Breaking Hailey (Shadows of Obsession Book 1)

Phone in hand, I head toward the parking lot, scrolling through my contacts. If I don’t call Rhett now, he’ll be blowing up my phone by midday.

Before I slide my thumb across the screen, a familiar voice reaches my ears. My head whips up, eyes finding Jensen thirty feet ahead, his keys in hand, a phone to his ear.

Everything about this fucker gets on my nerves. From the way he walks, dragging his feet like a moody five-year-old, to the tone of his voice. Last night replays in my head and I can’t believe I reined in my temper.

I grew up without a father, reason enough to get bullied. The smallest kid in class for years before puberty hit. Poor. So fucking poor. I was picked on throughout elementary and middle schools. It sucked, but I learned an important lesson. Or rather, my mother taught me.

Pick your battles. Start with words. Do it again, if they come at you a second time, but… if they push you a third time—forget words.

Hit and hit hard.

I stuck to that rule most of my school life. Say it once, say it twice, but never repeat it a third time. Strike.

Before Rhett whisked me into his world, it was always a three-step. Then, his business made me compromise to a two-step. Now, it’s usually an immediate strike, but at Lakeside, back in an education environment, my mother’s golden rule comes in handy, helps me play the role of an ordinary guy.

Ordinary guys don’t strike immediately, so Jensen got words. Once, twice… and last night, he touched my girl after I specifically told him not to. It was time to hit hard, but I didn’t, swallowing the same pill I dished out to Hailey: smarter.

Nailing Jensen in the middle of the dance floor would’ve been anything but smart. Now, he’s alone. I can make good on my promise without any witnesses.

He’s a civilian.

Exactly: nothing more than a nuisance.

“Yeah, man, I’m heading out now. I’m of out condoms,” Jensen yaps into his phone, then laughs at whatever the other person says. “I fucking hope so! Man, that ass is fine.” He cackles again. “I have a plan. Flowers, chocolates, candles—” He pauses, listening as he heads toward his car, parked not far from mine.

A peculiar sense of dread makes me walk faster. He hasn’t mentioned her name, but I’m almost certain he’s talking about Hailey.

“Wine will do the trick. She’s a lightweight; she’ll be stripping after two glasses.” He presses a button on the remote and his BMW beeps twice. “Are you kidding? Fuck Nash, man. He’s all bark and no bite.”

A grenade goes off in my head. No countdown, no tick… tick… tick, no warning, just an instant blast. I jump forward, whacking the back of Jensen’s head, my signet tearing through skin. He yelps going down, his phone falling to crack on the tarmac.

“No bite, huh?” I clip, using my boot to flip him onto his back. “You’ve had more chances than any other—” I stop talking, seeing his closed eyes and unresponsive body.

I barely fucking started and he’s already unconscious.

Grinding my teeth, I silence the voice of reason that tells me to leave him here. The same voice that kept muttering he’s a civilian. He is, but he took things too far and now, he’ll pay.

No more mercy.

I grab his ankle, dragging the limp asshole toward my car. My eyes dart around, scanning the perimeter, and once I’m certain no one’s watching, I throw Jensen in the trunk.

Looks like he’s going for a ride. It’s a two-hour trip to Boston. Knowing Andres, he won’t let me leave unless we head out for lunch together, so Jensen’s in for a wait.

◆◆◆

It’s dark outside, and Jensen’s unconscious, zip-tied body lies motionless in the trunk as I yank it open.

I’ve learned to appreciate the Pontiac over the past weeks. There’s something enchanting about the sound of the old engine. Aside from that, the GTO earned a special place in my heart tonight thanks to its large trunk.

No way does a grown man fit in my Corvette with ease. You have to break bones, but here, Jensen fits fine. He lies there, perfectly comfortable were half of his face not bloodied.

The whack to the head I gifted him this morning split the skin at the back of his scalp. He got a few more hits whenever he woke up, screaming and kicking inside the trunk. I remove the black bag covering his head to check if the gash above his temple stopped bleeding. It did. A waterfall of dried crimson covers his swelled-shut eye.

That’s not on me. Andres took it upon himself to help when Jensen started screaming earlier.

And now here we are, back at Lakeside, or rather, a few miles away, deep in the forest, just Jensen and me.

I took a detour on our way here, grabbing one of those chairs for immobilizing patients, with wrist and ankle straps, from the derelict party building. It barely fit inside the car.

I place it between two trees, positioning it front and center where the Pontiac’s lights will blind Jensen when he wakes from his obligatory nap.

Once that’s ready, I line up everything I’ll need on the hood and haul out Jensen’s comatose body, dragging him across the damp ground. I’ve tortured men in the dead of the night, far from civilization, far from help, many times over the years, but tonight’s special because it’s not about money. It’s not a show of power or getting even.

Tonight is personal.

It’s about protecting the woman I—

It’s about protecting Hailey’s memories.

With practiced movements, I cut the zip ties binding Jensen’s hands behind his back, then secure his wrists and ankles with the leather straps.

I might borrow this chair when I’m done playing student at Lakeside. It adds a disturbing layer to this torture session that I’m sure my future victims will appreciate. Kind of like waking up in another installment of Saw.

My wristwatch tells me it’s almost eleven at night. The forest shrouded in a pitch-black darkness, cold and quiet. We’re seven miles from the asylum. An average scream carries about three quarters of a mile. In this still silence, if Jensen gives help all he has, his cries might carry a mile tops.

The bottom line is, he can scream until he coughs up his lungs, but no one will hear him. There are no roads here. No beaten paths. Seven miles takes ten minutes tops on a straight road, but I idled along for an hour, avoiding trees and branches while navigating the uneven terrain.

Once the stage is set, I lean against the hood, grab a pack of cigarettes and light one up, surrounding myself with thick, gray smoke clouds.

“You stink,” comes back like an echo.

I don’t put the cigarette out like I have done every time since Hailey said that. She won’t know. By the time I’m done with Jensen I’ll need a long shower to wash off the grime and blood; it’ll wash away the stench of smoke, too.

The anticipation growing inside me morphs into an excited, sick thrill. I can’t wait until Jensen wakes up.

I can’t wait for the flash of horror in his eyes when he sees me and realizes he took it too goddamn far.

That I’m a man of my word and I will fuck him up.

Three minutes later, I finish the cigarette. Jensen’s still out cold and I’m not a patient man. I didn’t think I smacked his head that hard last time he woke up, but he shows no signs of coming back… Either I used more force than planned, or he’s one weak pussy.

Growing bored with each passing second, I unscrew a bottle of water, pouring the contents over his face, hidden behind a black cloth bag.

It works a treat.NôvelDrama.Org content rights.

As he starts spluttering, the water stops flowing and wireless headphones land on his head. With a click of a button on my cell, “Amsterdam” by Nothing But Thieves plays in his ears.

I’m a touch theatrical, I know. I enjoy making a good show, if only for myself—something I learned from Dante Carrow.

Leaning back against the hood again, I let Jensen listen for two minutes and seventeen seconds. He whimpers, thrashing about and flexing his arms to break free.

Not that it’ll work.

His moves are as limited as his senses. He can’t see. He can’t speak. He can’t move or hear anything besides the song. Under the black bag all he can smell or taste is the blood, sweat, and spit-soaked cloth gagging his mouth.

I’ve used it in similar situations for eight years, never once giving it a wash. It’s a biohazard by now, but who cares?

I sure don’t.

Jensen shouldn’t either. What he should do is think. Think, remember, and regret last night’s events. But I’ve been in this game too long and I know that while he’s thrashing about, his mind is ruled by pure terror.

It takes forty seconds of futile attempts to unfetter himself before his tactic shifts. He stops fighting against the threat he can’t name or see and now he’s thinking. Calculating, rationalizing.

He’s remembering last night.

Recalling the way Hailey felt pressed against him as he held her, moving to the rhythm of the song in his ears.

It’s clear as day where his mind is… his body language speaks volumes. His tense muscles relax. His long fingers grip the armrests, anchoring himself in place.

He’s calming down.

No matter how good his emotion-marshaling skills, all that sudden calm is veiled with fear and uncertainty. It always is. He has no idea where he is, why he’s here, or what’s going on. I bet he’s trying to guess.

Maybe it’s a prank? Halloween isn’t far away… Maybe it’s part of some elaborate game?

He’s arrogant enough to wonder if this is Hailey’s doing, I’m sure. After all, this son of a bitch probably considers “Amsterdam” their song by now.

It so fucking isn’t.

Once the chorus hits, seeping faintly from the headphones, the images flashing through my mind give me whiplash. I’m nauseous recalling the glee in Hailey’s eyes while she was enjoying the evening, seconds before Jensen approached.

The glee that vanished quickly, replaced by unease when Jensen’s hands roved her body, sliding far enough down her front to almost cup her pussy.

My pussy.

The wrath piercing through me as I watched him touch her comes back, twice as fucking potent.

It was a goddamn torture not splitting Jensen’s head wide open last night, but it’s even harder now I’ve had a taste of Hailey and seen her come undone. Now I know he was scheming out an evening with her. An evening of getting her drunk so he could get laid.

Last night, Jensen was drunk. Clingy. Touchy-feely. He ignored Hailey when she corrected him, placing his hands firmly in the safe zones of her body. He made her feel uncomfortable.

Unsafe.

It doesn’t matter how many beers he drank, though if I dug deep, I’d find a shred of understanding. We all do stupid things when we’re drunk.

But this morning he was sober, in full control of his mind when he decided he’d get my girl drunk so she’d put out.

Civilian or not, he’ll pay for that. No one can threaten Hailey’s safety and come out unscathed. She’s mine.

Right now, the air smells like wet earth and rain out here. Fresh, crisp. Oddly comforting.

Not for long.

The metallic stench of blood will soon overpower it all.

Two minutes twelve seconds.

I push away from the car.

Two minutes thirteen seconds.

Small twigs break under my heavy combat boots.

Two minutes fifteen seconds.

I rip the bag off Jensen’s head.

Two minutes seventeen seconds… the music no longer seeps from the discarded headphones, lying on dead leaves, but blares from my phone instead.

The beat slows, the bridge kicks in and it’s show time.

His eyes find my face and immediately widen, round like silver dollars. His face turns ashen, so pale his lips look blue.

I bet he’s recalling what I told him last week in the cafeteria, and that night on the boat platform.

“Try your luck, see what happens.”

He tried and now he’ll see.

By the look of him, he regrets not listening. Too little, too late. He has sixty-three seconds before his bones start breaking.

I’ve got this down to a T.

I want his screams piercing the silence while “Amsterdam” plays in the background. I want his fear mingling with his memories of Hailey. I want him to be scared senseless of so much as glancing in her general direction.

It’s called classical conditioning. He’ll associate Hailey with excruciating pain once I’m done. That’s if I let him walk out of here alive.

I’m back and forth about it.

He gasps and starts thrashing against the restraints as soon as I angle my head further into the light so he can be fucking sure who brought him here.

It’s particularly beautiful tonight… the chaos.

The awaiting carnage.

Or maybe I’m loving this more than I’ve loved my previous evenings in the middle of nowhere with crimson blood fertilizing the ground beneath some flimsy wooden chair or other.

This metal contraption Jensen sits in is a welcome upgrade.

“I considered you smarter,” I say, recalling the detailed but thin file Ryder sent me after I told him the security footage from the parking lot needed wiping. “A four-point-six GPA, IQ of one hundred and forty-five… I’d expect a man with your brains to understand that ignoring a threat from a man like me is unwise.” I yank the gag out of his mouth.

“What the fuck is going on?! Where am I?”

“You know exactly what’s going on.”

“Hailey?” he sputters, struggling against the thick leather bands. “You’re fucking insane!”

“Probably. No one ever had me tested, but coming to that conclusion when I told you to stay the fuck away from my girl would’ve saved you from this predicament. But you ignored what I said and now you’ll—”

“You’ll beat me up because I danced with her?! She’s not your property, man! She can do whatever she wants!”

That’s a plausible argument. I shouldn’t disagree. I shouldn’t feel territorial about the cute blonde… but I do.

Very much so.

She’s mine, and that means there are things Hailey can’t do without pissing me off and bringing a heap of pain on the fuckers she does them with… even if it’s an innocent dance.

“I disagree with both statements,” I say, stepping closer. “As for the question…”

Three, two, one.

The crescendo’s still a few seconds away but fuck it. The beat’s gaining momentum and I can’t hold back any longer.

With the first over falling from the lead singer’s lips at two minutes fifty-one, my elbow falls and shoots forward.

My clenched fist—adorned by three chunky signet rings I’m wearing especially for Jensen—strikes his jaw hard enough to knock his head sideways.

I keep the blasts coming, timing each blow with over, and then with again.

I don’t hear Jensen. I have no idea if he’s making any sound at all while I send one blow after the other, my mind ruled by the beauty of this chaos.

All I hear is my fist hitting the mark and the song. Once it reaches the crescendo, Jensen get a break to catch his breath and spit his teeth out.

It’s a brief respite, a mere three seconds.

Then, with the next over I’m back at it. Faster as the beat gains momentum, using both fists to keep up with the tempo.

The pure wrath inside me is uncontainable.

Images of this scum’s hands on Hailey, of what he wanted to do tonight, throw me into a psychotic rage I only ever experienced once—when I gutted the fucker who killed my mother.

It’s a goddamn miracle I didn’t murder Jensen last night.

Every time my elbow falls back, I see Hailey’s unease and the consequent blow is that much stronger. Every time I land my fist, the timid smile she gave me the first time we sat by the lake appears at the forefront of the chaos.

The fun ends all too quickly.

Forty-five seconds and the beat drops. Forty-five seconds and Jensen braved thirty-one shots.

My knuckles bleed, my chest heaves, my muscles burn with the effort but I’m thirsty for more. He hasn’t suffered enough.

Which is why he’ll live. For now.

“Hailey’s mine,” I seethe, gripping his hands and bending his palms back just shy of snapping his wrists. “Have you heard about the rule of three?”

He whimpers, both eyes swollen shut, enough scarlet covering his face for two blood transfusions. His nose is broken, so is his cheekbone. Both eyebrows and lips split.

“Please…” Jensen begs, tears cutting through the blood on his cheeks. “Please, stop. I’ll leave, I swear.”

“If only I believed you.” This is not my first rodeo. Broken bones heal, but gut-deep fear lingers forever. “The rule of three is something outdoorsy people use in the wilderness. An average human can survive three minutes without oxygen, three days without water, and three weeks without food.”

“Please… I’ll do anything. You won’t see me again. I have money, I—”

The fucking audacity. My blood pressure peaks and I drive my point across, bending his wrists the rest of the way. His screams mingle with the sound of his bones cracking to whip across the forest in a melody unlike any other.

I bask in the sound for a moment, then shove the biohazardous rag back in his mouth, shutting him up.

“I don’t want your money. I want to teach you a lesson.” I grab a bottle of water and a clean rag from the hood, washing my hands. “Make yourself comfortable. You have seventy-two hours in this chair. While you’re here, I want you to think about your life choices.”

He whimpers in response, no longer fighting to escape. There’s no way he’ll move. Not with two snapped wrists.

“See, when I come back, I might let you live… if I believe you understand the consequences.”

I cover his head with the black bag, then drop the headphones, water bottles, and rag into a bag in my trunk, then slam it closed, making Jensen jump.

“But…” I emphasize, opening the driver’s side door, “…if you look at Hailey again, if you go anywhere near her, I’ll drag you back here, loop this song and won’t stop throwing my fists until you stop breathing.”