“Makes sense,” he says.
I put my back against the fence and say, “I can trust you, right?”
“About what?”
“Keepin’ your hands where I said you could.”
“Yes.”
“Give me your word.”
“You have my word.”
I unlock the cuffs, then hand him the key. Put my left wrist in one cuff and lock it. Then put both arms a foot above my head.
“Put my right wrist in the open cuff, and hook it through the chain link before locking it,” I say.
He does.
Then he steps back to look at me.
And grins.
5
Dr. Gideon Box.
I’ve handcuffed a beautiful waitress to a chain link fence behind a family-style restaurant in Western Kentucky. She’s offered me twenty seconds worth of kissing and breast-fondling. Above her clothes.
But there’s nothing on earth stopping me from reaching up under her dress, pulling down her panties, and taking her right here in front of the dumpster.
She knows it.
I know it.
Nothing to stop me except my promise.
“You’re wastin’ time,” Trudy says.
I detect a slight waver in her voice. She knows this could go south on her in a hurry. Knows I’ve got the key in my pocket. Knows I could take her right here, run to my car, and get the hell out of town. She knows I could be thirty miles away before someone finds a tool to cut the cuffs off her.
She starts counting slowly.
“One, two, three…”
“Don’t be nervous,” I say. “I was just admiring the view.”
“Four, five…”
I move in for the kiss. She closes her eyes, puckers her lips.
I kiss her.
Then stop for a moment to look at her angelic face.
She says, “Six, seven…”
But she’s breathing heavily.
I kiss her again. She parts her lips slightly, accepts my tongue. Instead of pulling back like most women who kiss me, she murmurs and probes my mouth with her tongue.
I can’t believe she’s really getting into it like this. What I’m saying, women pretend. With me, it’s a routine occurrence. That’s because in the real world, women only have sex with me after being softened up with cash, or worn down by liquor or drugs. Women can fake sex. They can pretend they love it, pretend you’re the greatest lover they’ve ever had, you’ll never know the difference.
But women can’t fake a kiss.
It’s too intimate.
Hookers know this. That’s why they’d rather give a blow job than a tongue kiss.
Trudy’s not faking it.
Her motor’s running.
I put my hands on her boobs.
She gasps.
I come up for air.
In a very shaky voice, she says, eight, nine, ten, eleven…”
I’m cupping her breasts.
Through her clothes, of course, but I’m getting plenty of action.
She’s right about her “good points.” Her nipples are hard enough to poke holes in the vinyl seats of Alice T’s dining room.
“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”
I kiss her some more, feel her up some more.
She moans.
When I come up for air, she says, “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”
I step back, but keep my hands on her boobs.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
I want more. Much more.
She knows it.
“Eighteen…” she says.
I sigh. “You are absolutely adorable.”
She smiles.
“Nineteen…”
I move in for one last kiss…
…And wake up in the center of an old, empty barn, tied to a chair.
Two feet in front of me is another chair.
That one’s occupied by Scooter Bing, Deputy Sheriff.
6
Four battery-powered camping lanterns have been strategically placed to provide more light than I would have expected them to yield. Two are on the floor, six feet on either side of us, and the other two are perched atop the stall doors.
My head hurts like hell. If my arms were free, I’d feel to see if the lump goes out or in. The answer to that question would help me calculate my odds of surviving the night.
Assuming Scooter Bing doesn’t plan to kill me.
“Nice watch,” he says.
“Thanks. What did you hit me with?”
“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” Scooter says.
He’s a massive man. Built like a pro guard or tackle, gone to seed. He’s almost certainly wearing the largest cop uniform that can be purchased, but it’s clear he’s outgrown it. His belly’s so big he can’t tuck his shirt in.
“How do you even wipe your ass?” I say.
“With doctors.”
“Funny.”
“You think?”
The old horse barn we’re in is empty, save for the chairs and some old boards and paint cans. There’s some trash scattered about, scraps of newspaper, a rag or two, and remnants of ancient hay. A moldy cardboard box near my feet appears to have held nails at one time. Not far beyond, a mouse carcass, like Beethoven, is decomposing.
“Nice office,” I say. “Or is this your police station?”
