skin . . . it would bring down the price once he was tired of her and sold her.
He never kept them for too long anyway, and it was better to sell them off when he was bored.
An acquaintance of his had told him it was just as much fun to kill them, but that was a waste. Plenty of his buyers liked taking a woman after she’d been broken, and Mike enjoyed that part almost as much as he enjoyed the hunt.
No point in killing them, after all.
* * *
BRING down the price . . . yeah, you start thinking along those lines, Joss thought. It was a struggle not to grab the son of a bitch and snap his neck then and there.
As the man who called himself Mike continued his hellish little fantasy, Joss sent another text to Jones. Check out the name Mike Sellers. I suspect he’s one of the connections here. He’s new, though—I get the feeling he doesn’t know his contact here. Can’t pick up a name yet. I’ll get one, though.
Mike didn’t know his connection here. This was good. Joss already had a vague idea about just how to proceed from here.
It would be a risky gamble, but instinct was telling him it was the right gamble. Which meant all he needed to do was confirm his suspicions.
And keep from killing that monster in the meantime.
Hard, that, considering he was getting a mental play-by-play of the sick fuck raping that college girl.
He snapped a picture of her as well, sent that one to Jones. He’s got a thing for this girl. I’m in the park. Her name is Alyssa—
Joss focused his mind on the girl, probed a bit, and then swore as he saw her sway, flinching. She pressed a hand to her head, and he realized he’d pushed inside her head too hard.
He needed to get a better grip on this gift before he did shit like that. He told her sorry silently, not that it would do much good. Her name is Alyssa Brascum. Goes to the Art Institute in Atlanta. This Sellers guy has this idea to grab her later down the road. I plan on interfering with said plan tonight, in a big way, and once I’m done, I doubt his brain will be good for anything, but just in case, we need to figure out what to do about her.
It wasn’t even a minute before Jones’s text popped up. Do you like making my life difficult?
Consider it payback. I’m supposed to be off. Remember?
ELEVEN
"I thought we’d agreed you would stay in the room for a few more days. Rest. Eat.”
Dru stared at her reflection.
Her eyes looked weirdly bright, she thought. “Did we?” she murmured, reaching up to touch her lips with her free hand.
The other hand gripped the phone so hard, it was a wonder the plastic didn’t crack.
“Yes. We did.” There was no mistaking the anger lurking under Patrick’s voice.
“I’ve been resting for several days, Patrick. Eating rather well, too.” She lowered her hand and turned away from the mirror. Careful, she thought. She needed to be careful here. “And I appreciate the concern. But I was just ravenous for something different. I’d . . . well. It’s Friday and I’d hoped we could go out. I wanted to ask you to take me to eat at one of the Italian places in the park. I wanted to go to Il Mulino, but after you sent the tray, I figured you must have one of your meetings, so I just went into the park for pizza.” She paused and then added, “After all, I thought the best way to put the weight back on was by eating the foods that appeal to me.”
The long, tense silence on the other end of the line made it pretty damn clear she hadn’t done a damn thing to assuage his anger, but she hadn’t really expected to.
“And did you eat?”
“Yes.” She had. She’d actually eaten three damn pieces of pizza. Right before she’d met . . . No. Don’t think of him. If you think of him, you’ll think about that kiss. And you can’t do that—oh, that kiss. Cool it, Dru. Don’t let on like anything is up.
Bloody fuck, if Patrick had any inkling that she’d been snogging a total stranger . . . he doesn’t feel like a stranger, though . . .