Free Wicked Misery (Miss Misery) by Tracey Martin

sip.
    Greg wet his lips, his eyes focused on my drink. So that was his M.O., huh? I wondered which particular drug he’d added to my cocktail.
    All at once images flashed through my mind. Hazy, blurred images, but it was a read nonetheless. Ropes. A bed. A camera. If my theory about why I could read some people was correct, then Greg was making plans for me.
    Yuck. I’d had enough of this. We weren’t going to get any more alone, so it was now or never. I gathered my magic in my stomach and exhaled it in his face.
    Greg’s will crumpled to the floor. Much better. Burnt oil vanished, replaced by the taste of my mother’s chocolate buttercream icing. Excellent.
    Greg dropped to his knees. Not excellent.
    I pulled on the misty magic. “Get up, lover boy. Let’s have some fun.”
    “Yeah, fun.” Even trapped by my magic he gave me the creeps.
    Trying not to touch him, I sashayed down the hallway. Greg’s bedroom was disturbingly normal—a computer on the desk, blue blinds in the window, the usual piles of dirty clothes on the floor. “Where’s the camera?”
    “Camera?”
    Oh for the love of dragons. I hated how dumb they got under my influence. “Yeah, the camera you were going to use to record me.”
    Greg pressed himself against me, fumbling for the closet door, and his erection poked me in the abs. Ew. I pushed a finger into his chest, and he took a step back.
    “No touching me.”
    His agony grew all the more profound, and he whined.
    I pulled open the folding doors on his closet. He had a camera screwed to a tripod, and it was already aimed at the bed. Sighing, I inspected the attachment points. “Screwdriver?”
    “But I want to photograph you.” He reached for me, and I smacked his hand.
    “You’re a nasty boy, Greg. You don’t deserve a camera. Give me a screwdriver.”
    A few minutes later, I had the camera off the tripod. Its memory could be destroyed, and the camera donated to some school or organization that would appreciate it. No doubt Greg would buy another one and use it for his vile purposes, but maybe I could spare a few women in the meantime.
    Greg followed me back into the living room where I dropped the camera by my purse and pulled out my blood-collection equipment.
    “Greg, what’s your full name?”
    “Gregory Penfield. Are you going to finish your drink? I want you so bad.”
    I held out the lancet. “All in good time. Doesn’t waiting make the anticipation sweeter?” It sure did for me. I was getting a huge craving for my mother’s chocolate-raspberry cake with buttercream frosting. I’d need to get dessert when this was all over.
    I took his hand, and he moaned. “Gregory Penfield, do you give me your blood freely? Say it.”
    “Rub me more.”
    “Say it first. I, Gregory Penfield, give my blood freely.”
    “I, Gregory Penfield, give my blood freely.” He cried out when I pricked him. Wuss.
    I got my drops and dug my nails into his hand when I finished. It was supposed to hurt him. Instead he fell to his knees again, moaning in pleasure.
    Double yuck. It was time to ruin his memory and get out of here. Greg grabbed my hand, though, as I reached for my bag.
    “Don’t leave yet, baby.” Before I could stop him, he stuck my hand in his mouth and started sucking on my fingers.
    “Bastard! Ew!” I yanked my hand away. His saliva glistened on my skin. Holding my hand away from my body like it was diseased, I picked up the drugged drink and gave it to him. “Finish this, then take your clothes off and lie down on your bed. I’ll be right there.”
    I turned on the bathroom light switch with my elbow and doused my hands under the water. I’d cut the connection with him as soon as he drugged himself. Whatever he put in the glass was likely to mess up his memory far worse than anything I could do.
    The soapy water turned my bandage to mush. I dried my hands off on my shirt and gave the bandage a good squishing into my skin, but the adhesive wasn’t happy. I took a