His Dirty Massage Secret - Chapter 9: Chapter 9
You are reading His Dirty Massage Secret, Chapter 9: Chapter 9. Read more chapters of His Dirty Massage Secret.
The rough wooden post dug into my back as I struggled against the ropes binding me. No matter how I twisted, the knots held tight.
For two endless days, Vincent Lowell had been my personal tormentor. His cousin had disappeared, leaving me alone with this monster. I'd tried escaping during his brief absences, but the ropes might as well have been steel cables.
Hope was bleeding out of me. If the cops didn't show soon, Vincent would finish what he'd started.
"Vincent? You in there?"
An old man's voice cut through the silence, followed by hesitant knocking. My pulse skyrocketed.
"Grandpa Jenkins!" I screamed, my voice hoarse from thirst. "He's going to kill me! Please—he's not here—help me!"
The door creaked open. Old Man Jenkins stood frozen, his rheumy eyes widening at the sight of me trussed up like livestock. His basket of leeks hit the floor as he rushed forward, gnarled fingers working frantically at the knots.
The second the ropes fell away, I was sprinting toward the eastern cornfield. Running blind through unfamiliar backroads would be suicide—Vincent knew this area too well. The tall stalks swallowed me whole as I burrowed deep into the field.
Fumbling with the woman's phone, I redialed 911 with shaking hands. My heart pounded so hard I could taste copper in my mouth.
Then—sirens. Distant but unmistakable. I burst from the corn like a hunted animal, running toward that glorious sound.
The engine roar came out of nowhere.
Vincent's pickup truck fishtailed onto the road, his contorted face visible through the windshield as he aimed the grill straight at me. I dove sideways, feeling the whoosh of air as the truck missed me by inches.
He bailed out before the truck fully stopped, charging into the corn after me. I used the stalks like a maze, doubling back until I reached his idling vehicle. The door flew open—keys still dangling in the ignition.
The engine roared to life just as Vincent's hand clamped onto the doorframe. "You ruined everything!" he howled, spit flying from his lips.
I stomped the gas. The truck lurched forward.
His screams turned shrill as his legs scraped across the gravel road. A sickening crunch—we'd hit a tree. The impact threw me against the steering wheel.
Vincent lay crumpled in the road, his legs twisted at impossible angles. White bone glistened through ragged flesh. He tried pushing himself up, but his body wasn't listening.
"You psychotic bitch!" he rasped.
A laugh tore from my throat—hollow and broken. "This wasn't me, Vincent. This was all you."
Tires screeched as cop cars surrounded us. An officer gently pried my death grip from the steering wheel. "It's over," he murmured, watching paramedics load Vincent onto a stretcher.
I grabbed his sleeve, my voice cracking. "My daughter—did you find her? Is she—"
He squeezed my shoulder. "Stable at County General. She's gonna be okay."
For the first time in days, I remembered how to breathe.
For two endless days, Vincent Lowell had been my personal tormentor. His cousin had disappeared, leaving me alone with this monster. I'd tried escaping during his brief absences, but the ropes might as well have been steel cables.
Hope was bleeding out of me. If the cops didn't show soon, Vincent would finish what he'd started.
"Vincent? You in there?"
An old man's voice cut through the silence, followed by hesitant knocking. My pulse skyrocketed.
"Grandpa Jenkins!" I screamed, my voice hoarse from thirst. "He's going to kill me! Please—he's not here—help me!"
The door creaked open. Old Man Jenkins stood frozen, his rheumy eyes widening at the sight of me trussed up like livestock. His basket of leeks hit the floor as he rushed forward, gnarled fingers working frantically at the knots.
The second the ropes fell away, I was sprinting toward the eastern cornfield. Running blind through unfamiliar backroads would be suicide—Vincent knew this area too well. The tall stalks swallowed me whole as I burrowed deep into the field.
Fumbling with the woman's phone, I redialed 911 with shaking hands. My heart pounded so hard I could taste copper in my mouth.
Then—sirens. Distant but unmistakable. I burst from the corn like a hunted animal, running toward that glorious sound.
The engine roar came out of nowhere.
Vincent's pickup truck fishtailed onto the road, his contorted face visible through the windshield as he aimed the grill straight at me. I dove sideways, feeling the whoosh of air as the truck missed me by inches.
He bailed out before the truck fully stopped, charging into the corn after me. I used the stalks like a maze, doubling back until I reached his idling vehicle. The door flew open—keys still dangling in the ignition.
The engine roared to life just as Vincent's hand clamped onto the doorframe. "You ruined everything!" he howled, spit flying from his lips.
I stomped the gas. The truck lurched forward.
His screams turned shrill as his legs scraped across the gravel road. A sickening crunch—we'd hit a tree. The impact threw me against the steering wheel.
Vincent lay crumpled in the road, his legs twisted at impossible angles. White bone glistened through ragged flesh. He tried pushing himself up, but his body wasn't listening.
"You psychotic bitch!" he rasped.
A laugh tore from my throat—hollow and broken. "This wasn't me, Vincent. This was all you."
Tires screeched as cop cars surrounded us. An officer gently pried my death grip from the steering wheel. "It's over," he murmured, watching paramedics load Vincent onto a stretcher.
I grabbed his sleeve, my voice cracking. "My daughter—did you find her? Is she—"
He squeezed my shoulder. "Stable at County General. She's gonna be okay."
For the first time in days, I remembered how to breathe.
End of His Dirty Massage Secret Chapter 9. Continue reading Chapter 10 or return to His Dirty Massage Secret book page.