lips. Then he dragged his thumbs, hard, away from each other, smoothing the layers of tape firmly against Brian’s face.
I can’t get away.
I can’t . The magic litany. I can’t get out of this.
I’m helpless.
With a not so gentle pat to his cheek, the intruder said, “How’s that?”
He forced out a muffled “Fuck you,” the tape tugging at his skin as his jaw moved.
The intruder’s eyes glinted in response. Then he leaned down—“The new safe word”—and put one hand behind Brian’s head while the other stretched across Brian’s face—“is if something’s wrong”—and tipped Brian’s head slowly until the back of his crown met the wall—“you bang the wall. Got it?”
Brian blinked.
“Let me do my least favorite thing in the world and repeat myself. I said , ‘Got it?’”
Brian narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw muscles, and put a fuck you into his stare.
“Last chance: Do you understand, or do I have to demonstrate? If I have to demonstrate—” The intruder’s knee pushed between Brian’s, stopping so close to his crotch that he imagined he could feel the air being compressed between the two of them. He used his toes to push his crotch as far back as it would go. “—you’re not gonna like it.”
Brian shook his face free of the intruder’s grip and glared up again.
“So. Do you understand the new safe word?”
Slowly, Brian nodded, then bumped the back of his head against the wall to demonstrate, his stare hard. I fucking got it.
The intruder pulled off him and dropped to a knee beside the chair, letting the tape roll slip free of his wrist again. Forcing Brian’s ankle up, he secured it, jeans, boot, and all, to the cross rail between the chair’s front and back legs. Without tearing the strip free, he brought the tape up and across Brian’s lap, then down the other side to secure the other ankle to the chair.
He rose to his feet and took a few steps back to look over his work.
The toes of Brian’s boots just touched the floor. Brian wriggled his ankles, trying to get more play, more leverage. The tape held tight.
He twisted his shoulders, struggling to break free.
“I think that’ll do it.” The intruder put a hand on the top of his head and stood there a second before turning and dropping the duct tape into the backpack. He picked up the gun—“Now we wait.”—and headed for the couch.
Wait?
Wait for what?
He watched the intruder round the couch, passing through the nimbus of the table lamp, and sink down until all Brian could see was his head, its shape unfamiliar and discomforting in the hoodie.
The intruder leaned forward, then sat back again.
After a second, a light opened up, glowing toward the intruder’s mask.
Shit.
The MacBook.
His MacBook.
The one that saved his passwords and automatically logged him into things like his e-mail account. There was nothing incriminating there as far as he could recall, but still, the thought of Dylan poking through his messages while he sat here helpless, going through his archived mail, reading conversations he’d had with anyone and everyone—mutual friends, former girlfriends, acquaintances. The browser’s history would be accessible too, where again there was nothing scintillating to be found—anytime he looked at stuff he wouldn’t want his mother seeing (not that she looked), he cleared the history. None of the hardcore stuff he looked at, the crazy stuff that put him over the edge, none of that would be there.
He was pretty sure.
Or, at least…he hoped.
It was possible the intruder wasn’t treading over his privacy at all. Dylan could have opened a fresh browser window to check his own e-mail, catch up on his newsfeed, watch porn, whatever.
One thing he didn’t do while Brian stared at the back of his head was look over his shoulder.
Brian rested his head against the wall. The duct tape tugged at his face when he swallowed. The adhesive itched. He breathed in slowly through his
I can’t get away.
I can’t . The magic litany. I can’t get out of this.
I’m helpless.
With a not so gentle pat to his cheek, the intruder said, “How’s that?”
He forced out a muffled “Fuck you,” the tape tugging at his skin as his jaw moved.
The intruder’s eyes glinted in response. Then he leaned down—“The new safe word”—and put one hand behind Brian’s head while the other stretched across Brian’s face—“is if something’s wrong”—and tipped Brian’s head slowly until the back of his crown met the wall—“you bang the wall. Got it?”
Brian blinked.
“Let me do my least favorite thing in the world and repeat myself. I said , ‘Got it?’”
Brian narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw muscles, and put a fuck you into his stare.
“Last chance: Do you understand, or do I have to demonstrate? If I have to demonstrate—” The intruder’s knee pushed between Brian’s, stopping so close to his crotch that he imagined he could feel the air being compressed between the two of them. He used his toes to push his crotch as far back as it would go. “—you’re not gonna like it.”
Brian shook his face free of the intruder’s grip and glared up again.
“So. Do you understand the new safe word?”
Slowly, Brian nodded, then bumped the back of his head against the wall to demonstrate, his stare hard. I fucking got it.
The intruder pulled off him and dropped to a knee beside the chair, letting the tape roll slip free of his wrist again. Forcing Brian’s ankle up, he secured it, jeans, boot, and all, to the cross rail between the chair’s front and back legs. Without tearing the strip free, he brought the tape up and across Brian’s lap, then down the other side to secure the other ankle to the chair.
He rose to his feet and took a few steps back to look over his work.
The toes of Brian’s boots just touched the floor. Brian wriggled his ankles, trying to get more play, more leverage. The tape held tight.
He twisted his shoulders, struggling to break free.
“I think that’ll do it.” The intruder put a hand on the top of his head and stood there a second before turning and dropping the duct tape into the backpack. He picked up the gun—“Now we wait.”—and headed for the couch.
Wait?
Wait for what?
He watched the intruder round the couch, passing through the nimbus of the table lamp, and sink down until all Brian could see was his head, its shape unfamiliar and discomforting in the hoodie.
The intruder leaned forward, then sat back again.
After a second, a light opened up, glowing toward the intruder’s mask.
Shit.
The MacBook.
His MacBook.
The one that saved his passwords and automatically logged him into things like his e-mail account. There was nothing incriminating there as far as he could recall, but still, the thought of Dylan poking through his messages while he sat here helpless, going through his archived mail, reading conversations he’d had with anyone and everyone—mutual friends, former girlfriends, acquaintances. The browser’s history would be accessible too, where again there was nothing scintillating to be found—anytime he looked at stuff he wouldn’t want his mother seeing (not that she looked), he cleared the history. None of the hardcore stuff he looked at, the crazy stuff that put him over the edge, none of that would be there.
He was pretty sure.
Or, at least…he hoped.
It was possible the intruder wasn’t treading over his privacy at all. Dylan could have opened a fresh browser window to check his own e-mail, catch up on his newsfeed, watch porn, whatever.
One thing he didn’t do while Brian stared at the back of his head was look over his shoulder.
Brian rested his head against the wall. The duct tape tugged at his face when he swallowed. The adhesive itched. He breathed in slowly through his
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