Page 4 of Keeping Her Under (Deranged Highway, #1)

Four

After changing into my street clothes of dark-grey pants and a white button-up shirt, I jump into my car and head for Summer’s house. As I drive, I call my cousin, putting him on speaker with a press of the button on the steering wheel. He answers after a couple of rings, grunting as he says hello.

“For fuck’s sake, Asher,” I snap as I turn onto the highway towards Mobile, Alabama. I know what that grunt means. “Pull your dick out of them before you answer the phone.”

“I could hang up?” he says, his words throaty and deep. “That’s it, Mrs. Williams. Choke on my dick like a good girl.”

My jaw tics. Calling him back later won’t guarantee he won’t be sticking his dick down some other whore’s throat. He fucks almost more than he breathes, using his badge to pull women over who would do anything to get out of a ticket. He doesn’t force them. He just gives them a choice.

“Good girl,” he groans beneath his breath, and my eyes narrow.

Talking quickly so I don’t have to hear him come, I say, “Get me dirt on Ryan Grayson as soon as you can. I work with him at the hospital.” I don’t care if said dirt is found or planted; I just want a way to blackmail him so I can get some alone time with Summer.

I checked the roster, and next week, he has four night shifts in a row.

If I can blackmail him before then, I’ll be able to fuck her every night he works.

My cock starts to harden at the thought of it, but my cousin’s strained groan kills it quickly.

“Sure thing,” he pants, and I hang up before he finishes in her mouth.

I find Summer’s home easily. It’s on the corner of two roads, a small place with a tiny front yard. It’s almost touching the house beside it. There’s a waist-high chainlink fence between them, but the average American would struggle to walk down either side of it.

I pull onto her cracked driveway, then climb out of my Toyota like I have every right to be here.

Slipping her key out of my pants pocket, I walk the two steps to the front door.

I give a quick rap on the white paint-pealing wood in case she has a roommate or a dog.

Hearing nothing inside, I let myself in.

Her living room is dominated by a gray three-seater, thread-bare sofa and a small TV that is balanced on an oak corner table.

There’s a bra hanging on the back of the couch, and I reach down to grab it, then bring it to my face.

I inhale, wondering if she took it off as soon as she got home or if someone unclasped it while they had their tongue inside her mouth.

Perhaps she let them fuck her right here, up against the door. Or did they make it to the couch? My cock starts to thicken as I reach behind me to lock the door. Is she a moaner? A screamer? My breaths turn heavy as my eyes roam across the room, looking for a set of panties.

But all I find is an open letter on the floor.

‘PAYMENT DUE IMMEDIATELY’ is typed in bold across the top of it.

It seems my dear Sleeping Beauty has money problems, and though I have a lot of cash now, much of my childhood was spent in a house not much better than this one. So I understand the struggles of poverty.

I understand just how easy it’ll be for me to lure her to my bed.

Taking her bra with me, I head deeper into the house, looking for any signs of a boyfriend. But there aren’t any pictures on the walls. No signs of a male’s touch in the kitchen. The knives are dull and few. The plates and mugs are too pretty, even if there isn’t a single matching set.

There are three doors in her hallway. The first one opens to a room full of books pushed up along the walls.

She doesn’t seem to have money for shelves, but she’s meticulously arranged over a hundred tattered books into neat piles organized by author.

I scan a few, picking out a few names I’m familiar with, a few titles I’ve read.

They’re mostly thrillers and murder mysteries.

The curtain has been drawn shut over the only window in this room to keep the sunlight off her books, and I wonder which one of these is her favorite.

Normally, I would guess the most tattered one, the most well-used, but given the state of the place, I’m betting all, if not most of these books are secondhand.

So instead, I should go by the best looking ones, the ones she saved up to buy.

I browse through the room, but none of them stand out. They’re all grubby with cracked spines and tattered edges. Some are even stained.

The other two doors in the hall are close to each other. The first opens into a bathroom that’s too cramped to even hold a bath. The shower head is rusty, and the cubicle it lords over is too small to fuck her in. The toilet lid is down – yet another good sign she isn’t already taken.

Not that that would stop me. I’d just get Asher or his friends to arrest her boyfriend; everyone has broken at least one law. Speeding, using unsecured free WiFi, singing the Macarena as a group even at a kid’s party, peeing outside, trespassing to cut a corner off a long walk home.

And if by some miracle, her boyfriend really was a goody two-shoes, well, Asher isn’t above planting evidence to get a bad guy brought in. Sometimes, that’s the only thing you can do to close a murder case.

Opening the last door in the hall, I slip into her bedroom and head straight for the dresser crammed between the wall and the foot of her bed. There aren’t any pictures on it either, but there are four books carefully stood up in the middle, pressed between two rocks.

At first glance, they look like thrillers – black spines with dark aesthetics, but when I pick one up and flip it around to read the blurb, my breath catches.

It’s a dark romance between a stalker and his victim.

I flip it open to a random page.

‘I rub my cock against her lips. She moans as she sleeps, soft little noises that make my balls ache as her breath feathers across them. Knowing she’ll be out for hours thanks to the drugs I slipped into her leftovers, I reach over to fondle her breasts.’

My cock hardens as I finish reading about him fucking her while she sleeps. Closing the book, I glance at the others on her dresser. What we read isn’t always what we want. I read sci-fi without ever wanting to go into space, but…

Something about these books is important to her. Important enough to buy when she’s clearly struggling for cash.

After placing her treasure back, I pull out my phone and take a picture of them all lined up so I can order them online. I’ll read them and try to figure out what draws her to them when I have more time. Then I turn my attention to the three drawers.

I open the top one to find undergarments and socks. I toss her dirty bra on the bed while I go searching for any lingerie. She doesn’t have any, so I take note of her size –24– so I can go shopping for some later.

Closing the drawer, I move down to the next one. Shorts and pants greet me, only filling half of the space. No skirts though. Nothing to feather my hand up when I take her on a date. I take note of the colors she likes, adding to my growing shopping list.

Her tops are in the bottom drawer. It’s stuffed full of tattered T-shirts; nothing looks new or very feminine. They are very plain and boring, and I wonder if she’s self-conscious of her big, beautiful body. My hand tightens into a fist as I clench one of her plain black shirts.

Is it society that makes her hate herself, or was it one person? Or a few of them? Snide comments from strangers? Or loved ones and friends? I look around her space, taking in the lack of love she has for anything other than her books.

She is alone in this world.

Seeking comfort through fantasy.

But was Summer born that way, an introverted recluse? Or was she forced to retreat into her shell after years of abuse? Of schoolyard bullying and demeaning parents?

We are social creatures; it’s in our DNA, our evolution, and even those who are true introverts, those who recharge by being alone need something. Occasionally.

But my girl has nothing…

My lips tighten as I drop her tee, but it isn’t just pity I feel for her.

It’s anger at a world that can be so cruel.

I became an anesthesiologist for the money, to pull myself out of the shithole I was born into. But there was a time when a little boy dreamed of helping people. Of taking his parents’ cruelty and replacing it with something kinder.

A better world.

A safer world.

I cannot pinpoint the moment in time when I lost that drive, but it no longer burns inside of me. Not for me. Not for anyone I know.

But for this random woman who lives in poverty, who cannot afford –either financially, mentally or emotionally– a couple of nice things… For her it burns.

Frowning, I walk over to her bed and pick up her bra. On the ride over, I thought to pleasure myself in her room. To look at her picture as I did so perhaps. But standing here is too damn depressing.

So I go to take my leave, though I stop first at her dresser. I think about taking one of these books that are so special to her, but a person’s treasures should never be taken without permission. In truth, I shouldn’t even have touched them.

It doesn’t matter that they are mere books to me, something easily replaced. They mean a lot to her, and so I leave them. I’ll find my own copies.

I walk towards her front door. A few short paces and I’m there. I think about my own house, about how much longer it takes to get anywhere. Would she be impressed?

Or would she think it too ostentatious? A little boy trying too hard to prove that he’s better than where he came?