Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I throw the sheet off me and get out of bed. I'm not thinking about him.
Caleb is over.
I want Ryan.
I need Ryan.
Ryan, with his cute porn obsession. Ryan with his tame camera set up. Ryan with his button nick name.
I mean, little button?
Or good little slut?
The choice is obvious.
I note the time as I get in the shower. I've got forty-five minutes before I have to meet Ryan at the Gym.
I'm going to let him film me.
Maybe I won't even ask for a mask.
The gym is open when I get there. People come early. People who work real jobs and have real daytime schedules. But it's only about a half a dozen.
Ryan's fishbowl office upstairs is dark. Which is weird. We've been meeting here at five AM for training for nearly two weeks now and that office has never been dark when I came in.
Maybe he's already in the back setting up?
I walk down the hallway to the big double doors that lead into the empty space where the cameras are, pull on the handle and… it's locked.
I knock. "Ryan? Are you in there?"
Nothing.
I put my ear against the cold metal. Knock again. "Ryan?"
Silence.
OK. Well. He's not here yet.
I check my phone. It's only five oh three.
So I go back out to the gym, casually saying hi to people who wave and smile at me. I'm a regular here. I fit in.
I like that.
I get on one of the treadmills and put my ear buds in. I'll warm up while I wait.
Twenty minutes later I realize… he's not coming.
Twenty-one minutes later, I understand why.
Caleb.
He came to me last night so that when I got here and found Ryan missing, I'd know.
He's jealous.
And when a man who literally gets off on murder gets jealous, how else does this end?
He's going to kill him.
That sick fuck is going to kill Ryan just because I chose him.
I'm shaking as I leave the gym and walk home. When I get there, I search around in my purse for the card. The business card Caleb gave me weeks ago after he paid that Marty guy to talk dirty to me on our date.
You know where to find me…
Yes, Caleb, I do know where to find you.
In a log mansion outside of Jackson Hole.
I grab my keys and walk out, slamming the door behind me.
He's not gonna get away with this.
He doesn't get to decide my future.
And if he's laid a single finger on Ryan—if he's done anything to him, anything at all, if he's hurt him, or threatened him, or made him disappear—I swear to God, I'll kill him myself.
I'll find a way.
I don't care how big he is, how strong, how prepared.
I don't care about his security, or his money, or his power.
I'll make him pay for this.
The moment this thought appears, I'm wet again. Pussy throbbing. I'm seeing Caleb's swinging dick again. The way he came on that man in the maze. The way I came watching.
"No," I growl, clicking my key fob to unlock my Jeep door.
I do not get off on murder.
That's his kink, not mine.
Not mine, not mine, not mine…
I chant this inside my head as I pull out of the parking garage and head east…
Chapter 14
Caleb
The sun is just beginning to rise above the tree line outside my log mansion. Backlit mountains capped by the perfect spread of roiling cloud cover turns the entire landscape into a surreal mixture of colors.
Green grass and trees, peppered by the darker browns of wood.
Pink, orange, coral, purple sky.
And a feeling in the air that today is important.
If I were the kind of man who brags about his highlights on 'hashtag mountain life' like an entitled asshole, this golden-hour photo op would get attention.
Spoiler alert: I'm not.
So I'm the only one who will ever know this moment existed.
The story of my life, perhaps.
I'm thinking about Ryan Adamson's security setup. A completely unnecessary kind of overkill that shouldn't be in a small-town gym unless you're hiding something… interesting.
Encrypted camera feeds that didn't just resist my initial probes—they actively told me to fuck off.
Physical access controls better than some banks I've robbed.
Network architecture that screams "I paid a professional who knows what actual threats look like."
Your average gym bro doesn't know the difference between WPA2 and WPA3, let alone implement air-gapped systems.
But Ryan built a fortress around Iron River Fitness. The kind of fortress that makes a man wonder what exactly requires that level of protection.
Trade secrets for revolutionary TRX modifications?
Client privacy for Idaho Falls' moderately affluent fitness enthusiasts?
No. That's not what our boy Ryan here needs the security for.
I take a sip of the lukewarm coffee, then set the mug down and touch my sternum where Scarletta's face is inked on the skin—the throat-fucking scene Posie inked, years before I ever met her.
Stella Six Feather's recollection of 'the psychopath with the bird tattoos' was all I had.