“This is called the consequences of your actions, sweetie,” I say as I unravel the fuse to the fireworks strapped between Andrew’s thighs.

His cries reach a fever pitch only to die in the tape strapped across his mouth.

You wouldn’t look at me and think it, but it’s true . . .

I love the sound of his distress.

Andrew sobs and thrashes in his chair. I give him a bright grin and continue backing away through the meadow and toward the tree line, close enough that I can see the fear in his eyes, just far enough that I’ll be protected by thick trunks when I leave him alone in the clearing. His muffled pleas are desperate. His rapid breaths billow from his nose in plumes of fog that reach toward the starlit sky.

“Do you know why you’re there with fireworks strapped to your dick and I’m over here with a fuse?” I shout.

He shakes his head, then nods as though he can’t decide which answer will stop this torture. The truth is, it doesn’t matter what answer he lands on.

“If I ripped that tape off your mouth, you’d probably tell me you’re oh-so-very-sorry about fucking Savannah in our bed while I was away, wouldn’t you?”

He nods wildly, his predictable bullshit caught in the glue. I’m sorry, so fucking sorry, I’ll never do it again, I love you I swear . . . blah, blah, blah.

“I’m afraid that’s not really why we’re here.”