Page 10

Chapter 10

Anders

I must be lost in a fever dream because there’s no way I slammed to my knees and let Jahmar unload all over my face while he pegged himself.

What the fuck is my life?

This has well and truly got out of hand. I’m in so deep I need an oxygen tank to survive this shit.

He finally admitted he has secrets, secrets I’m almost terrified to unveil. This is what I wanted, though…right? I planted that camera to expose him.

My stomach churns like I’ve been driving along winding mountain roads now that I’m mere hours away from Jahmar’s big reveal.

My eyes grow hazy as I stare at the computer screen, nibbling at my blunt nails and jiggling my knee. I force myself to stop, but within thirty seconds, it’s bouncing again.

A gentle hand lands on my shoulder, making me flinch and scramble to keep my arse on the office chair.

Femi’s usually soft features scrunch up with concern. “Anders, wah gwaan? Yuh twitchy.”

“I’m fine; stop pestering me.” I take a deep breath through my nose, willing my accelerated heartbeat to calm down.

She kisses her teeth and hits me upside the head.

“Oi!” To be honest, I probably deserved that; I was a little short, but how am I supposed to function when the shit I’ve done in the last week should have me locked up in an asylum?

“Sorry, I’m just tired. Need me to do anything?”

Femi’s jaw drops, her chocolate eyes popping at my offer. “Now mi know seh someting wrong coz yuh neva’ offa’ tuh wuk.”

I dramatically gasp, placing a hand on my chest in fake offence. She’s partially right. I get on with my required tasks. I’m not one to go above and beyond for the posh pricks who live here.

“Bore off, grandma,” I tease, swinging my chair back around to face the desk. Monumental fuck up. Seconds later, Femi is pinching my ear between her thumb and forefinger in a death grip.

“Ouch,” I whine. “I could get you sacked for abuse in the workplace, you know?”

I make a weak attempt at escaping her grasp; she’s deceivingly strong. Femi’s rumbustious laughter warms my cold heart, and I can’t stop the side of my mouth from twitching with the urge to smile. She loosens her grip on my ear but only slightly. Tilting my head back to look up at her, I plaster on a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile and pull out the puppy eyes.

“Rule numba one, rispek yuh elda,” she scorns with humour shining behind her eyes.

“Ok, ok, fine. I’m sorry. Now, will you let go, you tyrant, so I can make us a cup of tea?”

After one more stern look, she releases me, and I sigh in relief. “Check mi bag.”

“Oooh, did you bring the good biscuits?”

Femi winks at me. I jump up from my seat, giving her a half-hug and a light kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best.”

God, I love this woman, even if she does reprimand me every chance she gets; it’s our thing. She keeps me in check while adding light to these miserable night shifts.

As I make our teas, strong and milky, just how she likes it, an undercurrent of guilt simmering in my stomach. What would she think if she knew I stalked and fraternised with a tenant? She’d probably put me over her knee and give me that beltin’ she keeps threatening me with.

Despite my present fear of disappointing her, I already know it isn’t going to stop me from logging onto the feed tonight. Two hours and twenty-three minutes to go—not that I’m counting.

Hiding in the small changing room next to the swimming pool seems like my best bet. I doubt Femi will come looking for me here as I told her I’m doing my evening walk around.

Sitting on an uncomfortable wooden bench, my thumb trembles as it hovers over Jay’s video feed. One tiny click, that’s all I have to do, and I can put all these wild theories spinning around my head to rest.

I’ve spent a sizable chunk of today conjuring up ideas about what Jahmar’s ‘big secret’ is. Maybe he’s dealing drugs; perhaps he’s a sex worker or has an obscure kink. I think I’d be fine with all of the above, so there’s no need for all the dramatics. Unless…

I scoff a laugh, shunning the ridiculous thought. I need to stop watching true crime before bed. Of course, he’s not a murderer. He was only teasing me about having a body in that trunk. Surely, I’d sense if he were fully deranged. There’s no way I’d let a murderer come on my face.

Closing my eyes and sucking in the air around me, I click on the feed. I count back from three, then open my eyes to look at the screen.

What. The. Fuck.

I blink hard several times to make sure I’m not imagining it. My blood runs cold, pumping furiously to the organ threatening to climb out of my chest and land in my lap. My hand shakes violently, forcing me to grip my phone tighter.

There’s a naked middle-aged man I’ve never seen before strapped to Jahmar’s bed. At first glance, it could look like some kinky bondage set-up, but what makes the scene undeniably harrowing is the fact there’s a clear plastic sheet underneath the man, and he’s out cold. I mean, he could be asleep, but the way his head lolls to the side, and his mouth hangs open, he looks almost dead.

My eyes dart around the room, searching for Jahmar or any more clues about what the fuck is going on. Peeking out from the corner is that creepy fucking trunk. Is that how he got the guy up here? He kidnapped someone, and now he’s going to torture them to death, and he wants me to watch.

“Hell fucking no. Absolutely not,” I say to myself, abruptly standing.

No matter how much I fancy him, there’s no fucking way I can just stand by and watch him torture someone. The fact that he thinks I’d be ok with this is incredibly alarming.

I start pacing the small changing room like a wild cat trapped in a tiny cage. My hand aggressively runs through my hair.

I gasp when Jahmar comes into view, dressed head to toe in pale green scrubs, surgical gloves and a mask. He’s holding a silver tray with an array of surgical instruments.

Oh god, this is bad, really fucking bad. What the hell is he going to do? Slice the guy open and sell his organs on the black market?

My brain starts to ache as it works overtime, trying to make sense of what this clearly demented man is up to.

Jahmar looks up at the camera and pulls his mask under his chin. I abruptly stop pacing. A cold expression paints his usually smiley face, making heat climb up my throat. Then a sinister smile claws at his cheeks, and he winks at me. He knows I’m watching; of course he does. My dinner curdles in my stomach, and I have to focus on my breathing so I don’t throw up.

“Ok, think Anders. Fucking think,” I mumble, pacing again. “I’ll go up there and demand an explanation. Yes, exactly. That’s what I’ll do,” I tell myself, hoping that saying it out loud will help me find the courage to do it.

What if I confront him, and he turns on me? I don’t fancy being strapped to his bed and tortured, too. No, thank you.

I could contact the police and say there are some weird noises coming from his apartment, but what if the man is there of his own accord, and this is some messed up kinky doctor role-play. Jesus Christ. There are too many variables. Not only that, if he is committing a crime and doing something seriously fucked up, the police will want to thoroughly search his apartment and, most likely, the whole fucking building. They’ll find my cameras. How the fuck do I explain that? Shit, they’d probably assume I’m an accomplice. No matter what I do, I’m fucked.

My breaths grow wilder, panic bubbling in my chest. I sit down on the bench, put the phone beside me upside down and hang my head between my knees, sucking in as much air as I can before releasing it. I need to calm the fuck down, or I won’t be able to think straight. Several minutes pass, and I eventually control my breathing.

I reach for my phone, flipping it over. This can’t be real. From what I can see, Jahmar's performing full-on surgery on the man. I zoom in to see exactly what he’s doing, but it’s hard to get a real view; his hands, arms, and shoulders keep getting in the way. His focus seems to be on the man’s crotch area.

I’m frozen in place, watching on in horror as he works on his victim.

A sharp pain runs through my skull, no doubt an impending migraine from the stress of this messed up night.

Why the hell did I have to get involved with this man?

I feel like I’m backed into a corner with no view of the exit. I just have to pray and hope this isn’t as dark as it seems; hope that the man strapped to Jahmar’s bed is here of his own free will. Maybe Jahmar does back door plastic surgery for an affordable price. Although, that’s probably wishful thinking. I lose track of time as I watch Jahmar perform the mystery surgery.

Jahmar looks up at the camera, and I think he smiles; it’s hard to tell behind the mask. Then he holds a silver surgical bowl up to the camera.

Oh god, no. A deadly shiver travels down my spine as I take in the contents. Jahmar swills two bloody, egg-shaped organs around the bowl, and bile rises up my throat.

He castrated the poor bloke.

Unable to keep watching, I exit the feed. No man willingly pays to have his balls removed. When Jahmar said he had a secret, I could’ve never conjured up something so fucking twisted.

I kissed this man, I let him touch me—fuck, I helped him come.

My lungs squeeze as I struggle to breathe. I had doubts about him, but a tiny part of me hoped for more. I can’t get involved with this man; he’s sick and dangerous. Despite my own wrongdoings, I have to draw the line somewhere. I can’t allow myself to be dragged into something so inherently wrong.

Turning off my phone and scrambling to my feet I lean over the sink and splash my face with bitterly cold water. I’m a fucking mess. My skin is almost translucent with how pale I am. I use a paper towel to dry off my hands and face. I need to leave. I can’t be here, not with what I now know.

I tell Femi I’ve been sick and need to go home early. I must do a damn awful job at disguising my internal turmoil because she fires questions at me.

I gather my belongings and practically run out of Emeralds while Femi shouts something after me, barely hearing her over the buzzing in my ears. And then I run; run so fast my lungs ache and a stitch splinters my side until I’m a few streets away.

Coming to a stop on a street corner, I rest my hands on my knees and pant. I cough and heave as memories of those organs rolling around the bowl assault me, though nothing comes up. I manage to drag myself to a park across the way and slam onto a bench, wincing as my arse connects with the ice-cold metal.

I tighten my smart, knee-length coat around my torso and release jagged breaths, focusing on the fog billowing around me. I’m not sure how long I sit like that, but my fingers have turned red, and my teeth chatter.

I reach into the deep pockets of my coat, pull out my phone and turn it on. I have several missed calls and messages from Femi asking if I’m ok.

“Fuck,” I mumble.

She must think I’ve lost my fucking mind, sprinting out of work like I’d just seen a ghost. But I can’t worry about that right now; I’ll deal with the fallout tomorrow.

I log onto my security app. I need to know how Jahmar’s sick show ends. I need to know if he hurt the guy more or, even worse, killed him. Holding my breath, I click on the feed.

The room is back to its original state—not a thing out of place. It no longer gives off the appearance of a makeshift operating theatre. Jahmar’s victim is gone, and so is he.