Page 93 of Redline Baby

I stare.

"You have twenty-eight minutes."

Fucking tyrant.

I take one step.

Then Soren says, "Kit."

I stop.

"What do you say?"

My entire soul sighs.

"Yes, Daddy."

His smile appears. Pleased.

"Good boy."

At eight o'clock exactly, I'm in bed, stomach down, gray sweatpants doing almost nothing to soften the warm throb left by the wooden spoon, cheek against the pillow, arms tucked underneath it.

The room is dark, although the sky beyond the window isn't fully black yet. A pale bruise of evening still sits above the roofline across the street.

Soren appears in the doorway, the hallway light behind him making him look even bigger than he is. He crosses the room, crouches beside the bed, and looks at my face.

"I'm right outside."

I nod.

His fingers move through my hair once. "You are not being abandoned."

Something catches behind my ribs.

"I know."

"If you need me, call."

"Okay."

"If you need the punishment to stop?"

"Red."

"Good boy."

He kisses my forehead, warm and brief, then stands and walks out. The door stays open a few inches, enough for an amber stripe of hallway light to cut across the floor. His footsteps move into the apartment. I hear the armchair creak.

He's there.

I am alone in the bedroom with myself, my sore backside, and the endless wasteland of eight p.m. stretching in front of me.

I discover within approximately four minutes that this is the worst punishment anyone has ever invented.

This isn't even a funishment. There is nothing fun about it.

Soren is moving around outside. I can hear him. My backside throbs—not urgently anymore, but enough that every position on the mattress becomes a negotiation. I shift. Adjust. Find an angle on my hip that is marginally less offensive. Then I stare at the ceiling. And think.