MARCUS WALKS FROM the house, pulling on the fingers of his gloves, noting the stubborn scar of discoloration, barely discernable on the black leather. He inhales, thickness in his chest, what feels like the beginnings of congestion clogging his airflow. Fuck. A cold is, right now, the last thing he needs.
He probably should have killed the cripple. The guy had seen his face, not that his face was anything distinct or recognizable. Any other situation, he would have killed him. But if something was wrong, if the girl wasn’t there… the cripple is the only tie he has to her. So he’d left him alive. Trussed up like countless sluts he had had before, the ritual of tying the knots peaceful in its familiarity.
The kid back there will eventually be found. Eventually be freed. Whether or not he’ll be alive at that point is up to him and his own inner strength. Marcus just needs two days. By then he’ll be at the girl’s house. By then the boy can warn her all he wants… there’ll be no one there to answer his calls.
Two days. It shouldn’t be an issue. The cripple is self-sufficient, seems to care for himself despite his handicap. Has a van parked in the back, so doesn’t need a caretaker and doesn’t have a day job to be missing from. He is a ghost, a hacker, the nerd’s profession as clear as day with his evasions to Marcus’s FBI mentions. The perfect tool to not be missed, the perfect tool to keep his mouth shut about what had happened today.
Threats and promises. They have been Marcus’s bread and butter in his life of excess. The boy won’t speak. Not when his bank account is drained and he’ll need more cash. Not when he doesn’t want police attention any more than Marcus does. Before leaving, Marcus had threatened the boy with calling the Feds, taking his amateur hacking empire down, should the boy ever call the cops. Then, an end-of-tunnel light: the return of some of his money, a hundred-grand hush gift, should the boy deliver on his begged promises and keep his mouth shut.
Marcus is jittery, this wait for her lasting too long. The months of house arrest, tacked on to the twenty-two months in the pen, and he is dealing with sex withdrawals from hell. He needs to touch a woman, needs to feel the rise and fall of her skin, her breath, the soft wet wrap of her mouth around his shaft. His cock had been about to burst, knocking on that door. And now he has to wait even longer. A couple more days that stretch before him like years. He doesn’t pity the experience that the camgirl will undergo as a result of his level of need.
Getting in the car, he gives one last look at the house and starts the engine.