This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.
I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…
Season 5, Episode 5
To say that I was surprised to find out that Ros’ marriage was over is the understatement of the century. To find out that her wife left her because Ros wants to be with someone else completely floored me.
When I think about her situation as I would a patient, I have to be objective with my opinions. When I’m talking to someone that I know, it’s a little harder to find that objectivity.
On the one hand, she’s a person in an unhappy marriage. True, she shouldn’t have married Gwen if she was in love with someone else to begin with. However, be that as it may, we’re dealing with the present and where she is today, what her next move should be in terms of her own happiness. If she were a patient, my advice to her would be that I can’t encourage anyone to leave their marriage, but that life is short, and happiness can be fleeting—you have to grab it where you can, or you may lose it. What decision will make her happiest in the long run?
There would be questions about the lesser of two evils and which choice would have the least severe consequences, because both choices will have consequences. Once she has weighed all of her options, then she can decide as to which choice would be best for her.
On the other hand, I know this woman. She works closely with my husband, and I want to grab her and shake her and ask her why the fuck she would do this to another person. She married Gwen hoping that Gwen would make her happiness complete when her heart was with someone else. Love is such a precious thing that I have no idea why you would do that to someone.
She’s crying and broken, and she says it’s because she hurt Gwen and she really didn’t want to do that, but I don’t know if that’s true.
It could be that she’s scared shitless to leave the familiar and branch out into the uncertain, but she can’t stay with the familiar because Gwen doesn’t want her anymore.
It could be that after she has weighed her options, she really does love Gwen and want to stay with her over this Monique girl, but that ship has sailed because Gwen doesn’t trust her anymore.
Or it could be exactly what she said—she’s hurting because she hurt Gwen and Gwen doesn’t deserve that.
Her position is not an enviable one. She’s going to suffer a loss no matter what she does. However, I sincerely have a hard time finding sympathy for cheaters. As long as she pulls her weight at GEH, that’s fine by me.
Apparently, my husband had some kind of “Come to Jesus” talk with her and Finney, much like the one that I had, but obviously more effective as Finney went scurrying from the room on a mission to be more proactive, and Ros was reduced to a slobbering, blubbering mess confessing her infidelities and the breakdown of her marriage, something that we later discover that Finney didn’t even know. None of us can really empathize with her on this as we’re all on our first marriages and have no intention of leaving.
In other news, I’m about to pull the final rug from under one ex-GEH research assistant, Ms. Deanna Corman. She is ruing the day that she crossed me and came on to my husband—in my presence, no less—she just doesn’t know how much she’s ruing it, yet. I’ve decided to let her in on the punchline today.
The last few weeks have been a bit inconvenient for Ms. Corman. Her neighborhood has been papered with her pictures and details of her little petty citations—nothing major, just embarrassing.
I procured every available billboard in the Seattle area and filled them with little factoids about her without posting a picture or mentioning her name… initials maybe, but not her name, unflattering things like:
DC will offer you a good time, then sue you if you refuse.
There’s no way that she wouldn’t know the boards were about her—information about her being a homewrecker and unemployable, things that the average person may not even figure out. However, if you see it and you know that it’s you, you assume everybody knows that it’s you.
GEH got a call about one of the billboards from some attorney. Of course, they had no idea what the guy was talking about since I paid for the billboard under an alias. Don’t worry, DC, it’s only for a couple of weeks.
Probably some of the most satisfying results were the fact that her surveillance officer informs me that she was excused from two restaurants because the fliers that I circulated somehow made it to the restaurants. I honestly don’t know how that happened, but… bonus!
She’s been refused three interviews from companies that are close to GEH and can barely get an interview anywhere since Christian damn near owns everything except the Space Needle.
There have been other tiny little inconveniences, and I’m not sure if she knows that I’m at the base of her misery. However, she’s the only one who hasn’t dropped the lawsuit against GEH. All the other plaintiffs knew a losing battle when they saw one and got out while the getting was good. Little Ms. Corman apparently wants some visibility since word got back to us that she was fired because the boss wanted her, and she was ready to reciprocate until I threatened her. Granted, this is only rumor mill—nothing in print—but if she wants attention, I’m the bitch to accommodate her.
She received long-stemmed roses at her home today stating that a certain billionaire wanted to meet with her to clear the air, inviting her to dinner in a private room at Christian’s club downtown. What she doesn’t know is that the billionaire that’s coming to clear the air is me.
I’m sure to arrive well before her so that I can enjoy my meal before she gets there—duck a l’orange with sautéed cabbage, roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. Certain that she plans to be fashionably late, I instruct the server to wait until my guest arrives to bring her meal to the table and in the meantime, I order two chilled bottles of Cristal—one for now, and one for when she gets here. The meal is superb, and I enjoy every bite of it while waiting for my prey to arrive. Just as I’m finishing my tiramisu, the server announces that she has arrived. I nod for him to show her in. The look on her face is priceless when she clears the large velvet curtains and finds that it’s me sitting there at the table instead of Christian.
“I see that you dressed the part,” I taunt of her cocktail dress that’s not even a sneeze off her snatch. “Unfortunately, I don’t bat for that team.” She narrows her eyes.
“I don’t need this,” she says. “I’m not dealing with this.” She turns to leave.
“Oh, no, you’re going to sit your ass down or three wives will receive very unflattering pictures of you with each of their husbands, including the one who put a gun to your head last year.”
She whirls around and stares at me in disbelief. I raise a brow at her, daring her to call my bluff. Her stare changes to a glare, and she slides into the seat across from me. I gently dab the corners of my mouth and take a sip of my champagne.
“You’ve had quite the spell of bad luck over the last month,” I say, smiling. “You lost a really great job with a really reputable company, billboards announcing your extra-curricular activities, being thrown out of classy establishments, interviews refused… you’re just the happy whore of Seattle, aren’t you?”
“Says the woman who has to threaten people to keep them from fucking her man,” she says, rolling her neck. I chuckle lightly.
“But you didn’t get to fuck him, now, did you?” I say with a smile.
“I ain’t dead yet,” she shoots back.
“That can be arranged,” I retort flatly and glare at her, my eyes piercing. Her resolve shakes a bit, but she’s determined not to give me the satisfaction of seeing her sweat, but she doesn’t understand that I already have.
“You’re feeling awfully brave,” she taunts. “I could be wearing a wire.”
“For what?” I ask. “If you’re wearing one, fine. You won’t get anything you can use in court… for what? What are you going to use—the fact that you’re a hoe that comes on to other women’s husband’s and we all know it? Yes, Your Honor, I’m guilty of calling this skank ass, sleazy, tramp-ass bitch a whore! Lock me up! Throw away the key! Nasty bitch.”
“I’ve already got something,” she says. “You said my death could be arranged.”
“I didn’t say by whom,” I retort calmly. “You’re currently fucking three other women’s husbands. You’re not fucking mine. But that’s okay, because I know you’re not wearing a wire. You’re not that smart.” Her face hardens as I sip my champagne.
“I appreciate your chutzpah,” I tell her. “You’ve got to be really brave or really stupid to pretend you still have the upper hand in this matter. While I would love nothing more than to drop kick your ass off the edge of the earth, I think watching you squirm worked out a whole lot better. Keep fucking with me, little girl. You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Realization finally dawns as she realizes what I’m saying.
“All this shit was you?” she asks incredibly. “The billboards, the restaurants… all this shit was you?” I shrug playfully.
“Guilty,” I say. “It’s only slander if it’s not true.” I smile and take a bite of my tiramisu. She leaps out of her seat and gets in my face.
“I oughta kick your fucking ass right here and now!” she threatens. Chuck emerges from the shadows behind her, but she doesn’t see him.
“You go right ahead and try,” I taunt, leaning forward into her face. “By the time I’m done with you, they’ll be finding parts of you on five different continents.”
She jerks back a bit, but still doesn’t sit.
“I’m your worse fucking nightmare, bitch,” I tell her. “I’m a wife who’s madly in love with her hot husband and her happy home and you’re threatening that. But what’s more, at the very least, I’m a comfortable billionairess with a really great setup and you’re trying to muscle in on my fucking territory, and you thought I was just going to roll over and take that have you lost your fucking mind?”
I say the last part all in one breath and she still hovers over me.
“Sit. The fuck. Down.” I say threateningly, but she doesn’t, so Chuck so graciously comes from his post and not so gently helps her back to her seat. Her eyes widen when she sees him—or feels him, I should say—and she turns an incredulous glare to me.
“You ain’t shit without your security,” she says. I swallow another bite of delicious tiramisu.
“That sounds like something I heard in a movie once,” I taunt. “’You ain’t shit without that gun, are you?’ I think that’s what she said. And yet, she still didn’t fuck with the bitch with the gun.” I sip my champagne.
“Christian came on to me,” she declares, changing tact. “He’s only putting on a show for you. I’m who he really wants.”
“Oh, I believe that,” I say laughing sarcastically. “And during your pillow talk, did he tell you about the time I made him come so many times that he had to beg me to stop?”
Her eyes widen and she can’t believe I just said that.
“You bounce your little ass on their dicks, and you suck their cocks and they shoot to the moon for you and you think you’ve done something? Has even one of those fuckers left their wives for you? You’re just some hot little hole to shoot a load in—a readily available piece of ass. They leave a couple of C-notes on the nightstand for you and ‘Thanks until next time, babe.’ And if that’s what you want, then fine, you got it. But bitch, I’m a wife. I got the kids, the mansion, the cars, and the name. What’s more,” I lean in closer to her, “I’m a young, flexible, horny freak and there’s nothing I don’t do. So, while you’re spouting about the dicks you can suck and fuck, believe me, Christian Grey ain’t one of ‘em!
“Do you really think random community pussy is that powerful?” I ask her with a frown. “The man married me; I’ve had two children for him—twins, the apples of his eyes—and notwithstanding the ridiculously generous prenup that you knew nothing about, I own half his company! You’re just some little tramp trick hoebag handing it out to anybody with a couple of pennies to rub together hoping for the big windfall. What could you have possibly hoped to achieve by crossing me?
“I only did this because you pissed me off,” I say, sipping my Cristal. “You tested me, and you tried me, and you dared me to call you on your shit. Or maybe you knew I would, and you were hoping I would give you something that you could use in court.
“I didn’t even have anything to prove by doing this to you, Deanna,” I say, finishing my champagne, “nothing in the world to prove but the fact that I can. This wasn’t even a coup. This was just some little thing I did in my spare time. I was just having a good time at your personal expense. Hell, it’s only money to me. Imagine what I could do if I really put my mind to it?
“Do yourself a favor. Walk away now. We are an at-will company with a positive drug test from a sampling of your hair from a reputable global testing company. No matter what lawyer you fucked that convinced you that you can win this, you can’t win. If you feel like wasting your time and money, be my guest… sue away. You’ll be stuck in litigation for years and in the meantime, I’ll be clocking your every move, taking note of every hard-up, married thousandaire you take up with, and reminding you that the Grey reach is infinite.”
I slide a hard drive across the table to her with several pictures of her most recent escapades.
“A bit of my research,” I tell her. “You can keep that.” I stand and retrieve my purse. “Enjoy your meal. Try the duck—it’s delicious.”
I turn around and walk out of the room and Chuck falls in step behind me. I stop at the server who’s standing just outside the door.
“Pour the lady some champagne, please,” I say. “She’s extremely thirsty.”
“Do whatever you need to do, just be safe.”
Those were my wife’s words when I left the house this evening. Things have come to a head much faster than I expected and it’s time to move forward with the rest of the plan.
During our Downtime session on Friday, she told me about her meeting with Deanna Corman, the one final holdout on the wrongful termination lawsuit. She informed me about how, without my knowledge, she single-handedly launched a smear campaign on that poor girl that was utterly merciless and completely untraceable. Her final blow was the meeting where she informed Ms. Corman—who arrived thinking that she was coming to see me—that her demise could be more than dinner talk if Ms. Corman thought for one moment that she was going to muscle in on my wife’s cushy lifestyle.
That was a gangster move.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I thought it time to tell her my plans for our not-so-favorite author and her clan of unmerry men and women. After all, it was she who told me that I had better do something about the Pedophile or she would. I couldn’t let that happen.
I let her in on the things that were happening to Holstein—the box of live rats, the cliché cement shoes, and the plans I had for him this weekend. There was no use in drawing out the situation once I got the word that everything needed for Ms. Ellison had been done and secured. She’s really the big fish, because she’s got the pen.
“But what about Elena?” Pussycat had asked. “She has the original story. What’s to stop her from hiring another ghost writer? It’ll obviously be difficult, but from what you say, the warden won’t even be a factor anymore. She can just convince the new warden that she has the story of a lifetime and we’re back where we started from.”
I love my little Pussycat Butterfly, but she obviously underestimated my ability to tie up loose ends. I informed her about the Pedophile’s little accident and the fact that they’ll be culminating in a finale that Mrs. Lincoln won’t soon forget.
Our arrival at GEH on Monday morning was epic. The lobby was filled with the usual morning chatter until Mr. and Mrs. Grey showed up. My wife has been wearing these amazing power outfits and Monday was no different. She came breezing through the lobby in a gray sleeveless pencil dress cut right above the knee with a matching tailored gray blazer, sporting a pair of classic black Louboutin sky-highs and her signature Jackie O’s. She strode through that hallway with all the class, style, and power of the perfect CEO and I’m certain that the silence that ensued was just as much for her presence as it was for mine, if not more.
That morning, the power wife went off to her meetings with Lorenz in tow and I got updates on Project Alcatraz.
The Pedophile has been spending quite a bit of time in the infirmary—broken ribs, sprained ankle, and most recently, a strange bout with what appears to be food poisoning. Funny that she’s the only one who got it. She even suffered from a really bad forced haircut, which resulted in nearly all of her hair being cut off by the barber so that she didn’t look completely ridiculous.
Even the poor little smart-mouthed receptionist has been getting her due. For several consecutive days, gifts have been arriving at her home precisely when her husband is present and she’s not. That wasn’t very easy to pull off since there’s only a small window between the time that he gets home from work and the time that she gets home from work. Apparently, however, it worked… a little too well.
Coupled with the gifts, there’s been a gentleman perched across the street from her house… just watching, nothing else. He was conspicuous, meant for her and her husband to see. Mr. Receptionist could obviously be seen pointing at the guy one day and demanding that she tell him who the guy was, especially in light of all the gifts she had been receiving. She disappeared into the house with her husband while they were still arguing.
Apparently, she emerged Monday morning wearing sunglasses and looking like she had been through Armageddon. Sources at the prison informed us that the fucker has battered her… badly. She wouldn’t make a police report as, with everything going on, she knew the situation with her and with the warden were somehow related. She just didn’t know how.
I felt more than a tad guilty as I was only trying to cause a bit of inconvenience for her. I didn’t expect it to go this far. Hell, I don’t know what I expected. Nonetheless, Operation Receptionist halted immediately, and an anonymous call was placed to the police regarding how she showed up to work on Monday morning and requesting a wellness check at her home. No word yet on how that turned out.
However, the biggest news of the weekend was all about the warden. He fell prey to a harmless drug that knocked him out and landed him in a very compromising position—a position that landed on the front page of nearly every available news outlet on Monday morning. I say nearly every news outlet because some of them are unable to show the pictures due to their graphic nature, although the local morning shows took the liberty of blurring out the good parts while reporting the breaking news.
Supposedly, the good warden bats for the same team and was photographed in very compromising positions with what is revealed to be a gay, male hooker. Of course, the warden didn’t show up for work Monday or today with the press following him around, and with good reason. However, he probably should have been more careful where he parked his car.
This morning, armed with a search warrant based on an anonymous tip supposedly from the gentleman friend that he spent the night with, the police raided Holstein’s car and found four kilos of coke, an undetermined amount of meth, and an illegal firearm. My team takes credit for the gun; the drugs were a bonus. Apparently, the good warden was into a lot more than I thought he was.
So, with the warden completely out of the way and everything in place for this bug that keeps buzzing up my ass in the most lethal ways, I’ve informed my wife that the final steps are in place to assure that the Pedophile’s book never gets published, and that the skank that keeps inserting herself into our lives is not able to do it again. She knows how far I’ll go to protect my family, but this is bigger than just my family. This is decades and decades of young boys who have been victimized by that sick bitch, and now both these unscrupulous cows are trying to find a way to capitalize on her wretched behavior. I can survive the shit she might throw at me. There are several others out there who may not.
Thus, my wife’s warning to be safe.
We’re in one of the Fords tonight when Jason pulls up to yet another warehouse. We’re in all black again, both strapped with our Glocks and ready for any eventuality—very James Bond/Mission Impossible… quite fitting since this bitch has the disguise ability of Ethan Hunt.
She’s going to wish she hadn’t used it tonight.
A private text to her “Dom” phone requested her presence at a secluded location in an adequate disguise so as not to be recognized. She was then abducted in the old-fashioned manner and transported to this warehouse at approximately 10:00pm. Alex called me on our burners to tell me that she was in position, and I let her stew for an hour or so. When Jason and I arrive at the warehouse, she’s naked, duct-taped to a chair and gagged. A look of sheer horror comes over her face when she sees me enter the room.
“Wanted a little eye-candy, did you?” I ask Alex. He shrugs.
“That was a bonus,” he says. “I had to make sure that she wasn’t wired.”
“Where are her clothes?” I ask.
“In her car,” he says.
“And her car?” I press. “Did anybody leave any DNA behind?” Alex scoffs.
“Probably, but good luck finding it,” he says matter-of-factly. “That DNA and her bald man costume have both been thoroughly burned along with her car—down to the frame—which is now being deposited into a very large, but obscure, body of water as we speak.” I nod and turn to a trembling Ms. Ellison.
“And we meet again,” I say as I move to stand in front of her. “I’m dying to know what she told you that made you think I couldn’t get to you.”
“Here’s what I really don’t understand. You know that you’re playing with fire and you know who holds the torch. How can you not expect me to come at you with every incendiary device in my arsenal? My complacency has cost me way too much already and I refuse to allow myself, my family, or any of these other people that she has hurt become collateral damage on your twisted road to recognition. I’m going to put this matter to bed once and for all, and it’s never going to rise again.”
I can see her screwing up her courage for one last stand. Good. That’s what I want. In your final attempt to save your life, you’re going to tell me all your fucking secrets.
“Ms. Ellison, I’m not going to snap your wrist this time. I’m going to snap your fucking neck, and I’m going to enjoy it, if you don’t answer every fucking question I ask you quickly and truthfully.”
“Oh, you need information,” she says. “So, without my cooperation, you don’t get what you need. That’s quite the predicament.” She sounds so confident. I just laugh.
“Impressive,” I say, turning to Alex. “She’s duct-taped to a chair, surrounded by four men—any one of which could put a bullet in her ass right now and not care—and she still thinks she has the upper hand.”
“I may not have the upper hand,” she says, her voice trembling, “but there are other people involved, other people with things at stake, and they’ll see to it that the book is published, even if I don’t do it!” I’m unmoved. I turn back to her.
“Well, then, what good are you to me?” I ask, callously. “I could just get rid of you right now and move on to the others, right?” Fear clouds her eyes and she tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Is that what you’re looking for?” I add, with my hands extended in a shrugging manner. “You want a legacy? Because if I fuck you up right now, or I turn you over to any of these powerful, crazy motherfuckers you’ve named in that book, that’s all that’s going to be left—your legacy, which will most likely be worthless, because no one will be around willing to cosign this crud that you’re trying to print.
“Do you think I’m the only one looking for the total decimation of this bullshit? Do you think I’m the only one that knows you’re the fucking ghost writer, BD Simmons? Do you have any idea how easy it was to find your ass? You weren’t even creative! A civilian found you—a vanilla civilian at that! I gave your powers of stealth way too much credit, but I underestimated you at the same time. That’s something I don’t intend to do again.
“Oh, and don’t think she’s going to walk away from this either,” I taunt. “Why do you think you haven’t seen her for weeks?” I smile fiendishly.
“So, we’re going to try this again, and I’m going to hope—for your sake—that you want to keep your miserable fucking life and that you’re going to tell me everything that I want and need to know about everyone involved in this endeavor so that I don’t have to waste precious time looking for answers. Now…” I crouch down in front of her and rest my elbows on my knees.
“The difference between me and you is that I’ve got time. You, on the other hand, are not leaving this room. I don’t care if you eat; I don’t care if you sleep; I don’t care if your shit blocks up in your ass and comes out of your fucking throat. I and my friends are going to ask you questions which you are going to answer and then we’re going to check the validity of your answers. Each time you lie or fail to tell us everything, we’re going to break a finger. If too much time passes and we can’t validate what you’re telling us, we’re going to break a finger. When we run out of fingers, we’ll move to your toes. But my dear, when you run out of toes, you run out of time.
“With or without you, I will look under every rock in every slimy, sleazy slum of the country and I will turn over every diamond in every mansion of every billionaire who ever breathed to discover who all has a hand in this. If you’re writing her story true to tale, you already know that she’s most likely molested dozens of young boys, myself included. Whatever dirt or harm can be done to me by that book, I can recover, but all those other boys… their families, my children… you don’t give a fuck and neither does she. I have nothing at all to lose, Ms. Ellison, so let’s begin, shall we?”
I step away from her and remove my jacket, tossing it to Alex and revealing my Glock and harness. I grab a nearby chair and turn it backwards. I sit down and lean my arms on the back of it, glaring at her the entire time. I don’t think I saw this much fear in the eyes of the hackers when we questioned them.
An hour later, I have more information from this lying cunt than I ever thought I’d get. Alex immediately dispatches teams and special ops to verify her information. The faster we can get this thing laid to rest with the least amount of people knowing, the better. As it turns out, the Pedophile convinced the Cunt that less was more, too. So, no one had intimate details of the book except for the two of them. That was a condition of the publishing because although it could be leaked that a book was being written, had any of the details of the book leaked, the book would be worthless.
We already knew that the warden was in on the process. We just didn’t know how deep in he was. Basically, all he did was arrange special meetings for them and the passage of information. According to her, he’s pretty clueless, too. We’ll see.
I’m sitting in front of her glaring at her with a pair of vice grips in my hand when Jason walks into the room. He’s completely undercover. He looks like a member of the SWAT team. He wasn’t this incognito when we were dealing with Dodd and his crew. He looks down at the vice grips in my hand and back up at me. It’s no surprise why I have them. If this cunt lies to me, I’m going to be the first to break one of her fingers.
“The coast is clear?” I ask.
“Yes, sir,” he seethes, glaring at Ellison sitting naked in the chair.
“You okay?” I ask cautiously. He turns his gaze back to me.
“I’m trying to remember that I don’t hit women, sir,” Jason says, his voice menacingly low.
“Don’t worry,” I say, holding up the vice grips. “Maybe she’ll lose a finger.” He’s still glaring at her.
“I said I don’t hit women, sir,” he says. He marches over to the cunt and backhands her—hard! So hard that I damn near hear her neck snap and she cries out from the pain. When she raises her head, she’s spitting blood.
“Thieving, lying accessories to attempted murder… yeah, I can hit them just fine!” he hisses before turning back to me.
“We weren’t followed,” he informs me. “Her bank account has been cleaned out as has her safe deposit box earlier today. Her apartment is being cleaned as we speak.” She frowns, no doubt wondering what we’re talking about. I’ll tell her… when it’s time.
It’s about 2am as all the information Ellison has given us starts to flood into the warehouse—hard copies of pieces of the manuscript; research and data on all of her electronic resources. However, we did find a link to the cloud and to her storage there where she backed up most of her documentation, notes, outlines and drafts—storage that she failed to disclose.
I suppose she doesn’t need that index finger.
Once she’s finished screaming from the pain and is coherent enough to realize that I would gladly make good on my prior threats, she gives up four more cloud storage locations that contained more pictures, names, and information.
Good God in heaven. This crazy bitch has been fucking little boys from even further back than I thought. Her penchant for the underage was honed in Amsterdam when she was living with her sick aunt—and it never stopped. She was fucking kids even before she married Linc, and it never stopped. The more information that streams into our databases, the more horrified I become. I turn angry, disgusted eyes to this bleeding bitch taped to the chair.
“You knew,” I say, my stomach churning and my frown deep. “How long did you know?”
She’s weeping, unable to answer my question. Her lip and cheek have swollen from when Jason backhanded her. We just heard about the book late last year. She has an unbelievable amount of research on an insane amount of people. The carnage this book could have caused is immeasurable. I can’t see her just finding out only a few months ago that Elena was a pedophile and then accumulating this much information in that period of time. I can’t even see her being able to swallow that realization in just a few months—not even a horrible, conniving bitch like her!
She had some time to process this… to absorb this. I don’t know how long she knew, but this bitch knew! How could you even associate yourself with someone like that? She fucking knew!
Before I even realize what I’m doing, a size 11 ½ black hiking boot is planted squarely between this bitch’s tits, and she and the entire chair go flying into the air, landing several feet behind her with a loud thud. She shrieks in pain and I think she may have hit her head.
“You’ve secured any and all copies of that manuscript?” I ask Alex through gritted teeth.
“All the ones that we could find,” he says. “Manuscripts and notes—the outlines are very detailed… you should know that they have real names in them, including yours.” I shake my head. Retrieving the vice grips, I march over and roll the cunt in the chair over to her side to gain access to her hands again and firmly grip her next finger in the teeth of the tool. She cries out in pain.
“Is there anything else?” I growl. “You lie to me this time and I swear to God, I’m not going to stop when I hear the bone break!”
“No!” she screams. “No! I swear to God! There’s nothing else! I told you everything! Google, Dropbox…” and she just starts naming off all of her cloud storages, all of her data backups, hiding places for manuscripts in case we may have forgotten something, even confessing that there were drives and documents hiding in the car, which Alex assures me is a charred frame at the bottom of the ocean.
“You dumped it in the ocean?” I ask in horror. “That’s not a secluded body of water.”
“Are you aware of every bank, beach, tributary or coast that feeds into the Pacific Ocean?” he asks, flatly. No… no, I’m not.
“Duly noted,” I say. I turn back to Greta fucking Ellison.
“Tape her mouth,” I instruct. “Well! I’ve heard enough.”
She struggles uselessly, crying as two of the guys wrap tape around her mouth several times. I stand in front of her, looking down at her one last time.
“I told you that you would regret fucking with me. You didn’t believe me. I let you go once. I won’t make that mistake twice.” Her eyes widen and she’s trying to say something through her gag. I think it’s “please.” I don’t care to hear it.
“Instructions, sir?” Alex asks.
“Get her out of my sight and make sure that she doesn’t come back,” I reply, watching Ellison’s face pale to nearly white under her duct tape gag.
“You’re certain, sir?” Alex asks again. I turn to him.
“I was almost killed because of this woman,” I say through my teeth. “My personal bodyguard and best friend took a bullet that was meant for me from a gun that she stole and gave to the assailant.” I turn to Ellison. “I confront her thieving, conspiring ass with my evidence and she scoffed at me—through her grimace, that is, since I was trying to break her fucking wrist. In my kindness—or naiveté, take your pick—I warned her and let her leave that place in one piece and what does she do? She conspires with that murderous, pedophile bitch once again to ruin my life and quite possibly the lives of countless other people.
“Even behind bars, that bitch is a pestilence—a disease—and you want to give her a fucking voice, the most powerful voice of all… a goddamn book. You’re as bad as she is. In fact, you’re worse, because you keep fucking going and you think you can’t be punished. Well, you can rest assured, BD Simmons, that after today, she’s going to be silenced and so will you.”
Tears form in her eyes and she begins to sob behind her gag. Sorry, cunt, I feel no sympathy for bitches who conspire to kill and destroy me. I turn back to Alex.
“If you’re asking if I want her to die, I don’t—but I don’t fucking want to see her again… ever.” Alex nods.
“You and Jason leave now, sir,” he says. “Plausible deniability.” I nod.
“I get it,” I say, grabbing my jacket and taking one final look at a terrified Greta Ellison. I turn back to Alex.
“Ever!” I reinforce before leaving the warehouse.
Jason drives us to another location, yet another of GEH’s obscure acquisitions. I see the Audi parked there along with who I assume is another member of Alex’s black ops team. Apparently, he’s somehow gotten clearance to get these guys without Colostomy’s help, because he said nothing about having to contact him for this mission.
“I need you to come inside, sir,” Jason says, and I follow him into the building with the black ops guy behind us carrying a bag. We enter the building and ride up the elevator to a secured loft.
“I need your clothes,” Jason says. He’s right. That bitch’s blood, tears, and DNA are probably all over me. “You can shower in there.”
I strip right there in front of Jason and the stranger and march to the shower to scrub away any evidence. When I come back, Jason has already showered and changed and is handing me a pair of boxer briefs.
“What about her?” I ask as I step into my underwear. “Won’t my DNA be all over her?”
“I’m assured that it’ll be taken care of, sir,” he says. “Plausible deniability.” I nod and continue to get dressed.
Once I’m clothed, we leave the loft. Off in the distance, I see our other black ops guy with a fire blazing in front of him. Jason signals to him and he nods before we get into the Audi and drive home.
The dawn is breaking when we get to Mercer Island. Everything all around us is proceeding as normal. No one looks at us like we’ve most likely made one woman disappear and will later be responsible for the incapacitation of another. And you know what?
I don’t care one bit.
It’s surprising how one can turn into a totally vicious and lethal animal when it comes down to survival. I totally believed my wife when she said that I had better take care of this or she would, and I wasn’t going to let her get her hands dirty with this shit. If the justice system can’t do their job of keeping this bitch on a leash, then I will. Holstein’s out, Ellison’s gone, and now it’s Lincoln’s turn. Just as I’m thinking about the bitch and how soon we’ll be putting our plan into action, Jason informs me as we’re walking into the mudroom…
“It’s flu season, sir.” I purse my lips and nod.
“That it is,” I say knowingly while removing my boots.
Butterfly is still wide awake when I come into the room. I knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until I returned. She makes eye-contact with me but says nothing until I remove my clothes.
Do we sleep now? Do we talk? Do we eat something, because I’m starving!
“Um…” She’s just as lost as I am. “How did it go?” I guess that’s a safe enough question under the circumstances.
“Nobody’s dead,” I say, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and sitting on the bed next to her, “except the book, and it won’t be back.” She moves behind me and leans her chin on my shoulder, gently rubbing my arms.
“That’s all I need to know,” she says, with a kiss on my shoulder. “I think we’ve earned a day off, don’t you?” I sigh heavily, feeling the weight of the world lifting off my back.
“I think you’re right.”
I’m back in the hole. Why the hell am I back in the hole? I didn’t even do anything! But these fuckers dragged me straight from the infirmary to the hole. I’m really beginning to worry now. Where the hell is Ron? And why the fuck hasn’t Greta contacted me? I haven’t heard anything.
Things were pretty good for a long time. Sure, I had Christian’s threat about his precious wife and their ridiculous little family. Twins… talk about over-achieving. It’s not enough the bitch gets herself knocked up as soon as they get married. No, she has to spit out two at once! That’s probably how she got him to marry her in the first place. He was having second thoughts—I know he was. That’s why the little cunt ran off to Montana. Had it not been for that damn restraining order, I could have gotten him a suitable submissive and this never would have happened.
But no, almost seven months to the day they got married, she spits out twins. She was pregnant when they got married. She trapped him and he was too stricken to even see it.
Now, I’m in this place and I’m afraid to walk around out there anymore. My skin is saggy, and my body is starting to ache everywhere, and not just from these stupid accidents either… if that’s what they really are. At least in here I’m not getting randomly thrown against walls or tossed down the stairs. Jesus, I don’t know how much more of that my body could take.
Ron was providing my dye jobs—not the flaxen blonde I’m accustomed to, but a strawberry blonde. Anything’s better than this dull brown, which is showing again at the roots, by the way. This is becoming utterly ridiculous! I want some fucking answers.
“I want to see the warden,” I tell the guard when he brings my dinner. “I have a right to see him and I want to see him!” He smiles.
“You want to see the warden?” He smirks. “I’ll send word up right away that you want to see the warden.”
He raises a brow at me and leaves the cell. He’s probably bullshitting me. He’s not going to tell Ron that I want to see him. Nobody else has. I shake my head, sit on my bed, and eat my dinner.
A while after I’ve finished my meal, I hear the guard coming back down the hallway.
“Hands, Lincoln,” she says. Okay, they must be taking me to see Ron. Finally! I can find out what the hell is going on!
I stick my hands out of the small square and the guard shackles me.
“You know the drill,” she says, “other end of the cell.” She watches me through the small square as I walk to the far end of the cell. When she opens the door, she steps in with another female guard and a third woman dressed in a suit.
Who is this, the prisoner liaison? Where the fuck is Ron?
“Elena Lincoln, prisoner number 582625, ma’am,” the guard says. Ma’am? What the fuck?
“Lincoln,” the woman says. “I’m informed that you desperately needed to see me.” You were?
“Who are you?” I ask, bemused. She raises her brow.
“I’m Sylvia Mumford,” she says. “I’m the new warden.”
New warden! Fuck me!
“You asked to see me, Mrs. Lincoln?” she says, her voice impatient. Shit, what the fuck do I say?
“What… what happened to R… Mr. Holstein?” I ask.
“Mr. Holstein is no longer with the Department of Corrections… well, not in an official capacity anyway.” The guards chuckle behind her and she throws a look over her shoulder, not even making eye-contact with them, and the bitches stop laughing. Hell, I need her on my side. How to do that?
“Mr. Holstein was arrested and taken into custody, and thus, relieved of his duties.” I bite the inside of my lip. “Is that what you wanted to know, or did you want something else?”
“Well… yes,” I stutter. “I want to know why I’m in the hole,” I ask. I at least need to know that much. She turns to the guards.
“Why is she in the hole?” she asks.
“Lincoln’s been getting into a lot of fights on the tier lately. We’re not sure why,” one of the guards say. “The first couple of times, the detail just says that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody seems to know why she was pushed down the stairs, and McCooley used her body as a ping-pong ball the other day. We don’t know what brought that on either.”
Mumford takes a closer look at me and frowns.
“How long have you been incarcerated?” she asks.
“Nearly two years from the first date of my arrest,” I reply. What does that have to do with anything?
“You’ve been here for almost two years, and you’ve got brown roots?” the new warden inquires. Oh, shit. How do I explain this?
“I… got a beauty day for good behavior,” I excuse. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
“Good behavior,” she says, incredulously. “You’re literally bouncing off of walls and you got a beauty day for good behavior? And a beauty day includes a wash and trim, a manicure and pedicure, maybe a clear polish if you’re lucky. A beauty day does not include toxic dyeing chemicals that are prohibited in the prison.”
“I…” I don’t have an explanation for her.
“Well, that stops now,” she says. “Some things are going to change around here. I run a tight ship, and there will be no special favors anymore. I will, however, find out why you’re in the hole. What are you in for?” Oh, shit, here we go.
“Attempted murder,” I say, leaving off the rest. She shrugs.
“Well, that’s big for the justice system, but not so bad for the prison system. Have you made any enemies? I would think not since you got that whole beauty day.” Now, she’s mocking me.
“Um, warden,” one of the guards says, “Lincoln may very well have several enemies. She might be in here for her own protection.”
“Oh?” she says, turning back to me. “How so?”
“She’s not just here for attempted murder. There are probably several women on the tier that wouldn’t mind… a few moments alone with her.”
“Like whom?” Mumford asks.
“Like every mother on the block,” the guard replies. “Aunties, sisters, even cousins…”
“Spit it out, Redford. Why is she here?” Mumford says impatiently. “Did she try to kill a kid?”
“No, but she’s done some other things,” Redford says. “She’s doing 25 years for child pornography, statutory rape, and molestation.” The warden’s eyes widen.
“Twenty-five years!” she says, appalled. “Good God, 25 years? What the fuck did you do?” she says, throwing a glare back at me.
“Apparently a whole lot,” Redford says, when I take too long to answer, “to a whole bunch of boys… for a long time. She pled to the 25 years. Our only guess is that sometimes the block simmers down and leaves her alone and other times, they’ve got it in for her. She’s been on the bad end of quite a few mishaps over the last month or so.” Mumford’s brow furrows in contemplation.
“Lincoln,” she says. “That name is familiar to me…”
“She was all over the news for her trial…”Redford says. Mumford ponders a while longer before a look of realization comes over her face. Oh, shit. I’m screwed.
“And she’s all over the news now!” the warden says. “The word is that you’re writing an exposé about your encounters—about your crimes!” I swallow hard and clear my throat.
“I’m writing a memoir…” I excuse.
“About your encounters!” Mumford accuses. “How is that even possible? The law says that you can’t profit from your crimes!”
“I’m only writing about my life!” I defend. “And I’m using a ghostwriter, whom I haven’t been able to speak to in weeks.”
“You shouldn’t have been able to speak to them at all!” she declares. “This is preposterous! Who would authorize…?”
She trails off and her eyes widen again. I can see the nickels dropping left and right. There goes my book; there goes my privileges; there goes my protection; there goes everything. The warden turns her gaze from me and back to the guards.
“Does the population know about this?” she asks, completely ignoring me.
“About…?” the other guard asks for clarification.
“That she’s writing a book!” the warden barks. “That she’s planning on exploiting her crimes and these children that she raped and their families for personal gain!”
“Um, I don’t know, ma’am,” Redford says. “Usually if something like that is in the prison population, we would know.”
“Oh, give it time,” Mumford says, angrily. “It’s probably only on the gossip rags and tabloids, but don’t worry. It’ll be on the regular news in no time, especially with Holstein’s recent arrest. It only broke on the dark news over the last couple of months. It’s my job to know these things. You’re prison guards in a maximum-security facility. It’s your job to know it, too.” She turns to me.
“The bad news, Mrs. Lincoln, is that you won’t be leaving solitary confinement for a while. The good news is that this is probably the safest place in the prison for you to be. No matter your crime, it’s my job to ensure your safety, and that’s what I intend to do. In the interest of the greater good, this is where you’ll be staying for a while until I can get to the bottom of just how far this goes. And you don’t have to tell me; I know that Holstein was in on something. You’ve had a ghostwriter coming to visit you and you’ve got blonde hair, for Christ’s sake!”
The bitch does a military turn and walks out of the cell. I’m waiting to hear the cell door close so they can remove these damn cuffs when I hear her talking to someone in the hallway instead.
“What’s that? Who’s it for?” she asks.
“Lincoln,” I hear someone say. “She didn’t get a flu shot before she left the infirmary.”
“It’s January!” Mumford exclaims. “She should have gotten a flu shot months ago.”
“I don’t know, ma’am, but her chart shows that she hasn’t gotten one,” comes the reply. I thought I already had a flu shot. I don’t know anymore. I’ve got bigger problems. What the hell am I going to do now? I’m totally cut off from everything! This is a disaster!
“She may not even need it now,” the warden says sarcastically. “I guess we don’t want any of the staff getting sick. Go on and give it to her,” I hear her say as her voice disappears down the hall. The cell door opens again and two nurses and another guard walk in—a guy I’ve never seen before.
“I’ll take it from here,” he tells the other two guards, and they leave.
“Have a seat, Lincoln,” one of the nurses says as she puts on her rubber gloves. I sigh and sit down. I have to stay in here. Granted, I’d rather be here than on the tier where they want to kick my ass regularly, but I was on my way out of here to an easier block. Minimum security, Ron promised me. All those times I sucked his tiny dick and let him come on my face, promised him the lion’s share of the profits from my book, and it got me nothing! It landed me here and now he’s in jail, too.
“Ah!” I say after the needle goes in and the vaccine is injected. “Shit, is it supposed to burn like that?”
“You might be having an adverse reaction to it,” the nurse says nonchalantly. She removes the needle and puts a cotton ball on my arm with a bandage.
“Shit, that really burns,” I say again. I don’t ever remember a flu shot burning like that.
“Aaaww, poor wittle baby don’t like da needle?” the other nurse teases, and the guard laughs. I roll my eyes at her. Bitch.
I suddenly feel heavy all over, like the weight of Atlas is on my back. This shit really sucks. I was this close—this close—to a cushier setup, to more privileges, to blowing the lid off of what would be the biggest scandal greater Seattle had ever seen, and what happens? Holstein gets arrested and Greta fucking disappears. She probably got word that Holstein got nabbed and ran for the hills. I could have fixed this… even without Holstein.
My head feels like a brick… really feels like a brick. I’m trying to focus and I’m suddenly seeing double.
“Thomtis wong…” Huh? The second nurse turns to look at me.
I can’t see straight, something’s wrong. That’s what I’m trying to say, but it comes out more like “Thatha fee som…”
“What the hell…” The second nurse is trying to lay me down on the bed, but it just looks like the room is spinning. The guard just stands there looking at me, while the first nurse calmly says, “Radio the infirmary. Tell ‘em we need a stretcher in the hole.”
She’s awfully fucking calm while I’m losing the ability to move my limbs.
“Mrs. Lincoln,” the second nurse says. “Mrs. Lincoln, can you hear me?”
Her voice is fading down a long tunnel, as is her face…
I open my eyes in a well-lighted room. I’m lying on my back and my head is elevated. I can’t move. I must be restrained, but I can’t move anything. My throat feels like sandpaper and I can’t even swallow. I can focus a bit and there’s someone sitting next to my bed… another nurse. I’m back in the infirmary.
I’m thinking the words, but I’m so damn weak, I can’t even form them to come out of my mouth.
Wait a minute…
Wait a fucking minute. I’m fucking talking and nothing’s coming out! And I can’t move! Anything! Not my head, not my hands, nothing! What the hell is going on?
Hey, fucking nurse lady! Look over here! I can’t fucking move.
It takes an eternity, a literal eternity, but she finally looks over at me.
“Ah, Mrs. Lincoln, you’re awake,” she says in a pleasant voice. I look at her with frightened, beseeching eyes.
What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I talk or move?
“Give me just a minute, okay?” she says. She gets up and walks to the door, looks up and down the hallway, then closes the door and walks back over to me.
“Now, listen to me carefully, Sunshine,” she says, her smile wide. “Right now, you can’t talk. You’re going to hallucinate. You may even have a nightmare or two. You can’t walk; you’re going to be very dizzy very often; and unfortunately, there’s some vomiting and incontinence in your future. You’re having all of the symptoms of an acute cerebrovascular accident, or in laymen’s terms, a sudden stroke. However, Mrs. Lincoln, this was no accident.”
I think my eyes widen when I look at her. At least, that’s what they did in my mind. I know one thing for certain—I’m drooling, because she’s wiping my mouth.
“You’ve been diagnosed with a stroke. There’s no reason to believe otherwise, and there’s no reason to look for anything else. Now, I and my team are going to be in charge of your care, and we’ll take really good care of you. This condition could be permanent, or it could be temporary, but no matter what happens, when and if you come out of it enough to form words, you’ll never be the same again. You’ll probably be in a wheelchair and most of your thoughts will just be considered the ramblings of a delusional old woman. Knowing that, I can tell you this.” She leans closer to my face.
“I know you’re completely cognizant. I know that you can understand every word that I’m saying, so listen to me carefully. You’ve pissed off some really powerful people, and they want you to shut the fuck up. That flu shot that you got a few days ago… wasn’t a flu shot. It’s a little substance that mimics a stroke if it’s ingested or absorbed and it’s completely traceable—if you know to look for it.
“There’s only been about a dozen cases of poisoning from this substance and to my knowledge, only one of them resulted in death. That’s because it was ingested purposely and in a large quantity to bring about a suicide. That’s not what’s happening to you, however, Mrs. Lincoln.”
What the fuck is happening to me then? In my mind, I’m yelling, but there’s no sound in the room except the voice of this wretched woman apparently describing my fate.
“The people you pissed off want you to know that you pissed them off. They also know that you know who they are, so I don’t have to name them for you. You’re in this current state of purgatory because you need to think about what you’ve done. You’ve spent most of your life taking advantage of people, and once you were caught, you were determined to make your victims pay for your mistakes. The penal system may mostly be for punishment, but it’s also for rehabilitation. It’s a time to reflect on your mistakes and see if there’s some way that you can give back while repaying your debt to society. You weren’t doing either.
“Now, I don’t want you to take this personally. I’m just doing my job. My job is to care for you and keep you alive, but it takes a cold person to take an oath to care for people and watch them suffer at the same time. I am that person, Mrs. Lincoln. You’re not my first or only case like this, and you won’t be my last. This is what I do, and I and my team are well paid for it. So, here’s the deal.
“I’ve done my research on you. I know exactly why you’re here. I’ve read your story and I’ve seen your trial. I’ve got three children, Mrs. Lincoln—all boys. The youngest is 18. At any given time, my boys could have been one of your victims. I don’t feel any sympathy for you. I’m taking care of you because I’m being paid to do it. This experience is going to depend solely on you. It can last for six months, or it can last until I retire and pass the baton on to someone else. Either way, you’re going to be so screwed up when the fog somewhat clears that nobody will ever believe we had this conversation, and somebody will always have to take care of you.”
Dear God, this is not happening. This is fucking not happening. I can’t say anything; I can’t move; and this bitch is sitting here taunting me about how my life is in her hands! She can drag this out as long as she wants—as long as they want, and she’s already told me that this drug that they’re using on me can kill me. Oh, God, I know I’ve done some terrible things, but I don’t deserve this…
“Now, that look,” she says, pointing to me, “that’s a dangerous look, Mrs. Lincoln. That look, where your pupils constrict that way and your eyes sharpen, that look is telling me that you want to fucking choke me.” She smiles, because she knows that she’s right. “You’re going to want to control that urge, because I can hurt you in ways that don’t leave bruises.”
I’m doomed. I’m fucking doomed.
“That’s more like it,” she says.
The bitch can read my expressions. My eyes are the only things that move right now, and the bitch can read my fucking expressions.
“Now, in the next few days, you’re going to be moved to minimum security, where we can keep a closer eye on you, and assist in your rehabilitation and recovery. You’re trapped in your own mind, Mrs. Lincoln, so I suggest that you do what I said and take this time to reflect on your life and your mistakes, because right now, that’s all you have is your memories.”
The bitch smiles at me again and leaves me alone in my room. Whatever drug they’re giving me, I can’t even form the tears to cry. I wish I could die right now. I really wish I could die and just end all this. My best years are well behind me and everything I could possibly look forward to is gone.
I know Christian is a part of this if he didn’t engineer the whole thing by himself. But she said I pissed off powerful people, so there has to be some others in on this, too. Did Greta sell me out? Did all my clients and prior pets gang up on me? It can’t be a coincidence that Ron gets arrested and I get ambushed. Or is Greta going to write and sell the book without me? She’s got all the information—is that her plan?
Who cares? Who fucking cares now? Greta’s not going to sell that book. The people in that book are the reason that I’m in the situation I’m in now. Greta’s risking everything if she still tries to publish that book. She has probably met the same fate that I have if not worse… if they found out who she is.
A prisoner in my own mind… indeed. I only have my memories to keep me company until I go insane from the solitude, my only companions being the tormentors paid to keep me in this state. I close my eyes and try to remember a happier time. It’s the only thing that’s going to keep me sane…
Of course, I think of Christian… the day Grace brought him to me to hopefully straighten him out. He was a beautiful, beautiful boy with a gorgeous body. I enjoyed breaking him in and teaching him so much. He’s the only one who ever warmed my heart…
Behind my eyelids, I see a flash of light, and suddenly, I’m in the courtroom. It’s the day of my verdict, and that gorgeous boy is standing at the podium. He’s not the impressive, strong, virile man I last saw here in the visitation room. No, he’s that well-built, spry, angry young boy I met all those years ago. He’s glaring at me—sharp, gray eyes pierce me under a mop of unruly dark reddish-brown hair. He opens his mouth and he speaks… the same words he said to me that day that broke my heart. I never forgot those words, and he’s speaking them now… my favorite pet…
“I hope you rot! I hope that your evil festers in you and boils you from the inside out every day of your miserable life. I hope you live a long, long life of pain, suffering, and unhappiness. I hope your days from now on are filled with nothing but hopelessness, misery, and despair.”
I release a mourning, animalistic wail from my soul that I’m sure shakes the foundations of the earth, only… I’m the only one who can hear it. No sound is coming from me, and I can’t even have the cleansing cry that I need to lighten the burden on my heart.
I’m in hell. I’m really, truly in hell, and there’s no escape…
I finally see it. It’s really true what they say. Karma’s a real fucking bitch.
A/N: This was a very refreshing chapter to write. Payback all around…
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