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It does. The fishing line tightens. The phone unlocks, and I change the settings, taking off the touch screen requirement. I sneak out of the locker room and duck into a cleaning closet.
I pull the phone out and go through it. This is a dirty phone. By dirty, I mean he has emails, contacts, notifications, dating apps, secret links to gay porn, and the most damaging are the photos. Photos of him with men, photos of him doing unspeakable things and things being done to him. Well, well, well, Chase Masters, I believe I’ve just gotten a hole in one.
So, who is Chase Masters?
The motherfucker who gave Kevin’s platoon the orders to attack the village we were protecting. He helped Greg Johnson put together the team, who didn’t know each other that well but were former soldiers needing to believe in something again, and implied that the village was full of top-ranking terrorists. Lies. Chase Masters is a government whore who thinks bigger fish protect him.
People mean nothing to this man. Like the others, he is all about himself. He will protect what benefits him.
When he held the confidential meeting, signing that village’s death penalty, he had no clue about the blowback it would cause. He lobbied next to congressional representatives and humanitarians while pocketing the under-the-table money for his work.
That pocket cash ends today.
I head to the dining room and bar area. I grab a white button-down shirt and a black apron. Walking around, nodding at these money-driven fools until I spot him. I wait for their server to leave before I approach.
“Fancy seeing you here!” I look between everyone who is still on a beer buzz.
“Ted!” they all speak at the same time.
“Has someone serviced you guys?” I make eye contact with Chase.
One side of his face edges up. “Yes, thank you, Ted.”
I nod. “Well, enjoy your evening and your crabs. Or a stacked club sandwich.”
I walk away quickly to the kitchen. They are busy busting away plate after plate. Cursing the customers who send plates back. I grab a fresh plate of seafood, ducking behind the dishwasher, and stuff my mouth full. Scallops, fish, soft shell crab, hard shell crab, oysters. Anything I could get my lips on. I dump the remains in the trash, grab a to-go bag, and leave the kitchen.
As I leave the kitchen, I make eye contact with Chase. His eye quickly meets mine as I duck my head and walk to the hall standing in front of the private bathrooms. I wait for him to show, and just like a good boy, he appears… sinker.
I grin and head into the bathroom, where he pursues. He quietly shuts the door behind him and locks it.
I look at him in the mirror, pretending to wash my hands. He walks over, running his hands up my back to my shoulders, massaging them. I lean my head back, pretending to enjoy it.
“You like that?” he asks. I nod my head, but that isn’t enough for him. He grabs a handful of hair, pulling my head back to his chest. “Tell me, do you like that?” he commands.
No, I fucking don’t! — “Yes.”
He turns me around and kisses my lips hard. Violently tongue fucking my mouth as his hands grip my hips and back. My hands find his and I grasp as much of his skin as I can.
He leans back breathlessly and looks at me. “God, you take my breath away.”
You bet I do. I smile and nod. “You are quite a catch.”
I bite my lip, and he attacks my lips again before he backs away, clutching his throat.
“What… what?” is all he can make out. He’s digging in his pockets to find his EpiPen. The seafood allergy was truthful. Thankfully he is not a total liar. He dumps his pockets until the small device falls to the bathroom floor. I quickly reach down and grab it before he can. He is gasping for air and I stand holding the EpiPen in my hands.
His face is red, and his eyes are searching for relief. He crawls over to my feet and tries to grasp my pants. Needing stability to stand or beg for life.
I take a step back and watch him continue to gasp for air and see his throat slowly swell. His nails are digging into the flesh of his neck.
Gasping and gasping for air.
I kneel to get at eye level with him. The tears that are falling, the deprived oxygen from his brain, bring me such joy.
“Sorry, let me properly introduce myself. My name is Adam,” I say.
His eyes widen and I stand tall. I kick his shoulder, causing him to fall on his back. His face turns purple and I wait until his body is still. A seafood allergy is nothing to play with. Neither are innocent lives.
