Page 51 of Wraith

“I’m not looking to buy anything. There’s something I need, and you’re going to give it to me. Or else,” I say. I’m proud of myself for the confidence I project. And the force in my voice. My fingers curl around the grip of the pistol in my purse, and I am certain that New June is doing exactly what it takes to dominate the situation.

“You want to take something from me?” he says. There’s a moment where he pauses, where his eyes go again to the whip, then my face — which I’m doing everything in my power to keep set in a stern, commanding expression — and then back to the whip again. “Who sent you? Was it Mark? Or was it Jared?”

His tone is warmer. It’s confusing.

I harden my expression and my voice, because I will not let his sudden friendliness throw me off what I need to do.

“I’m not going to give you any answers. Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to give me what I want, and then I’m going to leave. Got it?”

Wet, sudden, startling, his tongue darts from between his lips and slithers across them.

He nods.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Excuse me? Just who do you think I am?”

“They sent you, right? You don’t need to give me their names, but they sent you. I mean, you’re hot, you have a whip, you sound like one…”

“One what?” I say, then, on impulse, I add, “Just what do you think I am, worm?”

“Oh, fuck, yes. Say that again.”

I feel dirty. Responsible, but dirty. “I’ll call you that again when you deserve it.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

I release the hold I have on the gun. I step forward, grip him underneath his chin with one hand, and take the hard end of the whip handle and shove it into his groin. “You are going to do everything I say. Do you understand?”

“Oh, fuck, yes. Yes. Oh, fuck, I can’t believe they actually did it. I thought they thought I was just joking. Not that I really wanted to be… Oh, goddamn, whatever you say, I’ll do it. Where are we going to do this thing?”

“Right there, worm,” I say.

He moans. “In public?”

“It’s not your place to ask questions. Get down on your knees and kiss my feet.”

Without hesitation, he does.

With enthusiasm.

His lips meet the tips of my battered sneakers that, just hours ago, were fleeing a scene of an attempted murder and then stomping through a veterinarian’s office while threatening to cut his face off with a scalpel.

I don’t know why people make fun of responsibility so much. It’s exhilarating.

“What now, Mistress?” he says.

I take the whip and give him a hard crack across the back.

“You’re asking too many questions.”

“Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“I want you to lie down right here on the sidewalk, right in that puddle over there. I want you to get wet and dirty like the worm that you are, and then I want you to put your hands behind your back, you pathetic little piece of trash.”

He moans.

He complies.