Page 125 of Hard to Judge

A part of me wants to pull the plug. To fall to his feet and let him have his way with me. To call Hailey to heel and have her soothe our misery in the softness of her skin.

“Do you consent to these parameters?” I whisper.

It’s as if he’s gone somewhere else already. His eyes stare far off at nothing and everything terrorizing his mind.

When we were younger, I was naive enough to think killing his uncle would make things better and that what it didn’t cure, my presence would handle the rest.

Dumb kid.

“Do you consent?” I bark.

His arms fly up as though he’s going to cover his ears. He stops them only a breath away and drops them to his sides. It’s as though they weigh a thousand pounds and pull his shoulders into a slump.

“I consent.” His voice is flimsy even for him.

“I can’t hear you.” I’m surprised the snarl works itself out of my constricted passageway.

“I consent!” Arlo bellows.

Hailey’s chest rises abruptly at his scream, but she releases it slowly, calmly.

It will be the last calm thing until we’re through this.

I reach around Arlo, grip both sides of his shirt, and rip them apart. Buttons ping off the concrete, skitter, and roll about the room. The fabric stretches across his shoulders. I yank it down his arms and toss it aside.

On any other night, I’d tell him to get on his knees. I’d make sure the surface under them was soft.

This is not any other night.

My knees shoot out, catching the backs of his. His knees give out. For a moment, he scrambles to right himself. I grab his nape and drive him to the floor. The thinly covered bones smack against the unforgiving floor.

Arlo grunts, but holds his chin high through the discomfort. The edges of his hairline are dark with sweat. His head turns to look at me.

“Eyes ahead.” I snap my fingers next to his face. He slowly turns away, facing front.

“You are not allowed to look at me. That’s a privilege. You have to earn it.” I pace behind him. “Until I decide you have, you’ll only see what I let you see.”

Hailey is purposely just out of his line of sight.

“You will taste what I want you to taste. Hear what I want you to hear. You will feel what I want you to feel. Nothing else. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” He nods.

Mid stride, I pause, and I shove hard between his shoulder blades. Momentum carries him to the ground. He catches himself on his hands in a low push-up position as I expected he would.

“Face down. Arms out in front of you.” I walk up his sides and crouch over his back.

His scarred back expands on a deep inhale. The tortured skin pulls taut. My lips tingle with the need to soothe each poorly healed wound. But I’m after the ones the eyes can’t see.

One at a time and slower than I would ever usually accept, Arlo extends his arms. Every etched muscle and carved vein pulses with tension.

“Good.” I sit on his back, keeping most of my weight on my shins that are tucked close to his sides. “Don’t move.”

Arlo hisses, but otherwise says nothing. The rattle of his body under mine tells me enough.

Leaning forward, I grab one manacle and drag it across the floor. The metal scrapes across the concrete, composing an unnerving symphony. Muscles in Arlo’s shoulders and back bulge. His long fingers shake.

I grip his wrist, wrap the manacle around it, and seal the clasp tight, turning the screw until there is no chance of escape.

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