Take Me - A Bad Boy Steals a Bride Romance

by Layla Valentine

  An instant later, the light flickered on, blinding her. She yelped, her vision slowly adjusting to the flood of bright white from the fluorescents above her. Over the span of a few heartbeats, Cassandra saw light brown hair, muscular shoulders, and then the head of her assailant lifted and she met a pair of deep-set, brilliant blue eyes, like deep arctic ice.

  The hand slowly lifted away from her face, but Cassandra was too shocked to move or scream, as she stared into the face of none other than Jack Hardy. Seeing the face of the man she had helped put away for murder, the man who had escaped from prison only a few hours earlier, right in front of her, made Cassandra’s body go cold, before her blood began to rush with a new dose of adrenaline in her system.

  “Don’t scream,” Jack said, holding her gaze the same steady way he had in the courtroom on the day of the verdict.

  The expression on his face sent a jolt through Cassandra, and while she knew that she was terrified, she couldn’t help noticing that he was somehow even more muscular than he had been that day in court; that his hair had grown out of its precise, professional cut, hanging messily around his eyes. Stubble blurred the sharp lines of his face, a shade or two blonder than the hair on his head.

  As Hardy shifted against her, pinning her more effectively while leaving her mouth free, Cassandra breathed in and caught the scent of clean sweat, industrial detergent, and an underlying musk that sent a bizarre shock of heat through her body, causing her nipples to harden involuntarily, and making a spot somewhere in the pit of her stomach warm.

  “What are you doing here?” The words left her in a single breath. As she absorbed what had happened and whose mercy she was at, Cassandra suddenly felt real fear for her own life.

  Chapter Two

  The silence dragged out between them and Cassandra’s fear deepened with every passing minute.

  He’s going to murder me. He’s going to kill me in my own kitchen. I heard the news, goddammit, why did I even come home?

  She had been so tired, and it had seemed so unlikely that Hardy would want to have anything to do with her—that he would take the best option and get the hell out of the state and if he could out of the country.

  Finally, Hardy spoke.

  “Hear me out,” he said.

  “Okay,” Cassandra replied, nodding her head slowly. It wasn’t like she had a choice; in that moment she would have agreed if Hardy had told her that the sky was orange.

  “I know you’re not going to believe this,” Hardy said, taking a slight step back—but still holding her pinned down against the wall. “But I didn’t kill Laura.”

  Cassandra’s face must have betrayed her; a ghost of a smile started to form on Hardy’s face, disappearing the next moment.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Now, if I let you go, you’re not going to try and make a run for the door, right?”

  Cassandra considered the question. She was exhausted, and in no state to race against Hardy, who appeared to be in peak physical condition. She nodded.

  He stepped back, releasing her; Cassandra could still feel warm, tingling spots where his body had pressed against hers, but she made herself ignore them.

  “You didn’t kill Laura Granger?”

  Hardy shook his head.

  “I broke out of jail because it was the only way to clear my name,” he told her, holding her gaze as he spoke. “Someone framed me.”

  Cassandra started when Hardy reached down; but he merely tugged the hem of his tee shirt up, exposing his lower abdomen. At his right hip, just above the waistband of his jeans, Cassandra saw a crudely inked list of names.

  “I made a list of people who might have reason to plot something like this,” Hardy said, looking at Cassandra once more.

  “Okay… So what do you want me to do?” she asked, trying not to let her tired gaze wander to his abdominal muscles, that flexed when he breathed, twisted when he shifted to let her see the ink better.

  Cassandra noticed a darting patch of wheat-brown hair that started at Hardy’s navel and shot down towards his crotch and then quickly tried to forget that she had seen it. You’re supposed to be terrified right now, not wondering if it goes all the way down to his cock, she told herself firmly.

  “I want you to help me figure out who framed me,” Hardy said.

  Cassandra’s gaze moved from his hip to his face and she stared at him in disbelief.

  “How the hell do you intend to do that while you’re on the run? You should—I don’t know—you should be talking to your lawyers about this.”

  “Well I’m not,” Hardy said firmly. His eyes took on a gleam that Cassandra wasn’t entirely sure she liked. “I’m here, I need your help. I’ll even ask nicely.”

  “Ask nicely, huh?” Cassandra detected the sarcasm in his voice. She knew immediately that she had no choice.

  “Ask nicely.” Hardy repeated firmly.

  Cassandra scrubbed at her face, feeling the drag in her arms, the heaviness in her head. She wanted nothing more than to believe that this was some sort of hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation, but her body remembered all too well how quickly Hardy had pinned her against the wall, and the power she’d felt rippling through him. Her mind pulled up details of the coroner’s report, and the notes she had made in her research—details of how Hardy handled his bounties when they refused to cooperate. She shuddered at the memory.

  “All right, I guess I’ll help you.”

  Chapter Three

  “Can you give me like five minutes?” Cassandra looked at Hardy in desperation. “I’ve been up since seven yesterday morning. I need to get some water, get my face clean, something.”

  Hardy’s gaze left her face for a moment, his brow furrowing as he contemplated her request.

  “Ten minutes. They’re looking for me; I can’t afford to waste time.”

  Cassandra sighed and sidestepped away from him, walking through her apartment quickly. She considered calling the police, but in spite of her fear of Hardy, she had to admit to herself that she was more than a little curious about their mission.

  This is either going to end with him clearing his name—or it’s going to end with him killing me.

  Cassandra stepped into her bathroom, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Hardy hadn’t followed her, before closing the door.

  Washing her hands, she splashed water onto her face again and again, blinking as the moisture began to clear some of the throbbing in her head. Cassandra opened the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of headache medicine. Looking at the cluttered shelves, she saw another item: caffeine pills. The coffee she’d had at the office hadn’t done much, but the NoDoz was stronger. She shook two into her palm along with the paracetamol, and quickly left the bathroom.

  “What’s that in your hand?” Hardy asked, suspicious.

  Cassandra showed the contents of her palm. “If you want to take me on a wild goose chase at four in the morning, you’re going to give me a second to at least be able to stay awake for it,” she said.

  A moment later, Cassandra felt a stab of doubt. It’s remotely possible that he’s telling you the truth, she thought. He’s risking a lot.

  “Like I said, I’m exhausted,” she said, softening her voice a little, “Two of them are caffeine pills, the other’s a painkiller.”

  Hardy looked at the pills a moment longer before nodding his acceptance.

  Cassandra darted into the kitchen and opened the fridge. She grabbed the first bottle of water she could find and tossed the pills into her mouth before she cracked the seal on the bottle. Swallowing again and again, she drank down about a third of the bottle and got the pills down.

  “We need to get going,” Hardy said.

  Cassandra turned to look at him and saw that Hardy was watching the door and windows in steady, constant surveillance. If nothing else, this will make a hell of a story, she thought grimly. She gathered up her bag and found her keys. When she turned to tell Hardy that she was ready, he w
as right at her side, only inches away from her.

  “Come on,” she said, not quite looking up into his face. She led the way through her door, closing and locking it behind her. “Not that it seems to matter if I lock it or not,” she muttered to herself. Pitching her voice just loud for him to hear, she added, “If we take the stairs, there’s less risk of someone seeing us.”

  Hardy nodded and followed her down the hall.

  Cassandra hurried down the steps as quickly as her tired feet would allow her, wishing that the caffeine would kick in already—she wasn’t sure when she would next get a chance to sleep. That’s assuming Hardy isn’t just using this story as an excuse to get you somewhere isolated enough to kill you and get rid of your body, she thought.

  Down in the garage, Cassandra spotted her car in its usual spot. The topcoat of the dusty old Nissan sedan was starting to peel and erode away, leaving the powdery black paint underneath exposed in patches.

  Cassandra unlocked the driver’s side door and the rest of the locks flipped up in the same moment. She turned around to see Hardy standing only about a foot behind her.

  “How are we going to do this?” she asked.

  “I’ll get in the back; the windows are dark enough that they shouldn’t be able to see me.”

  No need for Cassandra to ask who ‘they’ were. She climbed wearily into the driver’s seat and heard the shift and groan of the car as Hardy slipped into the back, closing the door quietly behind him. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw him slide down, making himself as small as possible in the seat.

  Shaking her head in disbelief at the bizarre turn her evening had taken, Cassandra turned the key in the ignition. The car came to life with a roaring purr of the engine, and the stereo turned on. The middle-aged women talking about dogs had apparently finished for the night, replaced by two presenters talking about current affairs.

  “You listen to talk radio?”

  “There’s not much on at this time of night.”

  “Put in a CD or something, would you?” Hardy said, his voice testy.

  Cassandra rolled her eyes; she would have protested, but she knew all too well what Hardy was capable of. She slipped her phone out of her purse—wondering again why she wasn’t using it to call the police—and plugged it in.

  “Just to be clear, you may be hijacking my car, but I’m going to pick the music,” Cassandra said, in what she hoped was a firm tone.

  “I don’t care,” Hardy said, shifting in the back seat again. “Just put something on that isn’t the fucking news.”

  Cassandra’s hands shook slightly and she wasn’t sure if it was lingering adrenaline or the start of the caffeine entering her system. She scrolled quickly through her music library, knowing that Hardy wouldn’t appreciate her taking the time to find something appropriate for their errand, and tapped play on Elliott Smith’s Roman Candle album. As the intricate, soft-toned guitar began to fill her ears, Cassandra put the car in reverse, pulling out of the parking spot she had pulled into less than thirty minutes before.

  She took a breath and began to navigate the parking garage, smiling with recognition as Elliott Smith sang that he was hallucinating, hallucinating. No matter how much she might want him to be, though, Cassandra knew that Hardy was definitely no illusion. The convicted felon really was sitting in the back seat of her car, and Cassandra was fairly certain that he was capable of doing her real harm if she pressed him too much, or asked too many questions.

  “Where are we going?”

  She glanced at the shape of him in her rearview mirror as she came to the exit gate, saw Hardy’s face in a brief flash of the fluorescent security lights.

  “Turn right out of the building,” he told her firmly, shifting onto his side on the seat.

  Cassandra briefly entertained the idea that if she applied the brakes just sharply enough, she could throw him against the backs of the seats, knocking him out for just long enough to allow her to call the police. But there were too many risks in that plan.

  Even more importantly, there’s a story on the line, she thought, smiling slightly at her own hubris. Just think: if he’s telling the truth and you can prove it, you’ll have the story of a lifetime. And if he was lying? She would worry about that later. For the moment, she had a mission—and the possibilities opening up in front of her were as intriguing as they were terrifying. Cassandra drove towards the gate until it opened, turned right, as Hardy had commanded, and pulled onto the quiet, near-deserted street.

  Chapter Four

  Cassandra took another drink of water from the bottle she had brought with her and came to a stop at the first light after her building.

  “Do I keep going?” she asked.

  “Condor Ave” came on, and her lips twitched into a smirk of recognition. “She took the Oldsmobile out past Condor Avenue…” Cassandra wasn’t, to the best of her knowledge, going anywhere near Condor Avenue, but the theme of the song was still oddly appropriate.

  “Get onto the Interstate,” Hardy told her from the back.

  “Northbound or southbound?”

  “Northbound,” he replied.

  Cassandra mouthed the lyrics to the song as the light turned green and she drove through the intersection. She was shocked at how readily she had accepted the situation; she hadn’t fought Hardy on the issue of clearing his name, hadn’t tried to convince him that what he was doing was insane, and she hadn’t done anything to try and get herself out of participating in the bizarre errand.

  Whose names had those been on his hip? Cassandra shuddered as she visualized the ink she’d seen—and the body it had been indelibly printed onto. It wasn’t her imagination, Hardy was definitely more muscular than he had been at sentencing three months before.

  One song melted into another and Cassandra merged onto the on-ramp lane for the Interstate.

  “Where are we going, exactly?”

  She glanced at Hardy in the rearview mirror, her hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel. It was definitely the caffeine that was causing her reaction.

  “I’ll tell you where to go,” Hardy said from the back seat. “Just do what I tell you to do.”

  Cassandra sighed. “It’s just if it’s going to be far away, I’m going to need to get gas at some point,” she told him, glancing at her gauge. It displayed just under half a tank remaining, and Cassandra hoped against hope that it wouldn’t take all that she had in the tank to complete their mission.

  “Let me know when you need to stop and we’ll figure it out.”

  Cassandra pressed her lips together and turned onto the on ramp, glancing at the northbound traffic; it was sparse, which was normal for the predawn hour. If they had to stay on it for hours to come, however, she knew she’d have to deal with rush hour traffic. All she could hope was that she managed to get through the encounter unscathed and with a good story at the end of it; she had money in the bank to cover gas and the other expenses that would come up.

  To keep herself occupied, and keep her spirits up, Cassandra began singing along quietly with the stereo. She merged onto the highway, speeding up to the limit, and then five miles per hour faster—enough to make good time but not so much that she would attract the notice of a wandering Highway Patrolman.

  “For a change, she got out / before he hurt her bad…” the lyric sent a shiver down Cassandra’s spine as she remembered the report on Laura Granger’s murder. “The car was cold and it smelled like old cigarettes and pine…”

  Cassandra took one hand off of the wheel and reached into her purse.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Only if you give me one,” Hardy told her.

  Cassandra snorted and rooted around in her bag until her fingers closed around the pack of cigarettes. She slipped it out then spent the next minute searching by touch until she found her lighter.

  Reducing her speed slightly, Cassandra shook a cigarette free and brought it to her lips, changing the hand that she used to grip the steering
wheel long enough to roll down the window enough to let the smoke out.

  She carefully lit the end and took a long drag. Normally she didn’t smoke much—only occasionally, when she was struggling with an article—but Cassandra wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up going through the entire pack and then some, given her current predicament. She tossed the pack and the lighter over the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks,” Hardy said from the back.

  She heard the flick-flick-hiss of the lighter, felt the pop in her ears as Hardy rolled down his own window before tossing the pack and the lighter back up onto the passenger seat.

  The album ended and Cassandra let her phone continue on random as she took another silent drag of her cigarette, From a Basement on The Hill started up, filling the car with a symphonic loop that transitioned into a raucous guitar and drum intro.

  “Can you turn it down a little bit? It’s loud back here and you won’t hear me.”

  “I can hear you right now,” Cassandra said, though not loudly enough to be heard over the speakers.

  She reached out and turned the volume down slightly. No reason to push him, at least until you know where you’re going and what you’re doing, she told herself.

  The music swirled around her and Cassandra realized that her headache had finally started to break up. It wasn’t yet daylight, but she felt strangely positive. There had always been something in her that appreciated a grand adventure, and while she hadn’t exactly planned on a road trip with a convicted felon in her back seat, Cassandra couldn’t quite deny that she was interested in Hardy’s case.

  “This music isn’t half bad,” Hardy said from the back. “Who is it?”

  Cassandra glanced at the shape of him sprawled in her back seat through her rearview mirror.

  “It’s Elliott Smith. Don’t tell me you don’t know who Elliott Smith is?”

  “Never heard of him,” Hardy said.

  “He was amazing,” Cassandra said quietly. She licked her lips and flicked the butt of her cigarette out of the crack in the window, shifting into the left lane. “His story is pretty damned sad, though.”