Dulce

“You think it’s something else?”

“I think I’ve been treating this whole thing as two separate investigations, but what if they aren’t? What if the evidence was designed to look that way and, in reality, everything is connected?”

His breathing is the only sound I hear. I picture the look of concentration on his face as he runs things over in his head.

“That would make sense. It’s like that myth about the hydra.”

“Cut off the head and two more will grow back,” I finish, seeing where he’s going with this. “That’s not a bad analogy, actually. Some days, it feels like this whole thing is never going to end. Do you—no, it doesn’t matter.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Don’t even worry about it.”

“Dulce, don’t do that. Don’t act like I can’t—”

I cut him off. “You can handle anything. I don’t doubt that for a second, not after what you’ve endured. But that doesn’t mean I want to inflict any more pain on you if I can help it. You’ve been through enough.”

“I want this finished, Dulce. We can’t move on until we deal with the bullshit surrounding us. Tell me how I can help.”

“If you were here, I’d give you one of my patented thank-you blow jobs. Hunter will have to give you one in my place.”

He laughs but waits for me to spill.

“Your father wants to see you, right? Can you handle that? Seeing him, that is?”

He swallows, but he answers, and his voice is smooth and calm. “He has no power over me anymore. You want me to ask him something?”

“No, I want you to take me with you.”

* * *

After talking with Griff for a little longer, I say my goodbyes and make my way down to the kitchen. I make a sandwich while thinking about what I’ve learned so far, which isn’t much.

The missing girl I saw being carried away has been identified as Dina Haskell. Apparently, she left with her boyfriend. They are on a road trip of some kind. She effectively quit school, breaking her mother’s heart in the process. As far as stories go, I’ve heard worse, but this still sounds like complete bullshit to me.

Dmitri says his hands are tied. The parents confirmed they’ve heard from Dina, and although they are pissed, there is nothing they can do except disown her, which I’m pretty sure they were more than happy to do.

I make my sandwich on autopilot, my focus on trying to separate all the threads that are tangled together. On one hand, we have the missing girls. Or unaccounted-for girls, I should say, as some of them don’t seem to be missing at all.

I think of those photos and where I got them from, remembering how they bugged me right from the start. I’m going to have to treat all of those girls as if they are gone because I’m not taking a social media profile or someone else’s word for their safety. Not unless I see irrefutable proof.

Next, we have the missing records. I know some of those girls went here because they were in the uniform. But no school records? That screams cover-up. The question is, by who? When Dmitri’s hands are all over me or when he’s commanding one of the others to bring my body to release, it’s easy to separate him from the shitstorm brewing around here. But when I’m out of his orbit, and my head is clearer, I remember that he is the most powerful player in this place. Is he oblivious to everything happening, or is he the reason the whole thing keeps getting swept under the rug?

I already know he’s not going to win any teacher-of-the-year awards. His desk, ironically enough, has been the focal point twice now when he has lost control.

After his mask cracks and he lets his real emotions bleed over, he’s quick to patch it back up, slip it back on, and return to his Mr. Aslanov, the headmaster persona, as opposed to Dmitri the master of my orgasms.

Master of orgasms? I snort at that. I need to make sure I never reveal that little nickname to the insufferable man, or his head will get so big it won’t fit through the doorway anymore.

Okay, Dmitri is in another pile. Maybe with the rest of the staff? I don’t know all of them here. I don’t have that many teachers to begin with, but the few I have encountered seem level-headed and normal enough, barring two. Luke and Miss Smith.

Miss Smith is likely nothing more than a mean girl that grew up to be a mean woman. As pretty as she is, she uses her pussy powers to trap young boys in her vag of doom—

I pause with the sandwich halfway to my mouth, wondering where I was going with that. I take a bite and frown.

“What the hell?” I open the pieces of bread and find peanut butter and pickles. With a sigh, I sandwich the slices back together and take another bite. Odd but not horrible. I’ve had worse things in my mouth.

I bet Miss Smith has too. I bet she tells all the boys their cum tastes yummy, the lying ho. Cum tastes as yummy as salt water with a slightly snottier consistency. Nobody in the history of cum swallowing ever woke up at night and thought, hmm…I really could drink a pint of cum right about now.

Craving dick I get, but not cum. Not unless he starts spurting out strawberry daiquiri-flavor dick juice. I might moan and ahh like it’s the nectar of the gods, but that’s just bullshit.

Why am I fixated on this again? I muse, taking another bite of my sandwich.

I pause mid-chew. Wait. Am I jealous? I picture Miss Smith with the twins tag-teaming her and gag.

Oh my God, I’m jealous. What’s happening to me? I need to make it stop before—

“Deep in thought, I see.”

I jump out of my skin and almost hurl my sandwich at the intruder.

Some assassin I am. I must be losing my touch. In my defense, it’s been a while since I got to kill anything, and it’s making me feel…well, stabby.

“I thought you had class,” I tell Abe as he leans against the door frame, watching me.

His eyes move over my ass, which is barely covered in black boy shorts, and up to my tits, which he seems to be able to see with his x-ray vision abilities through my red and white tank top.

“I wasn’t feeling well. What’s your excuse?”

I look him over. “You don’t look sick to me.”

“Hmm…how about that? A miraculous recovery,” he muses as he stalks toward me.

“Imagine that.” I finish my sandwich and start cleaning up my mess when his hand on my wrist stops me.

I look up at him to find him watching me with more than a little interest.

“What?”

“You didn’t tell me why you were here.”

“No, you’re right, I didn’t,” I agree, twisting my wrist free before shoving everything in the dishwasher.

“I have friends coming over.”

“You have friends?”

“Funny. They don’t know you live here, and I’d rather keep it that way for now.”