The Jock and the Geek (Gone Geek Book 3)

by Sidney Bristol

This was a shit spot to get caught. No store fronts or pedestrians. They must have been watching for her to leave the house so they could waylay her like this and get a scoop.

  Sometimes she hated journalists.

  A hand closed over the top of her shoulder.

  “Move,” another man said.

  Something hard and vaguely circular pressed into her back.

  What the heck was that? What was going on?

  A gun.

  That was—a gun.

  Was she dreaming? This couldn’t be real.

  Her limbs refused to work, her mouth hung open, and she forgot to breathe.

  These things didn’t happen in her life. Not to her.

  The coffee slid out of her hand and hit the pavement. The hot liquid sloshed on her leg, burning through the mind-fog.

  “You’re coming with us.” The man pushed her toward the van.

  She glanced behind her, long enough to see the butt of what looked to be a hand gun. Her heart crawled up into her throat. It was one thing to see the Secret Service carrying them, and another to be up close and personal with the business end of one.

  “Oh my God…” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper.

  He shoved her forward roughly, and she stumbled.

  There were people at the end of the street—near the lure.

  She opened her mouth to scream, to call for help, but the first man stepped up close and covered her face and mouth with something. Her fight instinct kicked in too late. She struck out, flailing her arms, but they had hold of her already.

  In seconds, they had her in the van.

  Her stomach didn’t feel so great.

  She should scream, fight back…but her arms were heavy.

  Her vision wasn’t all that sharp.

  What was wrong with her? What had they done to her?

  “Don’t let her fall!”

  The van jolted and everything tipped the wrong way.

  Were they going to kill her? Was this how she’d die?

  Oliver…

  It’s done.

  Sophia smiled at the simple text and pocketed the phone. She’d orchestrated a number of kidnappings over the years for various means, but this one was for her.

  Hugues Durand wanted to treat her like a wayward child? To belittle what she was doing for him?

  She could crush a man like him. And she would.

  Just wait…

  Sophia pulled her tablet out of her purse and tapped out a few simple lines, while all around her, people went about their normal, average American days. It felt good to be the person in the shadows, pulling their strings.

  She hit send on the message, picked up her coffee, and sat back in the chair.

  In a few days, no one would remember the name Hugues Durand.

  Oliver stabbed the keys and glared at his work email. There were a hundred things to do and three back-to-back meetings coming up he wasn’t ready for. The public fiasco over Samantha and his engagement was really taking its toll on not just Oliver, but the whole office.

  He was sick of the stares. Sick of the headlines. And sick of the performance aspect.

  He was ready for it to be over. For it to be just him and Sam, figuring things out.

  Shit.

  He’d been a total jerk last night to Sam.

  He just…he wanted more from her. And maybe it was one sided. They were two people in a difficult situation. It only made sense they’d gravitate toward each other. But he wanted more. And Sam was in PR mode, everything was about how to control the story, paint a picture, blahblahblah. There was no feeling in it. The passionate woman he’d held in his arms a few nights ago was not the plastic person photographed next to him. He wanted his vibrant Sam back. The woman who’d captured his heart, who’d told him off, who…who was owed an apology.

  He glanced at the newspaper in the wastebasket.

  The headline turned his stomach.

  Secretary of State’s Daughter Brings Shame to Family.

  What was shameful about being with someone you loved? Okay, Sam might not love him, but still. The only thing they were guilty of was passion. She’d felt it. He’d tasted it. They could find it again. If they weren’t in America this wouldn’t matter. Yeah, it’d be a good laugh, a few uncomfortable moments around family and that was about it.

  He just…

  He needed to call Sam.

  And apologize.

  Grovel.

  Something.

  Flowers weren’t going to fix this.

  Maybe he needed to do something…something she wouldn’t expect. Something that would be special to her. He needed Rashae for that. He didn’t speak enough geek to understand what would be an adequate gesture, but she would. Plus, Sam wouldn’t expect that.

  But how did he fix this?

  How did he smooth over all the hurts?

  Her family wasn’t sympathetic. They demanded excellence from their daughters and mistakes had a high price tag. It was worse since the photographs not only brought negative attention on the family as a whole, but because it went against Mr. Grant’s conservative ideals. Oliver and his boss had always agreed to disagree when it came to conservative versus liberal, and with the girls it seemed as though what their parents didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. But now…now Mr. Grant knew.

  Shit.

  Sam was alone in this. Alienated from the ones she loved. And he’d…he’d made more problems last night rather than fixing them. All because he couldn’t suck up his ego and be what she needed. He didn’t deserve her and this just proved the point. Instead of pausing to look and listen, he’d picked a fight. Because he wanted what he wanted.

  Fuck. If he could go back in time…if he could—

  Buzz.

  He glanced at his cell phone.

  Weird.

  How long had it been since he’d checked his personal email? Long enough he couldn’t remember. Besides, pretty much everyone emailed him on his work account. He swiped the screen, intending to dismiss the message.

  Oliver paused.

  The subject line…

  Do you know where Sam is?

  Reporters called her Samantha. Friends called her Sam. It was a small, very important distinction that struck an uneasy chord inside him.

  He unlocked the phone and clicked the notification.

  Oliver,

  I know where Sam is. If you’d like to see her, have a chat with your boss.

  What the fuck?

  This was not a goddamn joke. It wasn’t funny. When he found out who sent this, they were going to be sorry. But first—he had to check on her.

  Oliver jabbed the contacts icon, then the newly-starred Sam entry.

  The line didn’t even ring. It went straight to voicemail.

  “Sam? Please call me back.” He hung up and went to his messages.

  If her phone was off, she’d probably still be connected to email. This was Sam. She was like Rashae in that matter. Neither woman was ever really offline.

  He sent her a note on their family account, the one personal email he had for her, and, on the off chance she still used her old Gmail account, he copied that one as well.

  Please call me. Smoke signal. Something. I got a weird message about you and I’m concerned. I want to apologize for last night. The right way. Not like this. Please? Sam, just call me.

  Oliver hit send and leaned back, chewing his thumbnail.

  Yes, it wreaked of desperation, but that was who he was. A man who needed to know she was still talking to him, that this was just a hoax. Something.

  Why did he have such an uneasy sensation deep down?

  So far, he’d received two or three similar messages. All click-call-bait style correspondences, but they called her Samantha. The difference mattered. Whoever was following them had learned their habits, where they went, what they did.

  Why wasn’t Sam calling him back?

  He didn’t like this.

  His options now were to wait, go to her house and ban
g on her door, rope in a family member with a key, or sound the alarm. His gut was to call the cops, Secret Service, the whole damn army. Sam might be in trouble, but what if he was the problem?

  Someone had leaked the photographs for a reason. A political reason, no doubt, since it was Mr. Grant they’d targeted. And now, he got a weird message from someone who wanted him to talk to the Secretary. A weird message that gave him an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach and no return calls from Sam.

  He had a bad feeling about this. Really bad.

  Fuck it.

  Oliver picked up his tablet, his phone, and straightened his tie.

  Sam’s safety was more important than the day’s agenda.

  He squared his shoulders and walked from his desk to the double doors leading into the Secretary of State’s office. This was supposed to be Mr. Grant’s preparation time, a period of thirty minutes he spent alone organizing his day, but they didn’t have the luxury of that right now.

  Sam was in trouble. He knew it. She wasn’t petty. She hadn’t cut off contact with people since she got fired. This was totally unlike her.

  Oliver knocked once and opened the door, sliding in before his boss could reply.

  Timothy Grant sat at the big, wooden desk used by secretaries before him and peered over the top of his glasses at Oliver.

  “There’d better be a good reason—”

  “Sam’s in trouble.” Oliver tapped his tablet screen and turned it toward the Secretary. “I just got this on my personal email, and I can’t get Sam to answer her phone, an email, nothing.”

  For several long moments, Timothy stared at the message. He was her father. He cared. Oliver knew under all the hurt he still had to.

  Oliver wiggled his toes in his shoes and bit his cheek. He had a bad feeling about this, and everything in him said to do something.

  “You have spoken to me.” Timothy laid the tablet down and nudged it across the desk. “We will not be bullied or swayed.”

  “But what about Sam?”

  “She’s probably at home, and someone is trying to manipulate us.” Timothy folded his hands over the desktop.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I’ll have someone drop by her house and check on her. What about those reports? Are we ready for the briefing?”

  “But, sir. I’m sorry if I’m out of line—”

  “You are, Oliver.”

  Timothy’s stare was hard. Unyielding.

  Oliver opened and closed his mouth. He was right. He knew he was. And this was the Secretary of State he was speaking to. A man who could not be moved, bullied or pushed into doing anything except what was right. This wasn’t Mr. Grant, Samantha’s father. It was hard to mesh the two together, to figure out when he was one and when he was the other. Oliver wasn’t like that, he didn’t compartmentalize like his boss or Sam.

  “My apologies, sir.” Oliver took the tablet and slid it under his arm.

  “If that’s everything, I still need to prepare.” Timothy slid his gaze to the pad of paper in front of him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oliver turned on his heel and stalked out of the office, his blood pressure rising.

  Sam wasn’t hiding. He knew it in his gut. Sure, she might avoid a confrontation, give him the silent treatment, but she was a responsible, intelligent woman. She wouldn’t go communication dark at a time like this. Her professional self wouldn’t allow her to do that. It wasn’t how Sam was wired.

  There were forty-five minutes until his meeting. He couldn’t make it to Sam’s, check on her and be back before it started.

  He was on thin ice with the secretary, and rightfully so, given everything that was going on.

  Still, Sam was more important than this.

  Oliver set the tablet on his desk, lined the folders up for each meeting where someone could easily grab them, and headed for the door. In thirty minutes, he’d call the admin and notify them he was out and wouldn’t be back in time. If this was career suicide, well, at least he and Sam could row that boat together.

  14.

  Samantha’s head hurt and her stomach growled. That wine last night had been a bad, terrible, horrible idea. She tried to push herself up, to get moving, but her hands wouldn’t work.

  What was that sound? Had she left the TV on?

  She shifted, and the scent of stale beer, sweat, and something unpleasant finally registered.

  This wasn’t right.

  She pried her gummy eyes open and blinked a few times.

  Where the hell was she?

  The rust colored sofa was foreign to her. A few decades old and rough against her cheek. Had she gone over to a friend’s house? Kaily had impeccable taste. This wasn’t her apartment.

  A couple of beer cans sat open, maybe empty, on the coffee table in front of her. Jeopardy played on the TV across the room.

  Where was she?

  When was she?

  Jeopardy played in the afternoon. The late afternoon. She knew this because she’d taken to watching it and seeing if she knew the answers, because what else was she going to do with her time?

  What the hell had happened?

  Her brain was foggy, and the last thing she remembered was…coffee?

  She twisted her hands again, but they were bound behind her back. Her left arm was asleep, probably from the way she was laying on it. No wonder she hadn’t realized that right off the bat.

  Her heart kicked into double time.

  She was tied up.

  In a strange place.

  Oh, God…

  The man. She’d thought he was a reporter. She’d dropped her coffee and burned her leg. For some reason, that memory was sharp in her mind’s eye. Vivid. They’d drugged her or knocked her out with something. She wasn’t sure, because one moment she’d been in the van and the next…here.

  What was going to happen to her?

  Was this because of the pictures? Her father? Why was this happening to her?

  Tears gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision.

  What if she never saw her parents again? Her sisters? Oliver?

  She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on breathing. Making herself sick or hyperventilating would only make things worse. She had to be calm. She needed to think.

  “She’s awake.”

  Samantha’s eyes popped open.

  A hand grasped her by the arm and hauled her upright. Her head swam, and the room did a few spins before slowing down a bit.

  A man grinned down at her, his breath reeking of cigarettes and coffee.

  “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

  Sam swallowed and kept her mouth shut, though inside she was screaming.

  Oliver peered in through the back windows of Samantha’s brownstone.

  The lights were off.

  The TV was off.

  He couldn’t see any signs of forced entry or rummaging about.

  And yet…he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. That he should be concerned about Sam. That he should be looking for her.

  She wasn’t answering, and even if she was pissed at him—rightfully so—she wasn’t the kind of person to just not answer. Especially when things were so sensitive. What should he do? Call the cops? Get laughed at? Try her mother and hope Timothy hadn’t gotten to her first?

  Fuck this.

  He hit dial on Rashae’s number. They hadn’t spoken directly since the Secretary had taken office, and he’d ducked her calls this week, but he needed his friend. Badly. Sam’s life might depend on it.

  “You have a lot of nerve.” Rashae’s tone was frosty.

  “I know, and I’ll explain everything—but I think Sam’s in trouble. I can’t explain right now, I just—is there a spare key to get into the house somewhere? Please?”

  “If she’s not—”

  “Someone sent me a message and I think…I think something’s happened to Sam, Shae. Please believe me? No one else does, but…something is wro
ng. I know it.”

  “Back patio.”

  “I’m here.” He turned in a circle. The brownstone had a postage stamp patio that had once been cluttered with old toys and play equipment. Sam had cleared it all out, had a trellis put in and outfitted it with comfortable patio furniture. An outdoor oasis of calm.

  “Do you see a bird bath?”

  “In front of it.”

  “Okay, from the yellow petal, count three to the right and the key should be under the lip of the petal in a box glued to the bottom. Make sense?”

  “Feeling for it…got it.” He worked the slide lid open and the key fell into his palm. “Is there a security code?”

  “Yes, two, two, one, two.”

  Oliver tried the back door, but the deadbolt was fastened. He jogged around to the front of the house and let himself in that way. The only reason she wouldn’t have locked the deadbolt on the front of the house was if she walked out of there under her own power. So either she was out hunting monsters and her phone would be on, or…she was in trouble and unable to answer.

  “Sam? You here, Sam?” He plugged in the code, the sense of unease growing within him.

  “Is she there?” Rashae asked.

  “I’m going to check upstairs. Maybe she’s asleep.”

  “If she was asleep, the front door would be deadbolted,” Rashae’s comment echoed Oliver’s thoughts. “You wouldn’t have gotten in. She’s not there. And she’s not answering my texts. What’s going on, Oliver?”

  “I fucked up, Shae. God, I fucked this all up.” He paced into the kitchen. The photographs Sam had tried to show him last night were still there. “We dated in college. I never told anyone because…because I don’t know. I don’t know, Shae. Then someone tried to blackmail me, and I broke up with her. I apologized last week and someone found out. And then there were pictures and I’ve fucked it all up. She’s gone. Someone is trying to use Sam to get to your dad, Shae. What do I do? What the hell do I do?”

  “Calm the fuck down. I barely understood any of that.”

  Oliver stared that the photographs.

  One of these people, someone he’d spoken to, was behind this. He knew it. But who?

  Photographs…