by Amarie Avant
Her tone is titillating and sexy as she says, “Bleed out and die.”
My lips bunch into a line. I shove my hair behind my ear and toss the other half of the power bar into my mouth, only to chew in anger. “You’re a doctor, Kayla. You gave an oath to save me! I’ll allow you to do it without that sexy candy striper outfit, too. There’s a first aid kit in there.” I nudge my chin to where I just grabbed the bar. “So, get to it.”
She scoffs. “You took away my rights, Jagger. Now, you’d like to treat me as a slave, ordering and allowing me to follow your commands! And you keep calling me a doctor. What sort of evil shit is that? I have the feeling you are aware that I’m not a doctor, yet. I bet I won’t have the chance to become a doctor, will I, Jagger?”
I shrug my shoulders, reach over and grab a bottle of whiskey. Here we go again, me cleaning my own battle wounds, and there’s a perfectly capable woman at my side.
“Don’t you dare drink and drive. I won’t have you inebriated, too. You’re psychotic enough as it is.” Mikayla reaches over. Like a snake with a lethal strike, I grip her hand before she has the time to discern her error.
“Mikayla, don’t underestimate my capabilities.” I open the whiskey, toss some on the wound and then taste about a shot and a half’s worth of it. Takes much more than that to get me drunk, and contrary to what Mikayla Bryant believes, I wouldn’t jeopardize her life… in that manner.
***
It’s almost midnight when I fuel up at the 138 Highway right off the 15 Interstate. After hearing Mikayla’s stomach growl, I stop at the McDonalds drive-thru across the street.
“What would you like?” I ask.
Her silence as response is infuriating enough that my Magnum is miraculously out and at her temple.
“Do it,” she demands.
With the gun still in my hand, I rub my face groaning heavily. “Alright, I’ll order for you, Kayla.”
I order a Big Mac for myself and a grilled chicken sandwich for her. While tossing change into the window, I almost gag at the scent of old frying grease. This sure as hell has nothing on the private chef in Bali or the master chef in Italy that I frequent when given the chance to murder someone in those locations.
I grab the bag, place it between us and reach over to grab the drinks, when what do I hear?
Mikayla chewing.
She’s eating my Big Mac. My eyelid spasms as she grabs the coke and slaps a straw into it. “You say obey, Jagger. I say this is a little foreshadowing for your ass! I’m taking back my liberation, slowly but surely. You wanted me to cry, to cave. Well, you don’t deserve my tears, you’re a murderer. So, I’ll obey, bide my time, and then checkmate your ass.”
She shark-attacks my damn burger, while her chocolate diamond gems for eyes are on me.
“Have at it, uthando lwami.” My boot slams onto the gas, as I merge into the intersection, leaving tire smoke in my wake.
“I’ll refrain from arguing about you calling me that, whatever it is. Because this is war, Jagger.”
I offer a little chuckle and glance over. Yeah, that little monologue she just did was pissed on. Fire extinguished.
“There’ll be no more deaths on my hands, but I will get away from you. I’ve been through more than I know–uh, you will ever comprehend. Don’t underestimate me.”
I head toward the onramp. “I won’t. You’re sophisticated, smart, beautiful.”
“Where are we going?” she asks, squirming a bit, obviously uncomfortable with the compliment.
“We were on our way to South Africa. The plans changed. We’re en route to Las Vegas.”
“Why change courses? I’ve never been to Africa. My parents own a timeshare, so Vegas is nothing new to me.” That inflection in her voice indicates she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. Shit, we both know me taking her to South Africa isn’t for a holiday. But just as I suspected when arguing with Ava, Mikayla thinks I’m a nut case. Well, I have one on Mikayla Bryant.
“You’ve never been to South Africa?” I match her disbelief. Although, I’m aware she’s trying to get into my head.
“No, Jagger.”
“You are an innocent, uthando lwami.” My hand instinctively reaches over to grip her thigh. She slaps at me; my hands sink into the thick flesh at the inside of her thigh.
“Stop. Please,” she cries out.
Reluctantly, I let go, and let my truck coast at an easy 125 Miles an hour. The grilled chicken feels slimy against in my mouth, but I’m a diabetic. My only fucking weaknesses!
“Back to Vegas,” Mikayla speaks up.
“You should really finish your food,” I shoot back, unsure to what extent I should tell her about the contract. About her. “No tears, I can agree with that. A challenge? Shit, me being challenged by a beautiful woman–I love it!” I glance back over at her.
“You know about my past?” she asks.
“Apparently, I know more than you do. When I mentioned South Africa, it didn’t register in your mind,” I state, matter of fact.
“You’re driving too fast,” she complains, ignoring my statement.
My boot eases off to a cool 100 miles per hour.
“Thanks, I guess,” she grumbles. “So, why Vegas?” she questions.
“I’m not ready to let you go yet,” I tell her, deciding, for once, to be upfront about my reasoning.
***
We arrive at the Aria Hotel and Casino a little past 1:30 AM. There are orchids streaming from the ceiling and placed inside ten-foot tall vases. Mikayla is out cold in my arms. She’d fallen asleep the instant we hit Barstow.
Her head snuggles into my neck, right next to the tattoo of my favorite gun. I’ve covered the lower half of her body with my leather jacket. As I walk toward the concierge, my pace falters. Her heartbeat is at peace and is strumming the same beat as my own. I brush a kiss along her forehead and then continue to the front of the desk. For the city that never sleeps, there’s only one other person ahead of me, with a rollaway.
The casino area is as active as ever, though.
“Welcome to Aria,” a Latina grins at me.
“I have a reservation for Jace and Alisha Windhoek.”
She types away at her computer. “Oh, you have the suite that includes concierge service. There was no need to stand in line.”
I shrug my shoulders. “We don’t want to be bothered this evening. But I’d like uh…pajamas for myself and my wife brought up to our room. And toiletries.”
“As you wish,” the Latina says, taking down my size. I guess Mikayla to be about a medium.
Mikayla murmurs against my neck. Her eyelashes flutter open.
I have never known such peace. Earlier, I said I wasn’t ready to let her go. It’s true. Princes and kings get what they want.
I’m usually the man in position to take my fill. What I want is to take Mikayla Bryant back, so she can become a doctor, to continue the life she’d started. Damn, I might even crave her happiness over the Lamborghini Ava Sinclair had offered. It had to have happened the moment I noticed her life flash before her eyes, a few hours ago, while trying to get away from me in my own truck.
I blame it on my morals. No murdering women and children. Sending her to Zihula is not murder to the fullest extent of the word, but it’s the end of the world she is aware of. And yet, I know the consequence of letting Mikayla go is my death.
So, I’ll keep her for now. I’ll complete my Las Vegas assignment in four days. If I was right about the reason for that African man’s willingness to try to pick me off with a sniper rifle, while at the trucking company, then I will probably end up dead, anyway.
Something about Sinclair’s request isn’t right. And if I had the contract, then what was with the African?
The Armenians were there for my blood. Not an oath but vengeance.
The African…I cannot figure out his reason for crossing paths with me. I’m the grim reaper. He neither had the training to take me out physically nor did he excel at marks
manship.
Mikayla glances around, her eyes shading to take the edge off the bright lights.
“Hello, Mrs. Windhoek,” the Latina says while creating two key cards.
“Mrs. …”
My arms tighten around Mikayla. I wasn’t able to warn her while scooping her up at the valet. But that’s okay, my glare reminds her of the consequences of disobedience, easy enough.
***
“So, you’re Jace now? And what’s with Alisha,” Mikayla asks. Moments ago, she was enchanted by the 360 views of Las Vegas, and I suspect that having been here many times, she never saw the city from this vantage point, while at the tippy fucking top. Now, she’s back to questioning me and looking at me with pure attitude with her hand planted on her hip, while standing in the middle of the extravagant living room.
“Yes, Mikayla, I’m Jace Windhoek and you’re Alisha Windhoek,” I answered in exasperated annoyance.
“Humph, I knew an Alisha once. She wore box braids and always had on big hoop earrings. And…” Mikayla’s voice fades as she yawns. Removing the fake Tiara from her head, she tosses it onto the couch and then begins to untwine the ball of hair on top of her head. Her dark brown hair is like spun silk. On the graduation photo, I was captivated with a few days ago, it was thicker, a little puffier…
Why the hell am I contemplating Mikayla Bryant’s looks?
“I’m scared, Jagger. When I’m afraid, I argue. When sleepy, I’m prone to argue, as well. But, all that aside, I need to know what you are planning to do to me?”
There’s a knock at the door. I remove my Magnum and place it on the coffee table, before going to answer. I glance back at Mikayla, who has disappeared into the bedroom.
The concierge is at the door. He’s a Caucasian male with a weak jaw and one of those perky, feminine grins that I want to punch. I grab the clothing from him as he greets me.
“Thanks,” I snap, irritated.
“Anything else–” he begins to ask.
“We have a lot of shopping to do tomorrow–” I say, not letting him finish, but he returns the favor, and interrupts me.
“Might I suggest–” he starts to say, but I’m not in the fucking mood for these games, so I cut in, again.
“No, you may not. We will need accommodations to and from Caesar’s Palace. That is all you may help us with.” I close the front door in his face. Tomorrow morning, Mikayla and I will spend a small fortune. We are the Windhoek’s after all. And we need attire for our time at the high roller tables. That’s where we’ll need to be once real estate developer, William Freedman, arrives in town. He was the mark I told Ana Sinclair about to get out of this. This, being the current cluster fuck assignment, with Mikayla, I was dealing with.
While moving into the living room, I call out to the princess who has no idea of her royal lineage. “Mikayla, I have–”
My gaze brightens as I glance down the barrel of my beloved 357 Magnum Revolver; the black pearl handle is nestled neatly in her palm. She’s standing at the door to the bedroom. Her knees are all scraped up, and the dress she’s wearing is no longer a prize I’d earlier wanted to peel off her, because it is sporting oil stains from the asphalt. That gorgeous hair of hers is like a lion’s mane around her shoulders.
God, she is beautiful.
“You’d shoot me, uthando lwami?” I question, wanting to see where she’d take this.
Mikayla
“Do not call me that!” I shout as my eyes begin to cloud with tears. Is it from lack of sleep? Is it due to fear? Why the heck does he keep calling me… those words? There’s endearment in his tone when he does it. This man. This deranged psycho with his hair tied into a messy bun, fast as lightning hands, and muscular body scares the crap out of me. I also have the perfect view of the tattoo at his neck as a reminder that although I’m holding the power, I should be afraid. And by God, I am afraid.
I weigh my options. Jagger will have to run the length of the couch to remove this heavy ass gun from my shaking hands.
Instead of seizing the moment, the beast starts to unbutton his flannel shirt. I’m suddenly mesmerized by more muscles than I’ve ever seen in my life. He puts all the personal trainers at exclusive gyms to shame. There’s a dagger spearing straight into his heart; the artistry of the tattoo is perfect. Aside from this tattoo on his chest, his muscles are etched in gilded marble, without a single flaw. Jagger goes for his pants. The sound of his belt unbuckling is pure eroticism. The lips of my nether regions quiver.
“Are you going to rape me now, Jagger?” The words feel wrong coming from my lips. I struggle to hold the heavy gun steady on him with my right hand and wipe more tears with my left. “You stole me from my life. Do you believe you can blind me with a room full of trinkets? That you can screw me?”
“I won’t rape you, Kayla,” he says, seemingly sincere.
“Don’t call me that!” I nudge the gun outward. Although, Jagger has kept his distance he lets his pants drop. My eyes snap shut. I will not be hypnotized by this fool! And then I determine that I’ll need to see to shoot him. Just keep your eyes on the target… on the target’s gorg—dang! Keep your eyes on his tropical blue gaze—dang it, Kayla.
It’s too late! My gander dived into those lazy blue rivers, stopped and drooled over his thick lips, and continued to trek across the ridges of his abdomen and notice how each perfectly defined muscle descends to his chiseled waist and further down to boxer briefs— My eyes snap back up to his.
There’s a sock in his undies. Has to be!
Jagger takes a step forward.
CLICK. I cock back the hammer. The sweet, breezy gaze he was just offering this entire time brews into a deadly, silent storm. In the blink of an eye, Jagger has closed the space between us.
“I saved your life, tonight, Mikayla! And you’d shoot me down,” he grits out, pressing that steel chest of his against the barrel of his gun. Jagger searches my eyes, but I turn away. My index finger is nestled on the whatchamacallit. I’m too afraid to think straight.
“C’mon, Mikayla, what’s the number one rule?” he asks, gripping the barrel and placing it at his head. Jagger’s dark blue glower burns against my skin, as he slams his skull against his own gun. He barks, “What’s the number one rule?”
My breath hitches, I could have pulled the trigger!
The trigger!
That’s what it’s called. There’s no air in my lungs. I struggle to suck in oxygen, and with it comes the manly scent of him. Strength? Power? Pine trees? He smells of strength, power, and pine trees. It makes my mouth water with desire, while I continue to look at the lunatic who is daring me to pull the trigger.
“What is the number one rule, Mikayla!”
“Obey,” I grit out, pressing the gun straight between his eyes.
“Right now, sweetheart you have better luck sucking the barrel of my gun,” he grits out, “than shooting me. I would never rape you, Mikayla, but you are knocking at the door of death, baby! Knocking at the fucking door.”
Why are my bones shaking? I’ve seen what this gun can do. The bullets are different. Those machine guns that the other men had at the trucking company did not come near the extent of the power of the revolver in my hand. I blink and see an image of Ronald’s chest, that gaping hole, flashes before my eyes.
I have the ultimate power in my hands. If I hadn’t used the restroom a few minutes ago, there’d be urine trickling down my legs. It’s shameful, but true.
“Oh, I have better luck sucking a barrel,” I scoff. Picking up his gun was imprudent of me. I’m not a murderer. “What else would you like me to suck?” I ask from out of nowhere.
I expect a cocky grin, but Jagger’s still a towering monster before me. “You aren’t safe, Mikayla! Listen to every word I tell you, uthando lwami, and I will keep you safe.”
Now, he’s back to spitting out words in a language I am unaware of. There isn’t a hint of lust in his eyes as he says them.
“Oh, yeah, Jagger, you are one c
razy motherfucker.” I match crazy for crazy. “I was safe, Jagger. The instant you came into my life, my innocuous life ended!”
His minty breath is hard against my skin, as he orders, “Then defy me, Mikayla. Pull the fucking trigger.”
“And kill you?” Why am I questioning this? Murdering him at point-blank range was my goal, wasn’t it?
“Yes, do it. And guess what? My guns have been modified, Mikayla, you’re smarter than this! Think.” His index finger presses hard against my head.
“Ouch!” I yelp out.
“If my truck wouldn’t allow you to drive away, what makes you think my guns will work for your benefit. So, let me tell you what will happen to you, if you so desire to murder me with my own gun, Mikayla,” he says menacingly.
My index finger lets up from the trigger, but not enough for him to notice, at least I hope. He’s calling my bluff.
“The instant you squeeze that,” he argues. For a man so consumed with anger at the moment, Jagger places his hand on mine, and guides his thumb over my index finger, assisting me with the process of shooting him. “Your hand will be blown off and instead of a bullet firing at me, uthando lwami, that bullet you intended to take me out with will slam back and shot you. How does that sound as punishment for disobedience?”
A tiny cry burgeons from deep inside of my body. It blossoms into a forest fire of sobs as I crumple to the ground, with the gun in my hand. Slowly, I unclick the hammer. The magnificent revolver slides from my palm to the marble floor as tears rake down my frame.
Seconds past, and then I’m scooped up into Jagger’s solid arms. I look a hot mess, and my soul is in such despair that I allow him to carry me into the bedroom and then the adjoining bathroom. The amenities in this room blur before my eyes as I cry more tears than I have in my entire lifetime.
He places me on the marble countertop. Jagger plucks Kleenex from the counter and tries to hand it over. I rub the back of my hand on my cheek instead of taking what he offers. Tears are mingling with snot, and I am no longer an exemplary member of the Women of Color club, I no longer have the foundation of my undergraduate school education. I don’t have anything.
