a lovely little field trip?" he teases, making me chuckle.

"Shut the fuck up, weirdo. We're going to the bedroom."

"Our room," he says dreamily. "Can't wait until I move in. Wanna wake up snuggling next to you."

I pause long enough to stare at him on the screen. "Do you want to see my chest or not?" I wait for him to give me a nod, and then I unload on him. "Because if you want to see it, you have to cool it with that shit. It isn't your room. You're not moving in." He holds out the blowtorch, one eyebrow lifting in threat. I swallow a lungful of air and shake my head. "Sorry."

"You should be," he says haughtily. I don't know why I keep getting flustered by the damn torch. It's not like it's going to pop through the screen and scorch me. That doesn't stop the mere sight of it from making me quiver. "Now, prop the phone up and stand in front of it."

I place my phone on the dresser and take a step back. I've still got my joggers and sweatshirt on, and as I reach for the tail of my shirt, he stops me.

"Brody?"

I peek up at him, my shirt resting just above my belly button. "Yeah?"

"I love you," he says. The worst part is, I think he might actually mean it. I don't know who fucked up this kid to the point where he's making love declarations to his would-be murderer, but they must have done a number on him. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"I don't have a choice," I say, releasing the grip on my shirt and pointing at the screen. "I've got a flaming queen aiming a flamethrower at me right now. You're forcing me." He playfully flicks the nozzle, sending a foot-long stream of fire right in front of his face. "Be fucking careful!"

He turns the blowtorch off and cocks his head to the side. "Why? Are you worried about me?"

"No," I lie, feeling heat rising to my cheeks. "I just want to see the life drain from your eyes in person." I watch as his body shudders, and he holds the blowtorch to his chest, hugging it like he's wishing it is me instead. I lift my shirt over my head and toss it behind me.

"You seem to really enjoy this whole killing thing. When's the last time you murdered someone?"

Did he just lick his lips?

"Last month," I say, untying the drawstring of my joggers and shoving them down to my ankles. He hasn't asked to see me in my underwear, but fuck it. When in Rome. "I shoved a funnel in a man's mouth and poured battery acid down his throat." I reach down, palming my dick, but it's not because I'm horny or anything. He's been a dirty fucking whore all day, I figure the least I can do to thank him is touch my cock for a second. A flash of desire courses through his eyes, and I can see he's reaching for his dick. "Hands where I can see them. Now, Scotty."

"Please," he whispers, but I shake my head.

"If I see your hand anywhere near your lap again, I'll make your death agonizing." I look down at my exposed body; pleased about the nice tan I've got going on, and I'm in pretty good shape. I have a deeply indented six pack, and the V-shape guides his eyes down to my pubes. He's drinking in the sight of me, and I can't lie, I might not be gay, but it feels nice to be admired. Even when Fee, Kincaid, and I were still having our Fee sandwich sessions, I always felt a little proud when I'd notice Kincaid's eyes linger on my cock.

"Can I see your butt?"

I shake my head, because fuck no. "You have no reason to see my ass. You're not going anywhere near it." I shift to the side, arching my back to make it pop before pointing down at it. "You see this?" He nods his head rapidly, and he's practically drooling at this point. "This is off limits to you. You don't get to look at it. You don't get to touch it?—"

"Can I rim it? I've watched a lot of porn—I think I can do a good job. Daddy, I'll make you feel so good. I promise."

I twitch my finger left-right-left as I smirk at him. "Not on your ever-shortening life. Off limits. Say it." Sliding my hand down my chest, I linger at my hip, hooking my thumb into the fabric of my boxer briefs. "Say it, Scotty."

"I can't have it," he says, but he doesn't sound very sure. "I can't touch it. Can't kiss it." He swallows, his adorable Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Adorable? "I can't . . ." he pauses, his hand falling back into his lap as he goes against my wishes, yet again. He'll pay for that. "I can't bend you over, pull your cheeks apart, and shove my tongue into your hole?"

I glare at him. "No, you definitely won't be doing anything like that. And if you don't remove your hand from your cock, I'm hanging up."

His hand flies up. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just, when I see you like this, I lose control." He glances down at his dick and whimpers. "It's so hard, I really want to touch it. Please, Daddy?"

"Fine," I say, because I've told him he can't and I've warned him about the repercussions. If he wants to ignore my warnings, then he can suffer the consequences. I fist my bulge and shake it. "See this?"

"Yeah."

"I was going to show it to you," I lie, "but I've changed my mind. Since you can't follow the simplest instructions, you get nothing."

His eyes widen. "I'll be good. I promise. Just let me see it."

"No. I want you to sit there, and I want you to think about what you've done." I carry him with me as I walk to bed, not bothering to angle the phone at myself.

"Come back," he whines. "Please? Miss you. Miss seeing your face."

"Cope. You've lost that right. I gave you one fucking order, and you didn't last thirty seconds before breaking it. Since you clearly can't be trusted to put your lust aside for five seconds, I'm removing myself from the equation."

"No! Brody, please. I don't—I won't—I'll be good, I promise. I'll be your good boy."

"But you're not a good boy."

"I am!"

"You're not. You're acting shamelessly right now, and I refuse to reward you for it. Get in your bed and go to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow. Well, I'll kill you tomorrow, I guess." I sigh. "Ah, hell. You know what I mean." Before he can respond, I hang up. Less than five seconds later, my phone rings, but I ignore it, shoving my underwear down and crawling on the bed. I take my cock in my hand and stroke it slowly. I put my phone on airplane mode so I can rub one out without him popping into my head to remind me of his tight little hole. There's an older video on my phone of my wife and me. It's the only time she allowed me to record us. The video was taken a few years after we got married. We used an old, prepaid burner phone, so the quality is shit, but I can still make out the image of her pixelated breasts.

Strangely enough, the video—my tried-and-true spank material—isn't getting me where I need it to. It keeps me hard, but my fingers are antsy, wanting to tap my screen to find something else to focus on.

I try to get Scotty out of my mind. Every muscle in my body is screaming out for me to call him back and make him watch me shoot my load, but I resist. Even if my dick seems to be into this whole newfound exhibitionist kick, I refuse to go back on my word. He was a bad boy, and bad boys don't get rewarded. They get punished. They get laid over Daddy's lap, and they get their ass busted until the skin blisters and burns.

Fuck, I need to come.

I pull up the picture he sent me earlier of his pretty little cock.

Pretty?

"What the fuck are you doing?" I ask myself. Two days ago, I'd never stared longingly at another man's cock. I'd never checked out their asses, either, but suddenly, my dick is an equal opportunity lender, and my supposed sexuality is up in the air.

I need to kill him. It'll solve all these confusing, conflicting, emotional problems. I can see his death so clearly. His brown eyes growing wide in fear. His breath hitching in his chest. The flash of fear in his eyes when he realizes this isn't a game—that it's never been a game. I wonder how he'll react when it finally registers. Will he cry? Is he going to beg for his life? Will he let me slam my lips on his and swallow his final breath?

"Scotty," I groan as I squeeze my shaft. All it takes is one stroke. "Get ready for The Wrath." I explode in my hand, shooting the biggest load of my life. As my cum spurts in every direction like a wayward water hose turned on full blast, I swipe left. The next image stored in my phone is one of Scotty's smiling face, and I have to gasp to draw in air. "Oh, fuck. Yeah, baby, take my cum." I groan, shooting another spurt of semen on my chest.

The thought of ripping the life out of him makes my heart weigh heavy in my chest. Mindlessly, I swipe down and take my phone off airplane mode. I don't think, I just act, slamming my finger down on his contact info. It takes him a second to answer, and when he does, I can see it. The hurt on his face. The cracks in his heart, just beneath the surface.

He wipes his eyes, not looking into the camera.

"Scotty?" I question, but he just sniffles and wipes his eyes. "Look at me, little guy."

He blinks a few times before closing his eyes and shaking his head. God. He looks crushed. Like someone's just stolen the only happiness he's ever known. And, I suppose, someone has.

Me.

He's told me he's never had anyone look at him the way he thinks I look at him. Those words didn't register at first. Now they do. Now, I can see the heartbreak written all over his face. Yes, he's a nutcase with zero shame and zero chill—and, yeah, his life is essentially forfeit—but that life doesn't have to end just yet, does it? Maybe I can give him a few days of happiness before I take the rest of his life in my hands and crush it to dust. I won't fuck him or anything, obviously, but I can spend a little time with him. Let him jerk off in front of me like the deranged exhibitionist he is. Let him tell me he loves me, as stupid as the words may be.

"Wanna go to sleep," he whispers. "Wanna forget this day ever happened."

"I want you to look at me."

"But I was a bad boy. I don't deserve to look at you. I didn't mean to make you mad—I just can't control myself around you. And then you ran off and didn't take me on my date. And then you hung up on me and wouldn't let me see your penis."

I clear my throat roughly, trying to put some heft behind my voice. "Daddy gave you a goddamn order."

His head snaps up and his mouth falls open. I watch as his lower lip trembles. "Daddy?"

I nod. "You keep saying it, so I don't have much say in the matter, I guess. Now, I want you to listen to me, okay?" I grab the gun I keep on my bedside table and cock the hammer.

The second the gun comes into the frame, he holds one hand up in surrender, shouting "Please, don't." I can't lie—I love that he's just as unhinged as I am with this whole death-via-phone-call shit. It's silly and stupid, but my God, it's a fucking rush.

"You see the blowtorch?" I ask. He quickly nods, pointing somewhere off camera. "Good. Here's what I want. You listening to me, boy?"

"Yes, sir."

My cock twitches.

"Don't even think of grabbing it. I'm not letting you get the upper hand again. I'm texting you an address. You've got thirty minutes to get here." My thumb hovers over the red phone icon, but I can't bring myself to end the call.

"Daddy, are we going to . . ."

I snarl at him, because as much as my body is craving this, I don't want it. I don't want him at my house. Don't want him in my life. I need a clear head. Maybe if I bust another load, I'll be able to get rid of the chaos in my mind and just kill him once and for all when he gets here.

I type out a quick text to Fee, letting her know I'm inviting someone over. I keep the pronouns vague, because even though she's told me she wants me to ‘taste the rainbow,' I don't think I'm ready to share this part of me with her yet. It's all confusion and chaos swirling constantly in my mind, and I want to work it out for myself before dragging her into the fold. She responds within seconds. Her response is both triggering and terrifying. She's sent me a rainbow flag emoji, an eggplant, and a splash of water.

I respond with a middle finger emoji.

Laying back in my bed, I place the phone facing beside me, angled at the ceiling. I stroke myself as I hear his front door open and shut. He's hurrying down the stairs, and I worry, because if he slips, it'll ruin everything.

"Be fucking careful," I bark. "I swear to God, if you slip and break something, I'll stab you in the motherfucking neck."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." His footsteps sound hurried, and then a car door opens and closes. That word again. Fuck.

"Did you leave the blowtorch like I asked?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. When you get in your car, I want you to prop me up in your cup holder so I can make sure you don't do anything stupid. No weapons. No guns, no knives, no blunt objects. No getting out of it. You're going to shut the fuck up and take your punishment like a man. Understood?"

I hear his quick gasp, and the second he whimpers, I shoot my second load of the night.

He must have heard me, because he's breathing just as heavily as me. "What was that noise?"

I could lie, I guess. I could tell him he didn't hear a thing. Instead, I surprise myself when I admit the truth. "I just shot a load. You got a fucking problem with that, too?"

"Brody," he whines. "Save some for me. Wanna clean it off you. I want to lick you clean."

Jesus fucking Christ. And now I'm hard again.

What the hell is this man doing to me?