Room 553: A Psychological Thriller by Britney King

Author:Britney King [King, Britney]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781797040912
Publisher: Hot Banana Press
Published: 2019-06-19T18:30:00+00:00

We met tonight at a two-story condo the Millers rented. Or at least that’s the name they go by. Who knows who they really are? And, really, who cares?

Sarah Miller is the dominant in their relationship. She gets off on seeing her husband degraded by other women. I happen to be one of them. It’s simple enough. It helps that his face annoys me. Everything about him annoys me. I tell him what I really think, and it’s easy, because it’s the truth. He’s a weak man and not because of what gets him off.

Usually, I throw a few punches, pull some hair, rough him up a bit, and then they leave. It’s strange to think that the two of them couldn’t live out such a simple fantasy at home. But then, who am I to judge?

I was tired after my performance. James found me in the kitchen, leaning over the sink, my knuckles raw and bloody.

“There you are,” he said, taking my fist in his hand. He observed it carefully. “Good God, Laurel. No wonder they were so quick to bail.”

I shrugged.

“You ready?”

My face twists to give the impression that what I’m about to say is harder than it is. “I’m not feeling well,” I replied. “I was thinking maybe we could head out early too.”

He sighed. “We just got here.”

“I know. But I feel a migraine coming on…I think I got overheated.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I think—” he begins, then pauses to open the cabinets, one by one, until he finds what he was looking for. He filled a glass with tap water. “Here,” he huffed, holding it out to me. “This will help.”

I stared at the glass before meeting his eye. “James—”

His expression was so intense I had to look away. “Laurel…look…I don’t know how to say this…”

So don’t. Don’t say it. I willed him to keep his mouth shut.

“But we need this.”

“I know.”

My answer forced him to relax. “I’m going to hang out with the Bausches. You drink up,” he said, nodding toward my hand, “and get some ice on those, and then we’ll talk.”

I flipped the faucet lever and ran my knuckles under the sink. Anything to avoid looking at him.

“Jane is a fan of yours, you know. You should come.”

My gaze stays fixed on my left hand. “I’m going to ice this. And catch my breath. Maybe next time.”

He studied me for a moment. I could feel the weight of his eyes on me before giving my shoulder a slight squeeze. “Suit yourself.”

I looked up at him. A half-hearted smile lit up his face. “I’m sure you’ll be feeling better when I get back.”

He was wrong. My head throbbed. The music was loud, too loud, classical with a little jazz thrown in. The point is to make it look as though we are actually having a dinner party. While ball gags are often employed, the odd signal of pain, or pleasure, depending, does occasionally break through.

When my husband is finished with his part, he found me.

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