Read Red & Wolfe Part 4: An Erotic Fairy Tale for Free Online

small. But Paige is probably twice Cookie’s size. Fucker could really hurt her. I lick my dry lips. If he hurts her, I will kill him.
I try the number Cookie called me from twice more as I get on 95 and start to fly. Each time, my chest gets a little tighter, my foot a little heavier.
My head throbs. My throat is so dry, but I forgot to bring a drink. I swallow, over and over, which only makes it ache.
I’m going more than a hundred miles per hour when I exit the freeway, hit the brakes so hard the car’s rear fishtails, and shoot off down a winding residential road. It’s good I’ve got a photographic memory and a good GPS system on the computer in my study, because I can tell when the road starts to curve a certain way that I’m close. A few more miles and there it is, an overstated iron sign that says: Paige Place.
I hang a sharp right, stomp the brakes so hard the tires squeal, and blink at the keypad to my left. Fuck! I don’t know the code. I glance out in front of me, and for once I catch a break. The arm is already up. I punch the pedal and take the long driveway going almost sixty.
When the driveway curves into a huge circle, I slow at the valet booth. Empty. Because it’s Sunday. Sometimes help gets Sundays off. I drive up to the house, still glancing around for a valet. When I see none, I drive over to the long, one-story stone structure on the left side of the house.
I roll right over Paige’s pristine grass, yank the keys out of the ignition, and practically jump out of the Lambo. I ignore my sore, tired body as I try one door on the east side of the massive garage, followed by another.
Unlocked. Good.
Inside, the garage is divided into segments: cavernous rooms packed with import and antique cars. I walk through the first two rooms, feeling hot and slightly dizzy. I wonder what the hell I’m looking for and stop for a second, trying to listen for voices.
I don’t hear any, but in the next room down, I swear I hear footsteps.
I pick up the pace a little, weaving between cars, looking up at the rafters—for what, I don’t know. Lately Cookie likes to play with rope. I’m moving so fast now, I almost run right into a door that’s shut between this room and the next. So far, they’ve all been open. I grab the handle and find it greasy. Wipe it on my slacks, keep going. I’m sprinting now. I open and close my hand as I curve around two hummers.
Fifth garage now, then sixth. I’m gasping. Could be this cold-flu bullshit. My heart’s pounding so hard I feel it in my head.
I think I hear tires peel. Goosebumps crawl over my skin.
I dash through this room and into the next—the last one, surely.
Cookie!
My mouth itches to call her name but the unnerving silence in the garage has imposed itself on me. I run past two sports cars and what looks like a dune buggy, and before I reach the closed door out in front of me, I slow so much I’m almost stopped.
My throat feels swollen. I can’t swallow at all. I listen to the air and something hums around me. Intuition. Prescience.
I push the doorway open slowly, and before I’m even in, the dim light that spills from the room shines on me, illuminating, among other things, my hands. It’s not gasoline or oil on my left hand. It’s blood.
Two steps in and I start to turn a circle. I see him first. How could I not? The ropes that hold Paige are strung from rafters to floor, an elaborate spider’s web. And in the center, Paige, nude, dead.
I know he’s dead because of how his body hangs. Ropes pinch his wrists, his ankles, and his ass cheeks. His cock is cased in a steel sleeve. His head lolls sideways, bloated red. I clutch my chest, my neck, but it’s too late. I’m ralphing on the oil-stained floor. The splatter seems to echo on and on. I wipe my mouth on my fever-hot arm and search the room’s corners for Cookie.
“Baby—it’s okay. I’ll help.”
And it’s horrible, or maybe wonderful, because I know I will. I’ll help Cookie any way I can.