by Teagan Kade
I clamp my teeth together, worried a sudden scream is about to come from my mouth that will wake everyone within a ten-mile radius.
“Come,” he whispers, working faster. “I want you to come all over my fingers.”
The need to release is so strong my body actually shakes against the mattress.
His fingers curl up inside me in a come-hither motion, thumb adding additional pressure. I come, bucking off the bed, biting down as hard as I can and gushing against his fingers. My pussy clenches against him as he moans softly into my ear. Clench, release, clench, release, completely out of my control until the fire that has just crested across my vision fades and his fingers exit from my hole.
I can’t think of a relevant word. My body is numb, bones gone.
I try to hold on to the feeling as long as I can, but it begins to fade, reality returning once more.
We kiss.
We kiss and hold each other until the sun breaks through the trailer window.
It’s going to be a hot one.
Chapter 16
Chance
I wake to someone knocking on the trailer door.
I do my best to get out of bed without waking Sam and make my way down the front. I pull the curtain across and look outside. It’s Morgan.
I open the door and check my watch. It’s 11:30pm. “I didn’t order room service, sorry.”
He averts his eyes. “Jesus H. Cover that thing up, will you? I’ll have nightmares for weeks.”
I grab a tea towel from the kitchen counter and hold it in front of myself. I’m surprised everyone isn’t walking around in their birthday suits given this heatwave. “What is it?”
Morgan takes a step up into the doorway. “Just a quick courtesy call to let you know the second guard won’t be in tonight. He called in sick and they can’t find a replacement on such short notice.”
I lean out of the trailer door over Morgan’s shoulder and scan the carpark. “Tony?”
“Yeah, stomach bug or something, but,” Morgan points to the security box near the gates, “Anthony’s there as usual. I’m sure everything will be okay.”
There hasn’t been a hint of trouble since Sam moved into the trailer. I doubt anything’s going to go down tonight, especially given it’s one-hundred-and-ten out.
“Any word on the AC?”
Morgan shakes his head. “These guys are useless, I tell you. I didn’t even hear back from the last company.” He leans back and looks towards the stadium. “The old girl is getting on, but it’s a god damn air-conditioner for crying out loud. How different can they be?”
I nod. “I hear you.”
Morgan takes a step down. “You looked solid in training today.”
“It’s all thanks to Sam and her magic hands.”
Morgan makes a gagging motion. “I do not want to know what you kids are getting up to.”
“Ignorance is bliss, hey?”
Morgan chuckles, rapping the doorframe. “Where you’re concerned, it sure as hell is. Good night.”
“You hanging around?” I repeat, watching him go.
He turns. “Believe it or not, son, I do have a life outside of this stadium, so no. I’m afraid I won’t be here tonight.”
“A life outside this stadium, huh?” I tease. “Could have fooled me.”
“Good night,” he repeats.
“Good night,” I follow.
I head back into the bedroom and slide back into bed, ultimately deciding to ditch sheets altogether, lifting them off Sam to reveal the soft curves of her body, now mine. But it’s a different kind of possession I feel now, a need to protect her, not own her per se. I can only hope I can find her a way out of this. The last thing I want to do is condemn her to this damn trailer for the rest of her life.
“Chance?”
I wake groggy, sticky on the mattress.
Sam holds my shoulder trying to wake me, her breasts alabaster in the darkness.
And that’s just the thing. There’s no light, nothing but the moon outside.
What the fuck?
I start to take things in. Normally the security lights around the parking lot are on, but they’re off. The fans at the end of the bed, too. Even the alarm clock is dead.
I look down at my watch, the luminescent hands showing it’s just past 1 AM.
“Chance?” calls Sam again, voice low. “What’s going on?”
I sit on the edge of the bed and press myself up to look out the window. I can see Anthony in the security box at the entrance to the stadium, but he’s little more than a silhouette, what looks to be a phone to his ear. It’s pitch black out there.
“Chance?”
“I think it’s a blackout.”
“A blackout? What does that mean?”
Without the fans, it’s stifling in this tin can. My skin’s prickly with the heat, my forehead wet and clammy. I notice the boom gate is up. The blackout must have screwed with it.
Shit.
“Chance, what’s happening?”
It clicks. What’s happening is that the security system around the stadium, the alarms and cameras, are all down. It means we’re sitting ducks again, but I’m not about to let this on to Sam. “Everything’s okay. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
Just as I say it there’s a flash of light in the security box followed by the telltale crack of a gunshot.
I see Anthony flung against the window, a dark figure standing in the guard box doorway with pistol raised.
It has to be.
“Chance!” screams Sam, sensing the danger.
“Dress,” I tell her, trying to remain calm. “Quick as you can.”
I swipe my jeans off the floor and step into them, watching the security box as I do. Anthony doesn’t reappear and once more the scene is cast into shadow, but there’s a car at the boom gate, an Oldsmobile, a driver and the gunman getting into the passenger side. It has to be the two from the alleyway that night, the Eizo and Michael characters the Feds were talking about. How the fuck did they find out she was here?
I don’t know, but we’ve got maybe a minute to get the hell out before they cover the few hundred feet between us.
If they know you’re here.
They must. I can’t take the chance.
I turn, Sam standing there in a white dress. “You good?”
She nods, eyes wide and terrified.
I take her hand. “Listen to me. We’ve got to go, right now. Follow me. Just do exactly what I do. Can you do that?”
Although the situation is dire, an odd sense of calm comes over me. More than that, it’s comfort in the fact I excel under pressure. It’s where I thrive, regardless of the circumstances. I’ve been up against a lot more than these two fucking bozos. I’ve got this.
“It’s those men, isn’t it?” asks Sam.
“We’re going to be okay.” I look out the window. The Oldsmobile’s headlights flicker to life, lighting up the parking lot. “Come on.”
I pull Sam through the trailer and down the stairs into the open, the headlights swinging and lighting us up momentarily before I manage to get us around the side of the trailer, sprinting for the access door to the stadium.
The Oldsmobile’s tires screech as it accelerates hard towards us.
I come against the door and push, but it’s locked. I slam my fist against it. “Fuck.”
“What is it?” says Sam, the panic clear now in her voice.
“The blackout’s fucked up all the electronics.”
I drag her down to the next door, but it too is locked. We’re running out of time.
I head us for the old door at the far end that joins to the locker rooms. It’s been busted for years. As we’re running I hear the car rev behind us, its headlights once again illuminating us.
“Come on!” I yell, pulling Sam harder.
Tires screech again as the car comes to a halt, doors opening.
This is it. If this door doesn’t open we’re caught in a dead end.
Please.
I grab the handle and yank down, but it’s locked. Morgan must have had it fixed recently.
Fucking hell.
“Chance!” screams Sam again.
I look at the door. It’s old, bent out of shape from water damage.
Here goes nothing.
I can hear the sound of footsteps running towards us. I’m waiting for the gunshot as I stand back and lift my leg, use all my weight and power to kick hard into the center of the door just like we used to back in Afghanistan.
To my relief, it works. The kick manages to smash the door open. It hangs loosely off the top hinge as I push Sam in front of me and send her through. “I’m right behind you,” I tell her.
She’s running down the hall in the dark. “Where am I going?” she yells, her voice echoing in the small space.
“Take the first left.”
She stops and heads down the hallway leading to the left. I can’t quite remember where it leads. Everything looks so different in the dark.
I follow her white dress, use it like a beacon as voices echo behind us—male voices, gruff and harsh. They’re coming, but they’re not going to find us.
I consider who might be around, but this is Saturday night. Apart from Anthony and maybe another guard inside, I doubt there’s anyone else here.
We come into what must be a kitchen behind one of the food outlets on the lower floor, stacks of cups and plastic utensils rising to the roof.
I place my hand on Sam’s back and direct her down behind a chest freezer. I squat down beside her and press her in behind me, putting a finger to my lips.
She nods, hair sticking to her face, pupils huge.
I listen, but the footsteps seem distant. We might be okay if we can just wait them out. There’s a game tomorrow. The staff will start arriving at six. That’s five hours away.
I pat down my jeans pockets and find my cell, pulling it out only to find it’s dead.
Of fucking course it is.
I see a phone on the wall, but it’s only for internal calls within the stadium. I can’t remember where to find a phone to call out. I know there’s one up in Morgan’s office, but to get there we’d have to head back out into the open and up the stairwells. It’s way too exposed.
It’s a fucking mess, but at least we aren’t outside. At least in here we have a chance. For now, we just have to hunker down and hope the hitters don’t find us.
I look around and stand up cautiously, moving to the counter at the front of the outlet.
Sam’s tugging my jeans. “What are you doing?” she whispers.
I place my finger on my lips again and make my way over, opening the drawer below and hunting through it with my hand until my fingers fall on the handle of a knife.
I pull it out, the blade glinting in the darkness.
I tuck it down the back of my jeans and crab-walk back to Sam.
If they do find us, I’m sure as fuck not going down without a fight.
Chapter 17
Eizo
As soon as the blackout hit, we knew this was our chance. The AC contact was a lucky break, almost divine intervention, but they had to run, didn’t they? It would have been nice if it was just the girl. The football kid hasn’t done anything wrong, though he did put my favorite team out of contention last week, so I guess a bullet between the eyes won’t hurt. Collateral damage. The Don will understand.
We’ve both got our pistols raised, working our way through the back corridors of the stadium. It’s dark, not much to go on, but over the years my eyes have tuned well to the shadows. The darkness is where we live, where we thrive.
Michael and I don’t talk. We’ve been working together long enough now that we’ve developed a kind of sixth sense, a natural intuition. I can tell by a simple shift of his head, a lift of his shoulders, what he’s thinking.
We come down a narrow hallway and I can almost smell her, that sweet scent of young pussy, the fear. It’s the best fucking smell in the world.
I’d hoped the security guard in the box up front would have put up more of a fight, but he’ll live in any case. That was a clean shot through the shoulder. One of my best.
Michael looks back and motions me towards a kitchen running off the corridor.
I take the lead and move in.
SAM
I’m trying to keep it together, but I can’t stop shaking and I can’t stop thinking that this is real, that the men hired to kill me are here, right now. I might be dead in less than a minute—nothing. No Chance, no life, no future, no family. I will cease to exist.
Please let it be quick.
I hear footsteps. I know Chance hears them too because of the way he tenses up in front of me, hand holding me behind him protectively. He’s got a chef’s knife tucked down the back of his jeans, but I don’t know what good that will be against a gun.
The footsteps grow louder and I fight the urge to scream, to call for help. Chance turns around, finger to his lips, his eyes steely and collected.
With a sudden horror I realize they’re here, in the kitchen.
I see a shadow loom on the wall, growing and growing as the hitman gets closer.
I want to run, to take my chances, but I’m being held back.
Chance takes out of knife. He’s coiled up, ready to strike.
I watch as Chance scans the darkness for a way out.
We both notice it at the same time. A door maybe six feet away. It has to lead out to the main thoroughfare running around the stadium.
Chance turns and whispers. “Wait here. I’m going to check the door.”
“No,” I whisper back, but he squeezes my hand.
“I’ll be fine.”
He stands and slowly pads to the door. I watch as he turns the knob, the door starting to open. All the while he keeps his eyes on the kitchen.
Please, please, God, let him be okay.
He opens the door a little wider and waves me over.
I’m halfway to him when one of the men calls out. “Here!”
I make it through the door under Chance’s arm. He swings in behind me, closing the door and locking it. “Run!” he yells.
I start running down the main walkway inside the stadium. It’s wide and open.
I look back and see Chance right on my tail.
I almost trip at the sound of gunfire, the door we just came from kicked wide and the two men bursting through into the open. But we’ve got distance on them now.
“Left!” calls Chance.
I swing down a series of steps into the lower walkway, my legs burning, begging to give in, but not now. I can’t.
Pounding footsteps above us, echoes and sounds all around.
Oh no.
I come to a dead end, a solid wall, and start to turn around. The entrance onto the field is only twenty or so feet back, but the men are too close.
Chance points to a small alcove to the right of the wall. “Get down!”
I tuck into the alcove, Chance crushing me against the wall, knife by his side and his head poking around the corner. He pulls in.
I don’t need to see out to know what’s going on.
They’re here.
We’re screwed.
“What now?” I whisper, hoping he has a plan. “The entry to the field. We just ran past it.”
He nods and reaches down to the floor, picking up a half-full Coke bottle. He takes it in his hand. “This is going to have to be the best god-damn throw of my life. When I say ‘go’, you run for that entry. Don’t stop for anything. Got it?”
I nod, but truthfully I don’t know if I’ll be able to move.
Without warning, he steps out into the open and brings his arm back, heaving the Coke bottle down the hallway. “Now,” he whispers.
I run out into the open and see the two hitmen with their backs turned looking for the source of the sound; they don’t know it was only a bottle. He must have thrown it over their
heads, made them look away for a distraction.
It’s terrifying running straight towards them, but I make it and dive into a tunnel leading out onto the field. It’s not until I hit the turf I look back for Chance.
Come on. Come on.
He finally appears, running for me.
“Go!” he yells.
I run, but this is the field. You can’t get any more in the open than this.
I don’t know what to do, so I run for the middle, stopping when I reach the halfway line, looking to the moon above, the heat and stress and fear and everything bearing down on me.
Chance runs up and presses me behind him once again as the hitmen emerge from the end of the tunnel. Once they see us, they stop running.
We’re done.
“I’m sorry,” says Chance.
He holds the knife high, standing in front of me and shouting, “Come on, motherfuckers!”
I press against Chance’s back trembling.
This is it. This is finally it.
The men are close enough now to make them out in full. The tall one wears a dark, shiny suit, his hair greying and cropped close to his head. The other is short with a prizefighter’s build, a similar buzzcut and eyes so dark they’re black even out here under a full moon. In his track-pants and T-shirt, he looks ready for a marathon, not about to kill someone in cold blood.
The tall one speaks with measured syllables. “Put the knife down, kid. You’re only going to hurt yourself.” He keeps the gun trained on Chance’s chest.
“You’ll have to kill me to get to her.”
The sporty one laughs. “That’s precisely what we’re going to do if you don’t stop being a little cunt. Now move aside and let us do our job.”
Chance drops the knife. It spears into the turf, the handle wagging back and forth. “Okay, tough guy,” he says, addressing the sporty one. “You’re an Ali fan, are you?”
The sporty one looks down at the T-shirt he’s wearing, some kind of Muhammad Ali anniversary text and picture on it, the greatest boxer of all time with his gloves raised. “What’s it to you, sunshine?”
“If you’re such a boxing fan, such a big, bad boxer boy, why don’t we handle this like men?”
