Look Closer: No Safe Words Here 1-4 out of 5. Boxed Set by Mercy Walker Page A

had it disarmed in five.
    I turned and looked around me.  Fourteen hundred square feet of wall-to-wall hydroponic marijuana plants grew green, lush and tall under ultraviolet lamps suspended from the ceiling.
    My current crop was all but harvested, but I had over a year’s worth of crops in variant degrees of growth.  I pulled in about a million five every month.   In another year I’d be able to pay off my contract, and then I could start saving for my early retirement…or not.  I could always blow it all off, and start over somewhere new. 
    That’s why it’s called freedom.  Something submissive little Justine would never dream of, or understand.  Freedom to do whatever you wanted didn’t come easily.  It had to be paid for, with merry bushels of cash, and blood.
    I reached up and pulled my Berretta 9 m from its ceiling cubby hole.  I pulled out the clip and checked the rounds, and then clicked off the safety and hooked the barrel down the back of my pants.
    I trudged off into the growing jungle of my basement to set some timers.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Nine
    Natalie
     
     
    Thursday…
    The lady at the Comfort Inn didn’t take my question about drilling into the ceiling of the motel room I’d reserved, to affix a meat hook, very well.  She actually lost her professional calm and threatened to call the police if I showed up at her motel.
    I’d been dubious about whether I could rig a hook sturdy enough to hold a scarecrow from, not to mention a two hundred pound basketball center—so this wasn’t the worst news.
    I’d originally planned my deflowering for Friday because my parents would both be out of town on their annual anniversary escapade to Reno, to “reconnect.”  Translation: to fornicate like bunnies while away from the kids.
    In the past they’d set up overnight baby sitters for me and my brother.  But for the last five years it had just been the two of us for these blessedly parent-free weekends.  Last year I’d been all by myself, since Marc was away at college.
    I’d squandered the chance to do anything even resembling teenage rebellion, opting instead to order takeout pizza and Chinese while watching a marathon of Game of Thrones .  I hadn’t regretted it.
    But with my pending plans suddenly up in the air, I had to readjust my thinking.  I’d chosen doing it at a motel simply because it was the cliché, and I’d wanted it to be as kinky as possible.
    But then I’d been thinking about what my dad had gone through to hang the huge punching bag in the middle of the basement wreck-room.  He’d needed to find the main house support, and to drill into the most central weight bearing beam.  It had taken all day.
    I didn’t have that much time…
    And then the obvious answer hit me: I’d just use the hook my father had lovingly mounted in the basement.  It was more than sturdy enough to hold EG, and there was already a pull-out couch/day bed shoved against the wall.
    What else did I need?
    Standing in the finished basement, staring up at the hook that held the gargantuan punching bag in place, I decided that trying to pull the damned thing down by myself would be a futile thing to attempt.
    “Dad!” I screamed, hearing him up stairs in the kitchen, complaining about how much the electric bill was that month. 
    He stopped in mid-rant and yelled his response down the stairs at me.  “What the hell do you want, sweetheart?”  Troglodyte or no, no one could scream as courteously as my father.
    I was at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at him.  “Can you come down and take the punching bag down for me?”
    His bulldog like brow scrunched up in apprehension.  “Why?” he groused.  “That sucker weighs two hundred pounds!”
    Oh, good!  Then the hook really would be able to immobilize EG…
    But why indeed?
    I took a deep breath and went with something plausible.  “I’m going to be testing a new science fair exhibit this weekend.  The fair is only three weeks