Page 25 of Framed Obsession

Zane

...

Me

What the fuck are you doing in my house. You know I don't like surprises, Zane.

Zane

Calm down, big boy, you might just enjoy this one.

Oh, don’t be alarmed by the screaming.

This dude is going to be the death of me. He knows I like to get stright to the point, but he just loves to fuck with me. If I find him in my house fucking Zoe, and that’s what he is referring to as the screaming… I swear to fucking God, I’ll break him in half. He would be the type to do some shit like that.

I rev up my bike before taking off, a loud purr of approval coming from the exhaust. It takes me less than thirty minutes to zip my way through the city. This sudden change of plans really puts a kink in my schedule. I don’t have time for this, but Zane never bugs me unless it’s important.

I reach the end of my driveway, pulling in until I reach the three-car garage. One of the doors automatically opens, and I slowly inch inside. I turn my key, shutting the bike off and removing my blackout helmet.

My garage holds my two bikes and my Challenger. Is it more space than ‌I need? Absolutely, but I use my garage for other extracurricular activities as well. We don’t need to get into detail.

I open the glass door to the shelf I had hung snugly on my wall, and place my helmet inside. Numerous custom-designed helmets and headgear line the clear shelf, displaying them in all their glory. Collecting is an understatement.

Loud thumps and mumbling ‌screams assault my ears. I burst through the door that leads into my home, not knowing what's on the other side. My temper escapes me, knowing I will leave a trail of wrath in my way.

“Zane, you better not be fuck—” I yell into the air, but I’m quickly stopped once I catch sight of what’s going on in my living room. I see Zane’s fists making contact with some guy's face, leaving splatters of blood all over my floor. The man is turned away from me, tied to one of my dining chairs.

His hands are bound tightly, leaving no room for him to wiggle out. Each ‌of his ankles is zip-tied to the legs of the chair. When he tied him up, it was with intent.

Is this the guy who…

The man turns and spits red slobber onto my hardwood. I watch the action, noticing a tooth mixed in the liquid. I come closer, my heart racing. Not knowing if it’s from the excitement of who it may be.

Zane hadn't noticed me walking in, being fixated on beating the living shit out of the man in front of him. He glances upward, giving me a cheeky smile, and takes a step back, no longer torturing the man.

“Ah, the man of the hour. Perfect timing. I was just getting him warmed up for you,” he says in accomplishment. He reaches for a rag that he preemptively grabbed and cleans his bloodied fist with it. Motherfucker took one of my nice ones.

After giving him an eye roll, I circle around the chair in curiosity. My shoulders relax, and my brow raises in confoundment at the familiar face sitting in front of me. I turn to Zane, wondering what the fuck.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” I ask.

“I found you a snitch,” he replies smugly.

The feeling I have in my chest is new. It's somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. Disappointment that it’s not the pig who fucking touched my girl, and dumbfounded that we have the fucker who sent me away for two years. As much as I want to shake and get angry at Zane for making me believe it was the prior, it’s my fault for setting that expectation.

The man in the chair is Flynn Foster. A low-life piece of shit who always hangs out at the underground racing events. I knew something about him was off. Fucker was always lurking in the background, watching.

His dark brown hair is messy, pulled in every direction. His eye is already swollen shut, and a ring of purple colors the skin around the raised area. I look at him in disgust, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with him. I had plans mapped out for a certain someone else; I hadn't thought about what I was going to do to the snitch. I lean against my kitchen island that he’s facing, propping an elbow to rest on the cold granite.

“So tell me, Flynn, was it worth it?” I ask, giving no context, but he knows damn well what I'm referring to. His head is slung forward, leaning side to side like it's unscrewed from his body. Droplets of blood land on my shoes as he laughs at me.

“Fuck you.” His words leave with a slushy sound.

“No, thank you. I’ll happily pass,” I respond, turning, meeting his face with my fist. His head whips to the right, and I cringe at the sound. I have no problem doing this the hard way. I want him to fucking pay for taking two years away from me. Two years I fucking can’t get back. Should I just keep him locked in my basement for the same amount of time? Returning the favor, of course.

“Tell me what you got out of this, Flynn?” I pace the floor in front of him, rubbing the tension from my knuckles.

“I’m not telling you shit,” he scoffs.