The Stranger You Seek - By Amanda Kyle Williams Page 0,22
want. Please.”
“Good. Now tell me how much you like touching me. Tell me you want me to come. Tell me!”
“I like touching you.”
“Say you like jerking me off. I want you to use that language. You think you’re too good to say it? Do it! Say ‘jerking off.’ I want to hear it from your fucking bitch mouth.”
“I love it. I do. Please let me go and I’ll do anything. I’ll put my mouth on you. I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll let you do whatever you want and I won’t make a sound. Just please don’t hurt me anymore. Please! I’ll be quiet.”
“That’s good. The crying thing really works. Keep that hand going. I’m so close. I’m so close. Don’t stop talking. Tell me what you love.”
“I love jerking you off. I want your come on me.”
“Oh yeah. Tell me you want it. Keep saying it. Tell me.”
“I want it. I want you. I love your come on me …”
“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck! Now, wasn’t that nice, baby? Look at the camera for me and smile. Smile, bitch! Excellent. Now take the gloves off and hand them to me. That’s right. Don’t want to forget these, do we?”
“I feel so dizzy.”
“Yes, I bet you do. Are your lips tingling yet? You’re losing a lot of blood.”
“What happens now?”
“I’m going to stop your bleeding.”
I pulled in to the parking lot at 1800 Century Center Boulevard in the Century Center Office Park off the Northeast Expressway, a seventeen-floor glass building, triangular and black, baking in the midday sun. A few things needed to be picked up at a client’s office, a small law firm but reliable about tossing work my way. Larry Quinn specialized in personal injury suits and his partners handled a lot of divorces. I’d been scratched up by a few rosebushes trying to get a good shot of an unfaithful spouse, and served divorce papers and subpoenas and restraining orders relating to those very cases. Time plus a hundred and fifty a pop for the paperwork, good work if you can get it.
The day was dry like most of our days had been since a three-year drought had kicked in. The weather patterns were changing now, I’d heard, and rain would come back to us. I knew I should care more about our trees, about Lake Lanier, our main source of water in Atlanta, being sixteen feet down. The local news crews were practically hyperventilating over this. Every day the papers treated us to a chart showing just how low the lake was and how long we had until we would run out of water and start eating one another. I secretly and very selfishly enjoyed the drought. It meant I could ride in my old Impala with the top down.
I headed for the revolving doors and felt the hot sun on my shoulders. It had some work to do burning through the morning smog, but it was doing just fine and was almost at the front side of the building, the side that faces I-85 where Larry Quinn’s office was positioned. I sighed. I’d been in Larry’s office when the sun had moved to his side of the triangle. Even with air-conditioning, it was tough to cool the glass-walled offices. We’d had meetings around his conference table with sweaty hairlines and pushed-up shirtsleeves. AT&T, the Atlanta field office for the Bureau, tons of doctors and lawyers, and the Marriott all called this office park home. Executive Park and the Druid Hills section of Atlanta were nearby, and in the opposite direction, was Buford Highway, which was hands down the best area for authentic ethnic cuisine, anything you want, miles of it, Korean, Malaysian, Indian, Chinese, Cuban, Peruvian. If you can dream it, if it walks, crawls, slithers, swims, grows on trees or vines, above or underground, somebody on Buford Highway is putting it in a savory sauce and cooking the shit out of it.
Larry Quinn’s office was on the fifteenth floor, a long shoulder-to-shoulder elevator ride on busy mornings, at lunch, at five o’clock, but today I’d squeezed in quickly between the rush hours. Quinn’s legal secretary, Danny, was at the front desk, a handsome guy in his mid-twenties with a headset and fingers that were always busy on the keyboard. Danny seemed to be able to do twelve things at once without skipping a beat. He put in forty hours a week at the offices of Larry Quinn & Associates, juggling work for three attorneys,