“You ready for me?” he asks.
Amber cranes her head back, her eyes on the ceiling. “Yes, Jack.”
Chapter Two
“Let’s talk about your perception of ownership. Do you really believe that you’re entitled to more than others simply because of your economic status?”
“No, Doctor. That’s not correct at all. The money at my disposal is a means to an end. It gives me an advantage here, in the jungle.”
“That’s an interesting analogy. So, in this jungle, you’re competing with others for resources.”
“More or less.”
“You’ve enjoyed every privilege society has to offer, while others, your competition, haven’t. Isn’t that unfair?”
“Yes, it’s unfair. But the advantage is mine. Why would I fight against it?”
“Wouldn’t it be better for society in general if people worked together instead of competing?”
“Better for society, not for me.”
“Your possessive, jealous qualities extends to people. Correct? How can you justify that, ownership over a human being?”
“I don’t need to justify it. It’s a primal instinct, the animal inside of me, the animal we all are. If I take something, anything, it’s mine.”
“That sounds like a justification to me.”
*
Amber’s waiting to feel herself spread around Jack’s flesh. Her eyes are closed. She’s bracing herself for the huge bulge she felt in his pants. She realizes her mistake a split second before she opens her eyes.
Jack’s staring intensely into her face. He’s still as stone. Amber lies frozen on the table, petrified. A desperate, irrational hope rises in her chest, a hope that she could somehow erase the previous minute, and they could get back to what they are doing.
She slowly rises up to her elbows, careful not to make any sudden movements. The air is thick with silence. Time seems to have stopped. Jack remains motionless, though his breath has deepened. Amber tries to hold his gaze even though she’s trembling.
“I know who you are,” she admits, because she doesn’t see any other choice. Panic overcomes her in a instant. The trembling turns to convulsing, and she starts to cry. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Please.”
Jack’s eyes are dense black orbs. Amber cowers under his intimidating gaze. When he leans over her, he seems even larger. His face is so close to hers the bristles of his beard tickles her chin.
“You’ve known this whole time?” Jack makes sure to keep his voice calm. He doesn’t want to scare her and make her scream. That could attract attention. He partly blames himself for this. How could he be so reckless? Was he that desperate to fuck her?
Amber nods numbly. Jack can’t decide whether to be enraged or impressed. This woman allowed herself to be left alone with a known fugitive, and almost let him fuck her. It’s the kind of dangerous thing Jack himself would have done. He looks down at her ghostly pale face. A kindred spirit?
Jack still has a raging erection, but he puts his cock away. He buttons up Amber’s dress, and pulls her skirt back in place. It seems like the right thing to do. She lies motionless, letting him dress her, though she never takes her eyes off of him. Jack makes sure to keep his body angled in such a way that she can’t run away.
“You could just let me go,” she says in a strained whisper. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you. You have my word.”
Jack’s mind goes to the knife in his pocket. He wishes he could let Amber go, but he can’t trust she’d keep her mouth shut.
“Please, Jack. I never planned on ratting you out. You’ve been here for over an hour, and I haven’t told a soul.”
Jack hardens himself against her pleading. He takes her hand and helps her off the table. He doesn’t let her go. He holds tightly to her hand, and pulls her closer into him.
“Clean up,” he demands. “Lock up. Just as you normally would.”
Amber gulps. Her fear is palpable. Jack thinks she should be relieved. He’s sparing her life, for now. When Amber hesitates, he tightens his grip, and retrieves the knife from his pocket. He angles the blade, letting the dim light gleam over the surface. Amber’s eyes widen as she takes in the sharp edge. She shifts unsteadily on her feet. Jack brings the tip of the knife under her chin.
“Do as I say, and I won’t use this.”
Amber strains her head up, careful not to let her flesh sink down on the knife.
“Yes, Jack,” she says, breathlessly. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
Jack’s cock twitches. This beautiful, utter submission makes him feel powerful. He’d like to show Amber just how powerful he is, but they have other business to attend to. Jack lowers the knife from her chin, letting his forearm sweep across her chest in the process.
“That’s good,” he says, softly, slowly. “Now, clean up these coffee cups.”
Jack lets go of Amber. He stays close to her as she follows his orders. She wipes down the table, gathers the coffee mugs and washes them in the kitchen sink. She marks her initials on a clipboard hanging in the kitchen. Next to that is the work schedule. Jack looks it over, and sees Amber isn’t scheduled to work tomorrow. Amber goes to the front door to lock it. Jack is steps behind her, holding the knife.
“Is that it?” Jack asks.
Amber nods. “I just need to lock the backdoor.”
Jack jerks his head that way. “Then let’s go.”
Amber plants her feet. This irritates Jack. He grabs her arm, just a little too hard.
“I said, let’s go.”
Amber’s eyes flutter as fresh tears form on her cheeks. “What are you going to do to me? Please, don’t leave me dead in the street. I have a father, a brother. They couldn’t handle it. My mom passed away a few years ago. Please, don’t do that to them.”
Compassion tugs Jack’s chest. He doesn’t want to see Amber beg for her life. But he doesn’t let this show on his face. He steps closer to her.
“Just do as I say.”
The two of them exit the backdoor. As soon as Amber deposits the key in the pocket of her uniform, Jack grabs her from behind, and plants his hand tightly against her mouth.
“Scream, and you die,” he warns.
Amber doesn’t have any reason not to believe him, so she keeps quiet. This is what you wanted, a taste of danger, and now you’re going to die, she scolds herself. It’s brutally cold out here. An icy wind whips around her bare legs. In the process of being kidnapped, she’d neglected to grab her coat. Don’t need a coat where you’re going, she thinks, morbidly. She closes her eyes, waiting for the knife to pierce her flesh. There’s no way she’s getting out of this alive.
But to her (moderate) relief, Jack stows the knife in his pocket. With one hand firmly over her mouth, and his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist, he pushes her through the streets. The melting snow has refrozen into ice. Amber’s feet slip repeatedly beneath her. But Jack is strong and steady, and keeps her upright.
He leads her to the only car parked on the deserted street, and slings open the passenger door.
“Get in,” he barks. She moves to do just that, but she’s not fast enough for Jack. He shoves her into the car, though taking care not to hit her head. He slams the door, then rushes around to the driver’s side.
Between the adrenaline and the cold, Amber’s shaking violently. Her back teeth chatter. Her ribs are sore from the tension. She rocks herself gently, an attempt to warm and comfort herself. Jack’s movements are rushed and aggressive. He rams the key in the ignition and cranks the engine. He takes a second to look at Amber. In the darkness, it’s hard to see, but in his face, she thinks she sees a tenderness, regret, maybe. Jack cranks on the heat at full blast. Amber huddles around the vent, desperate to warm her hands. Jack grips the steering wheel.
“Put your seatbelt on,” he says.
In her delirium, Amber almost has to laugh. It’s an odd order coming from a killer. She stretches the belt across her chest, and clicks it into place.
When Jack slams the gas and swerves into the street, Amber’s glad for the restraint. Without it, her head would’ve slammed into the dashboard.
He doesn’t want me dead, she thinks, trying to hold on to the tiniest shred of hope.
The drive seems to take a handful of seconds, yet also, Amber is beginning to think she’s lived her entire life in the passenger seat of a fugitive’s car. Her present situation is so far removed from the steady, unyielding ordinariness of her everyday life, she can’t fathom both realities can exist on the same planet.
My name is Amber Louise Parker. She wrings her hands in her lap as she reminds herself of this simple fact. My father is Phil Parker. He’s sixty years old. I baked the cake for his birthday party. My brother is Samuel Parker. He’s seventeen years old. He’s a shit head, but I don’t want to die and leave him. My mother is dead. I can’t remember what she smelled like. I asked her once if she believed in heaven. She said she didn’t know.
These thoughts help. Gradually, Amber’s blood pressure decreases, and her heart rate slows down. Time and space go back to normal, allowing Amber to snap back into reality. They’re miles away from town, barreling down the road that runs parallel to the lake. The cabins out here are for tourists. In the summer, they’re booked solid with people seeking to fish, swim, and waterski on the lake. Now, in the middle of the frigid winter, they’re deserted. There’s no one out here. No one’s going to help her.
The realization lands with a thud in Amber’s mind. It fills her with a strange peace. She’s going to die, there’s no two ways about it. In every true crime novel she’s ever read, the kidnapped girl ends up killed, and usually gruesomely so. The corpses are always stripped naked (of course) and there are often body parts strewn about. Amber wonders if that’s why that particular genre had appealed to her, because it was her own death foretold.
No, you wanted to live out some sick fantasy, she reminds herself.
Jack stops the car in front of one of the cabins. “Wait for me,” he says, before getting out.
Amber watches as Jack breathes fog in the freezing air. He looks around, studying the night, making sure no one’s around. It occurs to Amber that Jack might not kill her right away. He may torture her first. Jack has taken a few steps away from the car, peering into the distance. The death Amber had just resigned herself to now seems like something that can be avoided. A spark inside of her lights up, telling her to fight for her own survival. Blood rushes through her veins as she tries to figure out what to do. There’s only one option; to run. She focuses her gaze to the dense woods beside the cabin, throws open the door, and hurls herself forward.
She stumbles at first, but quickly gets back on her feet. Her breathing is deafening in her own ears as she takes off in a frantic run. Jack calls out behind her. She doesn’t look back, but she knows he’s running after her. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of the woods. That’s where she’s going. Once hidden in the thick tangle of trees, she can hide from Jack, then try to find help. Never mind the fact that’s she’s only wearing her waitress uniform and will probably freeze to death, the immediate course of action is to get away from him.
Jack’s feet pound on the frozen ground behind her. She can hear his labored breath. How close is he to her? She wills herself not to look back, but to keep going. She’s closing in on the edge of the woods. If she can just get inside, she’ll be safe.
Amber leaps over a shallow ditch, and lands on the soggy pine straw that covers the ground. She experiences a sense of elation that lifts the hair of her scalp. She’s done it. Now she just needs to dart away.
She takes a hard right, and her shins slam right into a tangle of briars. The pain is sharp and raw as dozens of sharp thorns tear into her skin. She drops to the ground with a yell, and frantically tries to rip the terrible vines from her legs. In the process, the thorns attack her hands. She fights through the pain, ignoring the streaks of blood running down her legs as she continues to free herself.
There are two soft thumps, one foot, then the other, coming to stand directly behind her. Amber drops the thorny vines, and her breath stops. A heavy hand lies on her shoulder, then fingers tighten around her flesh. He takes his hand away, but she doesn’t dare run. Jack bends beside her, and patiently cuts the briars away with his knife. He takes care to remove the thorns from Amber’s legs before making her stand. Jack hooks his forearm around Amber’s shoulders, and holds the knife to her side.
“Walk,” he commands.
Amber shuffles forward with Jack steering her direction. You’re digging your own grave, Jack thinks. Once they get out of the woods, he puts the knife away in his pocket. He looks down at the woman he holds against his chest. She’s wearing a short dress made of thin fabric in this blistering cold. And after her little escape attempt, the skirt is torn, and the dress stained with blood. There are red streaks down her legs and on her arms. A spark of anger lights up in Jack’s core. His arm tightens around her. She did this to herself. The spark turns into a surge, firing up his limbs. She didn’t listen. She didn’t do as he said, and she got herself hurt.
Jack has Amber at his complete mercy. He has a tight hold on her, so tight, the veins can be seen in his forearm. His anger soaked brain tells him to hold her even tighter, to show her pain, to teach her. But Jack’s been in therapy long enough to recognize these irrational urges. He follows Dr. Wainwright’s advice, and forces himself to get control. This is achieved with slow, deep breaths. He loosens his arm. Amber gasps. The reflexive inhale propels her back against his chest. She cranes her neck back, looking up at him. Their eyes meet and they share a moment. Separate from the fact that he’s her captive, and she’s his captive, on a subconscious level they acknowledge their respective roles, the weak and the strong, the protector and the protected. It’s up to Jack to keep it that way.
*
“You’ve been in plenty of fights with men. Have you ever been violent with a woman?”
“Only if she’s into that.”
Chapter Three
Detective Simon hates interviewing psychiatrists. They’re all the same, every single one of them. He should know. During his twenty year tenure of chasing murderous psychopaths, he’s interviewed hundreds of them. And in each and every interview, they sit there in their expensive suits and skirts, their nose turned up in the air, citing ‘doctor-patient privilege’ with so much sanctimony Simon wants to gag.
The broad sitting in front of him is no different. Dr. Sheila Wainwright has treated the subject in question for the past decade. Jack Larsen, that rich asshole, is on the run after murdering his father, and this ‘doctor’ refuses to give any information that’s worth a damn.
Detective Simon knows he’s not good looking. He has a mirror. He sees that wiry flop of white hair on top of a forgettable face every morning. He’s small in frame, which makes him appear insignificant. He also possesses no charm to speak of, never has. The detective understands his shortcomings, and knows the only way to get anywhere with people is to make them feel sorry for him.
“Listen,” he says, wrapping his fingertips on the table between them. “Ever since Jack ran, my boss has been riding my ass. It’s an embarrassment for the entire department. Can’t you give me anything?”
Dr. Wainwright straightens her blazer. “I can answer your questions.”
“What did Jack say about his father?”
Dr. Wainwright raises her finger. “Except when I can’t.”
“Let me guess-“
“Doctor-patient privilege.” The doctor shrugs.
He’s getting nowhere with this woman. And it doesn’t help that she’s incredibly hot. She wears her hair pinned back in a bun, and has black glasses, giving her a sexy teacher vibe. Next to her, Simon feels like a schlub. He tilts his forehead towards her, leveling with her.
“Come on, Doc, you know Jack’s guilty. Stop protecting him.”
“I don’t know that he’s guilty. And you don’t either.”
Simon shakes his hea
d. “I’ve been in this business long enough to trust my instinct.”
“Instinct isn’t evidence. By jumping to conclusions without evidence, you aren’t doing your job.”
Simon makes a big show of rolling his eyes. He’s pretty fucking sick of people telling him what his job is. He knows what it is, it’s putting away murderers, rapists, real menace to society types. He takes out the trash so everyone else can live out their candy colored, capitalism soaked lives, all while pretending the darker side of mankind doesn’t exist.
“The guy ran.” Simon holds his hands out in front of him, pleading with her to see reason. “That’s not something an innocent person does.”
Sheila purses her wine colored lips, and pauses for a moment. “Maybe by someone who’s consumed by grief, shock, someone who’s already in treatment for mental issues.”
Simon poises his pen over the paper. “What kind of mental issues?”
Sheila smiles coyly, and gives him an infuriating wink.
*
Did you do it?
The question repeats in Amber’s mind as she sits on the wooden dining table, her legs dangling to the floor like a child. Jack crouches in front of her, his brow furrowed in concentration, as he carefully plucks the remaining thorns from her legs. Jack searches every drawer in the cabin, eventually finding antiseptic cream and bandages. While he tenderly treats her wounds, her tongue shifts in her mouth, prepared to form the words.
Did you kill your father?
But she can’t seem to say anything at all. She’s in shock, yes, and also utter confusion. Jack hasn’t killed, raped, or hurt her in any way yet. What’s his plan? To make sure she’s patched up before she’s thrown in his underground dungeon?
Jack disappears into the small room off of the living area. Inside, Amber glimpses a cot. He digs through a duffel bag that takes up most of the space between the bed and the wall. He returns holding something folded, and silently hands it to Amber.
WANTED: A Bad Boy Crime Romance Page 2
