by Lynn Lorenz
* * * *
Mitchell exited the bar and stood on the sidewalk. He’d been down both sides of Montrose and, in a few blocks, he would hit Westheimer. He’d have to go back to the parking lot of the club where he’d left his car, if he wanted to drive. And he wanted to drive. He felt as if he’d been walking all night and his feet were killing him, still sore from the day’s hike.
It was too early to give up. The night was still young and most of the bars didn’t get going until after ten or eleven p.m.
He turned around and headed back to his car.
* * * *
Sammi leaned against the back door of the cafe as Otis counted out his night’s pay. The owner had given Otis the cash so he could pay his own help, since it was all under the table anyway. Which was good, because Sammi had no ID.
After stuffing the bills into the pocket of his jeans, Sammi waited as the old cook locked up. Then they walked down the alley to the street.
As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Sammi pulled his bandana lower on his forehead, put his head down and zipped up his hoodie. Someone might still recognize him on the strip.
* * * *
Moretti exited the bar, shook himself like a dog throws off water, and stepped to the curb where the Mercedes was parked. The driver, Bert, sat behind the wheel waiting for him.
* * * *
Two men came out of an alley. For a moment, Mitchell halted, staring at the man, his tight ass clad in jeans and wearing a black hoodie, walked away from him.
His heart skipped a beat. He’d know him anywhere.
“Sammi!” he yelled.
Moretti’s head jerked up.
He searched for the voice and found the man across the street. He narrowed his eyes to focus, then widened them.
Shit. Mitchell Collins. At fucking last! He growled, his fists tightening.
Collins raised his arm and waved at someone down the block.
Moretti’s gaze tracked down the sidewalk. An old man stood next to a young dude with a bandana tied on his head. Son of a bitch, it was the fag.
He stepped away from the car, a smirk on his face. “Stay here, but be ready when I signal you.” Bert nodded.
Moretti’s good luck had just shown up.
Sammi froze. He should’ve run but he couldn’t make his feet move. Fists tight, he turned and his heart leaped into his throat cutting off his air. He let his guard down on his mind.
“Mitchell.”
“Sammi.”
Taking a few tentative steps, Mitchell moved toward Sammi. Letting Mitchell find him might be a mistake, but Sammi didn’t care. It was his Mitchell. His soul calling to him. Their gazes locked. Mitchell broke into a run.
Five feet away from Sammi, he came to a dead stop.
“Sammi. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why did you leave?” Mitchell’s words poured out as he gasped for breath.
“I had to go. I’d caused you so much trouble,” Sammi’s words stumbled out.
The old man stared from one to the other, frowned, but took a step back.
“Fuck it. I don’t care about that.” Mitchell’s eyes were fierce, as if he’d face any fire. “I thought you knew that.” Sammi loved him so much for that, but he needed to understand.
“I did, that’s why I had to go.” Sammi swallowed hard. He’d tried to stay away, tried to keep Mitchell safe, but maybe fate was stepping in.
“Oh God, Sammi.” Mitchell closed the gap between them and, this time, Sammi met him halfway. They embraced with such force, Sammi’s breath exploded out of him.
Sammi opened to Mitchell. “I missed you so much.”
“I want you. Why did you leave?”
“To keep you safe.”
Mitchell’s warmth and love flooded in and encompassed him. Sammi melted against him. Resting his head on Mitchell’s shoulder, Sammi winked at Otis.
“Go on, Otis. I’ll catch up to you later.”
“You sure, boy?” Otis eyed Mitchell, frowning.
“I’m sure, sir. He’s my friend.” Sammi smiled.
Otis gave him a nod and took off.
“Sammi.” Mitchell stepped back into the shadowed alley, bringing Sammi with him. Sammi clung to Mitchell, unwilling to let go. He felt so safe in Mitchell’s arms. Their separation had been a hell he’d had to endure and he never wanted to be apart again.
Maybe he’d made a mistake leaving Mitchell. Inside him, Sammi’s heart leaped and danced. How could this be wrong?
Mitchell jerked the bandana off Sammi’s head. He buried his fingers in Sammi’s hair, tilted Sammi’s head back and his lips came down on Sammi’s in a kiss meant to devour him. Sammi met Mitchell’s kiss, open and eager to taste his lover again.
Mitchell shot his tongue into Sammi’s mouth searching, touching, tasting. As Mitchell withdrew, Sammi sucked his tongue, claiming it, desperate to keep that sweet taste as long as possible. Mitchell moaned and it rumbled in Sammi’s chest.
“Home.”
“Yes. Home.”
Sammi pressed his back against the wall of the building as he clutched Mitchell to him. Mitchell stroked down Sammi’s arm and their fingers entwined. Sammi grabbed Mitchell’s ass and jerked it toward him, grinding his stiff cock into Mitchell. For his part, Mitchell’s rod, like a long, hard lump, dug into Sammi’s belly.
This was where Sammi belonged. In this incredible man’s arms.
“You’re mine. Don’t ever go again.”
“Forever.”
“Well, well, well. Looks like my lucky day. I found two fags.”
Moretti’s oily voice froze the blood in Sammi’s veins. He wobbled on his knees. Only his back pressed against the wall kept him upright. Mitchell released him, spun around, and placed his body in front of Sammi.
“Get away from us, you bastard.” Mitchell brought his hands up in a fighting stance.
“Or you’ll what? Cry?” Moretti smirked as he reached beneath his jacket and pulled a gun from under his arm.
Deep fear climbed Sammi’s spine as he pressed against the brick wall. “Get out of the way, Mitchell.” He tugged at Mitchell’s jacket, but Mitchell stood firm.
“Sammi doesn’t want Donovan, can’t you understand that?” Mitchell growled.
“Sammi doesn’t have a choice and you’re too stupid to understand that.” Moretti pushed the gun into Mitchell’s belly with one hand and grabbed the back of his neck with the other. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “If you give me any trouble, I’m going to blow a hole in you big enough to walk through.”
Mitchell froze as the cold metal dug into his gut. Moretti would do it, eager for any excuse to do it. Mitchell lowered his hands, holding them out in surrender.
“That’s better. I think we understand each other. Now, we’re going to get in the car and take a ride. All of us.” Moretti pulled Mitchell around, twisted his arm up and back. Pain exploded through his shoulder and arm. Moretti jammed the gun into his spine. “Sammi, if you don’t want your girlfriend to die, you’ll do as you’re told.”
“Yes, sir.” Sammi nodded like a bobblehead doll. “I’m coming. Don’t hurt him. Please.”
Moretti whistled, high and shrill. A black Mercedes pulled to the curb as Moretti manhandled Mitchell to the car. He jerked open the door, shoved Mitchell in the back seat, then opened the front door.
Mitchell hugged his sore arm and rubbed it to get the feeling back.
Holding the gun low, Moretti pointed it at Sammi. “Get in the front, Sammi.”
Sammi obeyed and slid into the passenger seat. Moretti closed the door and got into the back seat next to Mitchell, the gun pointed again at his stomach. Mitchell moved as far away as he could until the door stopped him.
“Bert, the penthouse,” Moretti ordered. With a nod from the taciturn driver, the car pulled off and headed toward Westheimer.
All of Mitchell’s thoughts of saving Sammi flew out of the window as he realized how unprepared for any of this he was. Moretti
had a gun. A level playing field didn’t exist and once they reached this penthouse, who knew what waited for him and Sammi?
Sammi sat in the front seat like a statue, too scared to move. His last meal rose in his stomach and he was afraid he’d puke. He swallowed and closed his eyes. The gun and the fear in Mitchell’s eyes had nearly caved Sammi in, almost had him crawling on the ground to beg Moretti not to hurt Mitchell. There wouldn’t be much time.
He concentrated on his link with Mitchell.
“It will be okay.”
“What’s going on, Sammi?”
“It’ll be okay.”
But it wouldn’t ever be okay again.
Donovan would not be happy.
Sammi would be punished.
Donovan would put him in the closet.
Tears filled Sammi’s eyes and he blinked to stop them. He jerked his chin up.
Sammi would take the closet if it meant keeping Mitchell safe.
Chapter Twelve
Mitchell glanced down at the gun pointed at him. He’d never felt anything so terrifying as the cold metal pressed into his stomach. Now, his brain raced through all the possibilities that could happen to him and Sammi.
They all came down to one thing. Him dead. Sammi gone. Because no way was this goon letting Mitchell go alive, even if they had Sammi. Donovan had to be some sick fucker, a sociopath or psychopath if he was this obsessed about Sammi.
And if he was, would there be any way to reason with him? How could Donovan make Sammi stay with him without doing anything short of kidnapping and holding him as a prisoner?
What was he thinking? They were already in the middle of a fucking kidnapping. Sammi being a prisoner was only a step away. As for Mitchell? A shudder ran through him.
Mitchell had felt Sammi’s fear. It had filled him in those moments when this gorilla had found them, but now the tide of that fear had receded. Mitchell wasn’t sure if that was good or not.
He didn’t know much, but he understood in perfect clarity his life was in jeopardy. He’d stumbled into something that he knew nothing about, but it involved Sammi and the man Donovan.
Drugs? He’d never seen any sign of drugs on Sammi and he didn’t have money—that was for certain.
Information? Certainly not computer info. Sammi seemed clueless about that sort of thing. But there were different types of info. Maybe Sammi knew something about Donovan that could ruin the man. Something he’d seen in the penthouse?
A murder? A surge of fear ran through Mitchell. Had Sammi been involved in a murder? Witnessed one? If it had been a murder, why keep Sammi alive? Why not just kill him and dump his body somewhere to be found later?
Questions tumbled in Mitchell’s head. The fading of Sammi’s connection bothered him.
He glanced out of the window as the car turned east on Westheimer and headed toward River Oaks, some of the most expensive real estate in Houston. Big money, big estates, big names. They turned at a high-rise glass building and followed the curving drive. With a sudden dip, the car plunged into a dark underground parking lot.
Bert parked the Mercedes in a numbered slot.
“We’re going upstairs. No sudden movements. Bert, take Sammi.” Moretti waved his gun.
“Sure, Moretti.”
“Collins. Get out. Slow and easy.”
Now, at least, Mitchell knew the gorilla’s name. Moretti. Sounded like a mafia hit man. Dressed like one, too. Mitchell slid across the seat and exited the car. Bert hopped out and trotted around, then removed Sammi, pulling him by the arm.
“Let’s go. To the elevators. If anyone makes a sound, they’re dead.” Mitchell didn’t doubt it at all.
Their small group headed toward the elevators. Mitchell led with Moretti behind him, the gun pressed into his back. Sammi and Bert walked side-by-side, Bert’s hand on Sammi’s shoulder. At the elevator, Bert pushed the button. Mitchell wondered if Bert’s only job was to drive the car and push the elevator buttons. A giggled threatened to pop out of his mouth.
God, he was going off the deep end. He clamped his lips together, his teeth too.
The doors opened. Sammi hung back as Moretti and Mitchell got in.
“It’s going to be okay, Sammi.” Mitchell wanted to say something to comfort Sammi, not sure if even he believed it.
Sammi didn’t answer.
“Get in.” Bert pushed him forward. Sammi hesitated, then stepped over the threshold and closed his eyes.
Bert got in, turned and, of course, pushed the top button. It had a lighted capital P in the middle of the circle. They were going to the penthouse, just like Sammi had talked about.
The ride stopped and started as people got on and off. The men had moved to the rear of the elevator to give the other riders room. Moretti’s gun, a steady pressure in Mitchell’s back, was hidden from view.
Any hope of help from the passengers died as each got off and no one said a word.
After the twenty-first floor, no one else got on and they had the elevator to themselves.
“Donovan has missed you, Sammi.” Moretti snorted. “Did you miss him?”
Sammi’s eyes had been closed ever since they’d gotten into the car, as if he were too frightened to open them. He stood silent and rigid against the opposite corner from Mitchell.
“Are you all right, Sammi?” Mitchell wanted to hold Sammi, give him some comfort, but there was no way Moretti was going to allow that to happen.
Sammi didn’t answer. Not in words or in thoughts. Not good. As if in slow motion, Sammi brought his thumb to his mouth and chewed on it. At least he could move.
After a soft ding, the doors opened. Across from the elevators was a large antique table with a fresh flower arrangement on it. Mitchell and Sammi were pushed toward the far side of the foyer to a door with a brass A on it. At the other end of the foyer was another door that wore a brass B.
Moretti ran a card key through the lock. The light turned green and the lock clicked. He pushed down on the handle and opened the door.
Mitchell figured whatever happened now, at least he’d find out who Donovan was and why he wanted Sammi so badly.
Sammi swallowed his fear.
The burger he’d eaten for dinner rose in his throat again as his stomach rolled. He’d hoped to never come back here again, never see Donovan again. Hoped to escape being sold to another owner, forced to give his body to someone who used him like a possession, not a human being.
He’d been so stupid to think he could ever escape.
He couldn’t fight the purging of his stomach. He rushed to the garbage can in the corner, fell to his knees and puked up everything. Mitchell tried to go to him, but Moretti held him back at gun point as he laughed.
“I’ll bet you’re scared as shit.”
“Sammi, are you okay?” Mitchell’s voice wavered.
Sammi spat wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie and stood. He walked to the center of the large room and stopped. Donovan was nowhere in sight.
“Wait here. Donovan will see you soon.”
He glanced toward the closed door to Donovan’s office, then to the partially open door of what used to be his bedroom. He forced himself to look at the closet door. It floated on a long stretch of blank wall painted the color of a pumpkin. It appeared so innocent, so harmless.
Just a door.
Sammi wondered if the door to hell was red.
His hell door was white and came with a deadbolt on the outside.
He turned his gaze to the wall of glass. When he’d first come to the penthouse, Sammi had been entranced by the view over the lights of Houston. Until it had become the only view of Houston he’d been allowed to see. His brief escape had only made his desire for freedom stronger, and the time he’d spent with Mitchell had given him only a taste of a life he’d never believed he could live. Of the man he’d never dreamed he could be.
Moretti pushed Mitchell forward to stand next to Sammi. He fought to remain calm and keep his emotions reined in. T
he link between him and Mitchell had grown so strong that if he’d shut it off all of a sudden, Mitchell would have known it right away. Sammi had slowly been closing it and cutting himself off from the man he loved in a desperate attempt to shield him from Donovan’s wrath. But something felt odd, a weakness grew within Sammi, sapping his strength as the link between him and Mitchell narrowed.
Life-force.
This wasn’t good. Not now. Their life-forces were entwined along with their bonded souls. He should have known, but like most of the things he knew about his power, he’d discovered them as he went. He didn’t have anyone to ask about his power.
Otis had called that kind of learning hands-on training.
This was completely new and Sammi had no idea what was going to happen when Donovan put him on the plane to his new owner.
Would the separation kill him or Mitchell, or both of them?
“Sammi, are you all right?” Mitchell reached for Sammi’s hand.
Sammi moved it away and chewed his thumb to keep from answering. Everything would depend on what happened when Donovan appeared.
“Sammi?” Mitchell sounded as if he’d given up on reaching Sammi.
Good. Maybe Mitchell realized the danger he was in and would keep quiet and not cause any trouble. All Sammi wanted right now was for Mitchell to be safe and unhurt.
Moretti picked up the house phone and pressed the button to Donovan’s office. He smirked and Sammi hated him. Hated both him and Donovan.
“Donovan. I found him.” Moretti listened, then hung up.
There was a long moment where time and Sammi’s heart stopped.
Then the door opened.
Mitchell turned as a large man dressed in a charcoal grey suit, like an ordinary businessman, stepped out of the study. In an older man sort of way, he could even be called attractive. Frameless glasses highlighted icy-blue eyes that held no hint of warmth. Mitchell guessed his deep tan was sprayed on or from a tanning bed. However, Donovan’s most striking feature was his thick, silver hair worn brushed straight back and long to just below his ears.
