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Simon, however, looks ready to blow a gasket. He’s so angry he’s practically vibrating in his suit.
“Yeah, yeah, it doesn’t matter. Just fucking untie me!” Martin demands and rocks back and forth in his chair.
I bite my lip and consider my options.
If I untie him, Lucifer and Simon will probably kill us both. In fact, I don’t know why they haven’t yet.
But if I don’t untie him then I’m a total accessory. An accessory to the kidnapping and murder of a fucking cop.
My life will be over.
Completely ruined.
If I’m caught, I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison. If I’m not, I’ll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.
I look around, searching for another way out of this. A metal tray has been pushed toward the back wall and it looks like there’s a few things laid out on it. But walking over to it is no doubt a death trap. I might make it to the tray, but there’s no guarantee I’d make it back.
Besides the cop in the chair and the desk in the shadows, the room is utterly empty.
“Fucking untie me, bitch!” Martin roars, spraying me with more spit.
I snap my attention back to him.
“Yuck,” I whine and make a show of wiping his spit off. “Say it, don’t fucking spray it.”
Martin’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.
I glare back at him. “This dress is designer and probably costs more than you make in a year.”
Martin’s expression is so comical, I could laugh.
But this is no laughing situation.
This is some serious life or death shit.
“Are you fucking—” he starts to blubber then his face turns into a tomato again. “I don’t give a fuck about your dress! Fucking untie me, goddammit!”
I make a face, wrinkling my nose. “Only if you stop spitting on me.”
The cop is so incredulous he actually glances toward Lucifer and Simon in disbelief. His eyes saying ‘can you believe this chick?’.
“Spitting is a health hazard, it spreads all kinds of nasty diseases,” I point out as I reach down and slide the hem of my dress up my thigh. “For all I know, you could have STDs, like herpes or some shit. I don’t want herpes.”
“I don’t have herpes!” Martin yells at me.
Slipping the small knife I have strapped to my inner thigh out of its sheath, I sneer. “That’s good to know. What about gonorrhea?”
Martin’s jaw clenches and his eyes lock on my knife. “I don’t have gonorrhea, either. I don’t have shit,” he grits out between his teeth.
“Really?” I ask and purse my lips. “What about the clap?”
I make a show of waving the knife around a little and watch as his eyes track it.
“That’s the same fucking thing!” he protests.
I frown. “Seriously?”
“Yes!” he screams.
I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure they’re completely different. My grandpa got the clap once, when he was overseas. Never said anything about gonorrhea.”
Martin glares daggers at me, and I know he’s picturing his hands wrapped around my neck.
Too bad they’re duct taped to the chair. Fucker can’t do shit.
“He is correct. Gonorrhea and the clap are the same thing,” Simon interjects out of the blue, surprising the shit out of me.
I glance at Simon to see him watching me now with more interest than anger. “Oh?”
Simon nods then he shivers in obvious disgust. “Gonorrhea is also known as the drip.”
“The drip?!” I repeat and almost gag. My brain pulling up the worst mental image. “That sounds utterly vile.”
“It is,” Simon agrees.
And it’s weird, but I feel like we’re having a little moment.
“I don’t have any of that shit!” Martin screams at the top of his lungs, completely ruining it. “And we’re not fucking! You can’t get it from spit!”
Scowling, I turn my attention back to him.
“Untie me, you crazy bitch!” Martin demands, spraying more saliva.
And it’s the last straw.
My head is pounding thanks to his screaming and I’m sick to death of getting sprayed by his fat fucking lips.
Shaking my head, I move closer then squat down, getting into position to start cutting the duct tape binding his legs to the chair.
Huffing and puffing after all his screaming, Martin watches me closely. “‘Bout fucking time.”
This close I can smell his rank breath and it turns my stomach.
“Yes,” I agree. “Yes, it is.”
Moving faster than even I thought possible, I strike. Slamming my knife down into the meat of his crotch.
The blade slides in easily. Almost too easily. Slipping through the fabric of his shorts and into the flesh.
I scramble back, expecting to get hit in retaliation. My brain forgetting for a heartbeat that he’s completely helpless and can’t do anything.
But he just stares at me.
Eyes wide and uncomprehending.
Then the pain hits.
Throwing his head back, he lets out an awful howl.
A howl that I feel in the very marrow of my bones.
