Provoke

Chapter Six

Leeta

Little Marcus meowed wildly at my feet as I poured his biscuits into a bowl. It was official: I was in love with two boys. My tough, rough guy and my little, furry softy. I’ll let you figure out who is who.

“Here you go,” I said, placing the bowl on the floor. He began to purr, licking up mouthfuls of kibble like he’d never been fed before. I laughed. “Someone’s a greedy guts.” I stroked his fur and then stood up. I had so much work to do that day it wasn’t funny.

After the fastest shower in the world—twenty seconds—I put in a load of laundry and then settled down at my laptop. I turned it on and waited. Nothing happened. No way. I’d just charged the battery the day before. Sighing, I stood up and went in search of the charger, which I had a feeling was still in the bedroom.

Yep, there we are. I yanked it out of the wall and waltzed back into the living room. After plugging it in, I sat down. And…nothing.

What the hell is going on? Stupid fucking computer.

I slammed the laptop shut and pushed it away from me, frustrated.

Fuck!

I had an opening argument the next morning and I needed to get this finished. But now my piece-of-shit laptop had decided to be temperamental, and I had no idea what I was going to do.

I reached for my phone and called Mace. No answer. It was three o’clock; he was probably at work. I weighed up my options. The local library was closed of a Wednesday afternoon, so that was out. I could go into work and risk being stuck there half the night, but then I’d have to explain why I had called in sick today.

Somehow I didn’t think turning up for the last hour was going to look good to my bosses.

So I could sit here and panic . . . or I could go to Mace’s.

I stared at my keys, and in particular, the key to his house. Surely the fact that he had given me a key meant I could let myself in? Especially in an emergency. And it didn’t get much more urgent than this.

I grabbed my keys and my files and rushed out the door. I didn’t want to think too hard about what relationship lines I was about to cross. We had been dating for a while now, but we hadn’t really had the ‘what’s mine is yours’ talk. This felt creepy. Like I was invading his privacy. You’re about to hack into his computer, Leeta. It should feel creepy.

What I needed to do was stop overanalysing. He would want me to get this finished.

#

I pulled into his driveway and let myself in through the garage.

So this was how he lived when I wasn’t around. I glanced around the living room, a smirk on my face. What a mess. Fast food wrappers were tossed everywhere, piles of clothes sat all over the furniture. I giggled. At least I know he makes an effort when he’s aware I’m coming over.

I can’t handle this. The neat freak inside of me was going mental. I grabbed a basket from the laundry and filled it with dirty towels and clothes. Carrying it to the washing machine, I dumped it all in, along with some powder, and pressed on.

Next, I tackled the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, and cleaning out his disgusting fridge. How can anyone live like this?

Finally, I was done. Well, as done as I was going to be. I wasn’t here to be his freaking maid. I had work to do. Work that if I didn’t finish could possibly end up getting me fired. I walked over to his laptop and opened it up.

Fuck. Password.

I racked my brain for possibilities. I’d ruled out the obvious choices: Leeta, his birthday, and my birthday.

“Okay, think. What would you have as your password, Mace?” I muttered, rubbing my head. I was just about to call Tim and beg for help when something hit me. His sister: Anna. I hit the keys and pressed enter, holding my breath as it processed my entry.

“Yeah!” I fist-pumped the air as Windows began to load.

Navigating my way to Word, I rewrote my entire argument from start to finish. It took me more than an hour, but at least it was done. I loaded the file onto the USB I’d brought with me.

Then I deleted the file. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but I didn’t want him to know I’d been there using his computer. There was something about it that felt really weird. He wasn’t stupid—he would know I’d been over. I’ll just say I came over for a shirt I’d left here.

With my plan decided, I had just pushed back my chair when a picture of a pretty young girl filled the screen. I sat there staring at her. She was smiling, her thighs pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her knees. Her long dark hair flowed in thick curls around her face.

Was this Anna? Holy shit—she was stunning.

My heart began to pound. What I was about to do was such an invasion of his privacy that I was ashamed of myself. And the fact that I could see that made it even worse. But I needed to see more of her. Seeing her made me feel closer to Mace. He never spoke about her, but I could tell her death still affected him deeply. I navigated my way to his image folder, half expecting to unravel a huge collection of German-midget fisting porn, or some fetish just as disturbing.

Whew. I was relieved when photo after photo of his family filled the screen. Anna appeared in nearly every one. I studied a group shot of him, his dad, and his brother. God, he looks like Cash. They could’ve been twins. The only noticeable differences were the placement and design of their tattoos, and that Cash had a narrower, longer face.

Another one of Anna popped up, this one with Mace. They were both laughing. I’d seen Mace happy, but never like this. Something inside him had died along with his sister. A feeling of sorrow washed through me as I realized I would never be able to make him as happy as she had.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. Seeing this side of him, a side he was yet to share with me, made me incredibly sad. There were so many things I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t. Every time I’d attempted to talk about his family he had become very defensive and shut down.

I began closing Windows down, trying to navigate my way back to the display page. In reality, I had no idea what I was doing. That was why I liked Macs: they were simple and straightforward. I was about to close another window that had popped up when something caught my eye.

It was a folder I’d somehow managed to open, which contained two videos. Even from the little I could see in the preview, I could tell they were porn. Why did that bother me? He was a guy. Of course he would have porn on his computer. Hell, I occasionally looked at porn. I tried to shrug off the feeling as I clicked on the icon.

As the video started, I turned up the sound. The woman was lying fully clothed on a bed, wearing a short blue dress and heels. Right away, I could tell something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as the camera zoomed in on the girl.

I could hear voices in the background. Or, a voice at least. I strained to listen.

“Take her clothes off.”

A chill ran down my spine as a hooded figure moved into the frame, creeping over to the woman. He unzipped the dress and guided her arms out before tugging it from her body. She hadn’t moved. I bit my lip and swallowed hard. She was either unconscious . . . or dead. Either way, this was clearly not consensual.

What the hell is he doing with this?

By that point, I was freaking the fuck out: my boyfriend was into snuff films. I was watching a snuff film. What the fuck was I doing? I wanted to turn it off and pretend I’d never seen it, but I couldn’t. Something compelled me to sit there and keep staring at that screen.

“Now, tie her arms to the bedhead with that rope.” The voice almost had an echo to it, like the third person wasn’t even in the room. But that might’ve just been the poor-quality speakers. “Yeah. That’s good.”

Okay, this was getting really creepy. The dude’s voice was low and raspy, and it was obvious he was jacking himself off.

The figure on screen began touching the girl, who was now completely naked. I watched as he unzipped his pants. He removed his penis and began to stroke it.

“Fuck her. Give it to her deep. I want to see you fuck the bitch until she can’t walk. Fuckin’ slut.”

I shivered as the hooded man stripped off and straddled her.

I can’t watch this.

I felt sick. Whatever was going on here, I was certain it was a crime. That poor girl was being raped. I blinked back tears as the camera zoomed in on her emotionless face. That poor girl. The film had been edited in such a way that I never saw the guy’s face.

I had to do something. I have to give this to the police. A surge of anger rushed through me. Why the fuck did Mace have this shit? Closing the video, I clicked on the second one, dreading what I was about to see.

Same room. Another girl, only this one was blond. She looked younger—maybe nineteen or twenty—but just like the other girl, she lay motionless on the bed. She was already naked, with both her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts. The same distant voice relayed orders, and what looked like the same hooded figure assaulted the poor girl.

I couldn’t believe it. What should I do? I was panicking. In all my years of law, nothing had prepared me for this. I sat there, my eyes glued to the screen as he began to fuck her, the camera angle again cutting out the guy’s face. I could see her face perfectly. She was beautiful: porcelain-white skin and long, dark lashes.

“Turn her over. She needs to take it up the ass.”

The guy immediately stopped and pulled out of her, then unfastened the restraints. He flipped her over onto her stomach, her limbs hanging like dead weights.

“Push her knees up under her. Give it to her like the dog she is.”

I choked back tears as I watched him struggle to position her. So many things were racing through my mind . . . but most of all, why was he into this? I’d never thought the day would come when I wished my boyfriend was into midget-fisting porn.

Then I saw it.

Something that would change my life forever.

It was only for a split second when he turned to face the camera, but it was unmistakable: a small, millimetre-in-length scar above the guy’s nipple, near his collarbone; and the snake tattoo that curled around his left bicep. I replayed that moment over and over and over again.

This guy is Mace.

My boyfriend was a rapist.