by Aubrey Irons
I glare at his smug face in the mirror. “Are you this much of a prick to all the girls you kidnap and tie up?”
“Only my favorite ones.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon in mostly silence, me sitting on his bed reading the book from my bag, and him off to the other side of the loft. Periodically, I can feel him looking at me, making me shiver, but I ignore it.
I ignore that, and the fact that even now, even as his prisoner, I can’t stop thinking about the feel of his lips on mine. Or his hands on me.
Or the way his eyes glinted into mine - so full of danger and forbidden temptation.
I lose my place on the page as I take a shaky breath, trying to clear my throat.
This has to be the beginnings of Stockholm syndrome, and I have to get the hell out of here before it gets worse.
Chapter Eleven
Connor
I’m brooding on my couch later, thumbing through my phone. I’m trying to coordinate shit with people and trying to get abreast of this whole Ukrainian thing, and I hate that I’m cooped up here instead of out there with the rest of the Saints figuring this out.
I’m also having a hard time concentrating on anything because my head’s all over the damn place.
All over the damn place, but mostly just on her.
I’ve ignored that little voice in my head all day, and all last night. I’ve ignored it while I ignored all my own rules and warnings and bantered back and forth with her, like this is some sort of office flirtation and not her being my goddamn prisoner.
I’m ignoring it now, glancing up to see her curled up on my bed reading a book she had in her purse. And if I needed any more reason to know I was right about her being out of place in that bar, with the flirty skirt and the boots and the leather jacket?
Yeah, it’s the fact that she had a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover in her fucking handbag.
Sorry, but genuinely grungy, edgy girls do not carry eighteenth century English literature in their bags.
Regardless, I’m not playing this right, and I know it. I’m getting too close, and being too casual, and too jokey, and too…shit, too flirty with her. And this is not the girl to be doing any of those things with. She’s too sweet, even trying to act tough like she’s doing. She’s too innocent - too young.
And for all the excuses or rationalizations I want to make, none of that matters or means shit. Because at the heart of it, there’s one pretty big glaring reason why I shouldn’t be playing this so easy and loose.
She’s a witness.
She’s a loose end - a leak in the dam. As sexy as I think she is, even I shouldn’t be thinking that, this girl is potentially the enemy. She and her mouth and what she saw could fucking break me, and I’d do well to remember that next time I start thinking about the way those sweet lips tasted, or any time my thoughts wander to wondering what they’d feel like wrapped around my cock.
Fuck, there I go again.
This is all going wrong. This isn’t neat and organized, not like my life and not how I like things. I mean, hell, I’ve got my vinyl collection organized by release date, for fuck’s sake. I’ve got my books arranged on the shelf in perfect alphabetical order, by author’s last name.
My fucking cereal and canned goods in the kitchen are organized by height and color.
I have control, and I have simple, efficient organization, and a girl like this shatters all of that control.
Hell, I never even bring women here. I bring them to my car, or a bar bathroom, or their place, if I’m feeling especially wild that night.
But never here. Never to my sanctuary. Not like this.
This is messy, and I don’t make messes, I clean them up.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I never hear the footsteps come up behind me. I’m so busy weighing out the possible consequences of bringing her here that I’m oblivious until something heavy connects solidly to the back of my fucking head.
I groan, my jaw tightening and stars dotting my eyes. The room spins, and I start to try and stand when my knees give out and I stumble to the ground. I stumble, fumbling for the gun in my holster when something hits me again
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My only thought is wondering how the hell the Ukrainians found me here, and I’m whirling again, my hand closing on the butt of my gun this time, when I freeze.
Yeah, not Ukrainians.
Sierra.
“What the fuck are you-”
“Take your hand away from your gun.”
I blink, the room still fuzzy at the edges and my balance still off. I can feel something that’s probably blood drip down my neck from whatever the fuck she nailed me in the head with.
The irony that I was just thinking about the consequences of bringing her here is not lost on me.
“What are you doing, princess,” I groan, squinting to make out which of the three of her is actually her. My eyes focus for a second, and that’s when I notice what’s in her hands, pointed right at me.
A taser. The taser I keep in the bottom drawer of my bedside table.
“You’re going to want to put that down.”
She’s trembling, her eyes wild as she shakes her head side to side. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s got her leather jacket and her boots back on.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m getting out of here,” she hissed, leveling the taser at me.
“I can’t let you do that.”
“What, so you can just keep me here? Yeah, no fucking way.”
“Hang on, there’s more to this than you know,” I growl. I haven’t told her about the Ukrainian shit yet. I haven’t told her that whatever she thinks of me, outside of this place is far more dangerous for her right now than being in here with me.
“The Ukrainians - those guys from the bar, I mean. They’re looking for us both. You can’t just walk out there and-”
“Stop, no,” she shakes her head. “Whatever bullshit you’ve got lined up, save it. Look, I’m not going to the police, I swear. I just want to get out of here, and I just want you to leave me alone, okay?”
She’s still shaking, and I start to weigh the probability of her actually pulling the trigger on that taser.
“Sierra, you need to-”
“Don’t follow me,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’m not going to say a word about what I saw, I just…” she swallows, and her eyes flick down for just a second.
That’s all I need.
I lurch towards her, my hand drawing the gun from the holster. Sierra screams, and I’m just about to get my hands on her when everything goes white and pain lances through my body like liquid fire.
I roar, the gun dropping from my hand entirely as I go dropping to the floor like a fucking brick. I groan, clutching at my sides where the prongs are sticking into my skin and trying to stand when the jolt comes a second time, and this time, everything starts to fade.
The pain claws at me, dragging me down into the darkness as I drop back to the floor, and it all goes quiet.
Chapter Twelve
Sierra
“Thanks for coming to get me,” I mumble, looking at the floor of the car.
Jayson clears his throat. “Yeah, of course.”
I look out the window as we drive in silence.
“Look if you were with a guy, I- I mean, I deserve-”
“I told you, I was at a friend’s house.”
“Out here?”
Why Jayson, of all people? Because I have zero friends, that’s why. Because after months of digging this hole for myself, I don’t actually have anyone else to call. Sure, I’ve got my family, but they’re off doing their own thing. They’re off living their lives and getting married and having kids and careers and all that.
Me?
I’m still just…treading water, I guess.
Stella would have picked me up, I know that. She’d even have put Carter in the car and driven out here to this shit-hole ar
ea to pick me up, and probably wouldn’t even have asked any questions until tomorrow because she’s that good of a big sister.
Except, I’m supposed to be the good one. Maybe Ivy would have gotten into shit like this, but not me. I’m supposed to be knee-deep in paid offers from firms, not fleeing my kidnapper, who I may or may not be totally and completely inappropriately attracted to.
Cut out the rest, and all you’ve got is Jayson, who I called after running away from that factory building of Connor’s and finding shelter in the world’s shittiest corner store a half mile away.
Hey, I knew he had a car.
“Thanks for picking me up, too.”
He nods.
“Look, what I did was fucked up, I just-”
“That was my fault, Si,” he sighs. “Dude, that was me, I just- it was a misunderstanding, you know? I really thought you were done with me that night, and the next night, with that girl, she just-” Jayson sighs, shaking his head. “I was lonely and afraid you were gone, Sierra.”
I bite my lip, eyeing him. “I set your practice space on fire, all your stuff-”
“It’s just stuff.”
“Does your band hate me?”
“Nah, they’re mad at me.” He laughs. “Well, okay, they might hate you too.”
The difference between him and Connor is striking. Jayson’s small, and furtive - eyes darting as he cautiously takes a corner. I’ve only driven with Connor once, and I was in the trunk, but I imagine him driving purposefully, with confidence.
And I can’t believe I’m still fucking thinking about him like that. I’m still sitting here thinking about that stupid fucking kiss, or the way his hands just grabbed me and tossed me over his powerful shoulder like a caveman.
I’m still thinking about how wet that gruff, dangerous, coldly calculating man made me.
This must be what Stockholm syndrome is.
“So, what happened with your friend?”
I blink, startled from the filthy and entirely wrong thoughts of my fucking kidnapper.
“Um, nothing, she- she had to go someplace.”
“And she left you out here, dressed like that?”
“No, she left and then I went out to grab a soda, and the keys…”
I trail off. Somehow, Jayson seems to let it go.
“Well, I’m glad you called.”
“Me too.”
I’m not going to think about whatever bullshit about people looking for me Connor was trying to feed me when I made my escape because I know that was just his last-ditch attempt to keep me in that place. For now, all I need is a ride, and maybe a couch to sleep on, and tomorrow I’ll take the train to my parent’s house in Shelter Harbor and figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
“Thanks.”
I take the beer from Jayson as I sit on his couch.
“Look, if this is weird, I can call a friend.”
Right.
I’ve told Jayson that I’ve left my apartment keys in “my friend’s” place. I’m not mentioning that the man who kidnapped me has my driver’s license and knows where I live.
“Or like, get a hotel or something.”
“Sierra, it’s cool, really. You can grab my bed, and I’ll stay out here on the-”
“The couch is fine, thanks.”
He nods.
“Hey, can I…” He looks down. “Look, can I play you something?”
I raise a brow, a smile peeking at my lips. “Play me something?”
“A song. I’ve-” he sighs. “Look, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since the other night, and I know I fucked up. I just know you’re too good for me is all, and I was just waiting for you to realize that and walk away.”
He’s really laying it on thick, and while I am glad he answered the phone and came to get me tonight, that doesn’t mean I don’t still think he’s a slime-ball for cheating on me.
“Look, can we talk about us,” I wag a finger between us. “Can we talk about that later?”
“Yeah, totally.” Jayson smiles. “Can I still play you this thing?”
“Sure.”
He beams, reaching for the acoustic guitar leaning against the television and throwing the strap over his neck. He strums, and the chords tumble out as he starts to sing.
And I’m so tired.
Jayson’s still singing, and I can tell it’s about me because I keep hearing my name in the lyrics, but I’m having a hard time focusing on anything else as the exhaustion of the night starts to hit me. I take another few sips of the beer in my hand, and my eyelids start to get heavier and heavier.
Fuck, why am I so tired?
The room suddenly starts to get fuzzy and spin a little, and suddenly, a horrible feeling starts to claw up inside of my chest.
No, not tired.
Something’s wrong.
The room spins a little more, the walls pulsing as if they have a heartbeat.
It’s hot in here, and suddenly my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.
I’m aware of the song stopping, and Jayson putting the guitar down.
“Jayson?”
He walks toward where I’m starting to slump over on the couch, my pulse beating faster and faster even as my body becomes less and less responsive.
The beer falls from my hand.
“Something’s wrong, Jayson.”
He chuckles, and suddenly, my heart lurches.
“Why are you taking your shirt off?” I mumble.
He shushes me.
Oh my God.
I’m aware of his hands dropping to his belt and loosening it, but I’m powerless to move at all.
And then there’s another voice in the room.
“You fuckin’ bitch.”
Max - Jayson’s terrible friend and bandmate Max, who’s stepping into the room behind Jayson and grinning wickedly at me. He starts to pull his t-shirt off too.
“Please,” I whisper, the room starting to fade at the edges and my body going completely numb. “Please, don’t do this.”
I’m falling, my head hitting the couch.
“Torch our fuckin’ practice space, huh?” Max laughs. “This is gonna teach you, you bitch.”
I can’t breathe, and I can’t move, and I can’t even scream as it all goes black.
Chapter Thirteen
Connor
The pounding of my fist on the front door sends lightning through my head.
Tasers fucking suck, for the record.
My head’s still roaring, but my blood is on fire, the scowl that’s been etched on my face ever since I woke up on the floor of my loft with blood crusted over one eye only making the pain worse. But I swallow it down.
I pound again, and I hear a lock click open. The door opens a crack and this skinny hipster fucker peeks out.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Sierra. I know she’s here.”
Well, I know her phone’s here, at least. Call it insurance, or at least proof that I’m not fucking everything up these days, but I stuck a tracker in the back of her phone case the first night I took her to my place.
It’s coming in handy right now.
“She ain’t here, bro.”
“Really,” I growl.
The kid swallows, nodding, but there’s a hint of something on his face I don’t like.
Smugness, that’s what it is.
“You sure about that?”
I notice he’s shirtless, his pasty, toneless body inked up with these fucking terrible tattoos like the “don’t tread on me” snake inked across his heart.
I sincerely doubt this kid was in the Marines.
I look past him and see another face peep out from a dark room down the hall.
Something’s not right here.
“Why don’t we check and make sure, yeah?”
The kid frowns. “Hey, what the fuck do you-”
I shove the door open and push right past pasty-face as I step into the apartment. I feel his weak ha
nd grab my arm as I push past him.
“Listen, bro.”
I whirl and shove him back hard against the wall, making him whimper.
“Don’t touch me again,” I say evenly, my hand tightening for a second on his neck.
I turn, my eyes narrowing. “Sierra?”
I stick my head into a grimy kitchen and scowl. This place is an absolute hole - guitars hanging from hooks on the walls, shit everywhere, and a kitchen full of old take-out containers.
It’s got college flop-house written all over it.
“Sier-”
“Fuck you, man!!”
I grunt as something slams across my back, my head clanging like bells all over again.
Yeah, I am done getting whacked with shit tonight.
I whirl with an animalistic snarl on my lips, yanking the fucking baseball bat out of the kid’s hand and hurling it into the kitchen, shattering everything. I sweep his legs as I shove him back with one hand, dropping him onto his ass.
“What the fuck are you doing in my-”
I reach into my coat and yank out my gun, and the kid’s eyes go wide in fear.
“Oh fuck! Please-!”
“No more fucking games,” I snarl. “Where is she?”
He shuffled back as I advance, skimming back on the floor into the dimly lit living room. I follow, when suddenly, my blood turns to ice.
She’s out cold, slumped on the couch and breathing shallowly with her jacket off, her shirt pushed up over her bra, and her skirt bunched around her waist.
There’s a sinking feeling.
A chilling sensation.
And then there’s just rage. All-consuming, fucking rage.
I roar as I yank the second kid out of the chair he’s huddled on, haul back, and smash my fist into his face, hard. He screams, blood pouring down from his shattered nose as I toss him like a sack of shit across the room.
The first kid, still on the floor, starts to scramble for the door. But I stride over and stomp down on his ankle, I’m sure breaking it as he screams in agony, I haul him up by the neck and send him crashing into the flat screen TV before I whirl, my fists raised and my shoulders heaving as the need to destroy these two consumes me.
