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But Alix isn’t fucking here.
She isn’t here, and she isn’t coming back, and no amount of staring at a drone feed is going to change that. But I waste another hour watching black-and-white footage of Herzog’s house because I can’t think of another fucking thing to do.
That’s not true.
I can drive up there. I can punch the button on the front gate. I can tell Alix I’ll do what she wants. Give her what she needs.
Tie her to the fucking frame.
Fuck her with the goddamn poker.
Take her up the ass.
Call her Slave, and make her call me Master.
Here’s the really fucked-up thing: If any other woman in the world wanted me to do that, I could. The Beast would shred my brain, and I wouldn’t step out of the shower for three months after I finished, but I could do it. All of it.
But not for Alix. NotwithAlix. NottoAlix.
I love her too much to play the one scene that would keep her in my life.
The intercom buzzes, but I ignore it. The workday ends. People head home to their families. They eat dinner. They watch TV. They live their fucking lives.
And I stare at the drone footage until long after the sun sets somewhere over the Delaware Bay.
39
TRAP
* * *
The freeport parking lot has turned into a carnival for the Labor Day picnic, and I’m about to lose my fucking mind.
One kid is melting down because the six-foot teddy bear he just won has a yellow bow tie instead of a red one.
Another kid is screaming because she just spilled ice cream on her favorite dress, the one that looks like Cinderella’s ball gown, complete with long white sleeves.
Two girls are trying to tear apart the ring toss booth, and a boy is peeing in the dino dig sandbox.
I stalk off to the open bar and get myself another Big Oyster IPA. I’m still taking my first gulp when Mac sidles up to get his own cold one. Once he’s served, he salutes me with his Solo cup and says, “Any idea where Alix is? I really want the missus to meet her.”
I tell the guilty Rottweiler gnawing at my stomach to shut the fuck up. “She couldn’t make it. I’m sure she’s sorry not to be here.”
Mac makes a sympathetic sound, like a giant clearing his throat. “Maybe next time.”
He gets a second beer and heads off to give it to his missus.
I wander around to the front of the warehouse, where the caterers have set up two dozen half-barrel grills. The smell of barbecue chicken and spareribs is enough to make my mouth water. I pick up a plate and get in line behind Amber, one of the receptionists.
She’s juggling three plates, including one piled high with something that looks like broccoli salad. “Is Alix around?” she asks. “I wanted to thank her for making sure the caterer served my favorite!”
“Sorry,” I say. “Something came up at the last minute. She had to head out of town.”
Amber’s pout is pretty. “Oh, that sucks! I’ll send her an email then.”
“You do that,” I say, even though I know Alix isn’t checking email.
She hasn’t logged into her freeport account for two weeks. Her phone’s dead too. She hasn’t spent a penny on one of my credit cards, and there’s no record of her grabbing cash from an ATM.
