My stomach tightens with delighted anticipation of how this evening is going to end.
Buzzz.
Buzzz.
I'm jolted from my thoughts by my flashing and vibrating phone. I decline the call in favor of sending a text, not wanting to deal with the beginning of his tirade over the phone. Mik is much more receptive to my feminine manipulations in person.
ME: Already home. Only just saw your messages. Sorry xx
A reply flashes on my screen less than a minute later.
MIK: On my way. Ur in big trouble
His abruptness leads me to think that he’s texting me as he rides his Harley. I can picture him weaving in and out of traffic in his rush to get to me. Shaking my head at the dangerous habit I’ve been unable to get him to break, I pull my keys from the ignition. The chronic worrier always returns my texts and calls straightaway. He’ll always drop whatever he’s doing to be with me, should he feel the slightest inclination that I might need him.
Gratitude fills me that, four years after he saved me, he’s still as protective as ever.
It’s unusual not to have Mik, or one of the Enforcers, pulling into my driveway right behind me. I normally have an escort to and from work each day. I wonder what was so important that none of them were able to be here with me.
Summoning the energy to get out of my car, I pull my oversize work bag out behind me. Slamming my door shut, I contemplate what to make for dinner. Maybe if I have it ready when he gets home, I can simmer him down faster and get to the making up portion of our night. That feels like a suitable plan for my evening; a plan that brings a smile to my face.
Glancing around my immediate area, I'm happy to see that no one else is in their front yards. I'm pretty sure I resemble an escaped mental patient due to the goofy grin covering my face in excitement at my own genius plan.
Wandering to the mailbox, I pull out the envelopes and flip through them. All but one is addressed to Mikhail Kennedy—as always his detested given name makes me laugh. One single piece of mail isn't addressed to either of us. The plain white envelope is unsealed, and tipping the contents into my palm unearths a USB with Lainey scrawled on it in black lettering.
As I'm contemplating it with growing unease, a white work van pulls across my driveway.
“Hey, miss, are you ready for us?” The big man in the passenger seat yells at me, leaning out the window.
“What do you mean?” I reply walking toward the van, my thin heels clicking on our concrete driveway.
I slip the USB and Mik’s mail into my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
A sliver of foreboding runs through my mind, manifesting as an icy shiver that flows through my body. I carefully edge my right hand into my bag and wrap my fingers around the butt of my handgun. My illegal, unlicensed handgun.
Stopping a few metres from the van and cocking an eyebrow, I wait for a response to my question. Almost unconsciously, my thumb begins to play with my engagement ring, a nervous habit I've developed since Mik slid the ring on my finger just over a year ago. I hate that I’m always suspicious of anything out of the ordinary, but my past taught me—the hard way—that even the so-called “best” people have a dark side.
The man in the driver’s seat starts speaking, but I can’t hear him. He’s gesturing toward a piece of paper in his hand. Considering signage for a plumbing business decorates the side of the van, I decide they must have the wrong address. Giving myself a mental shake for being suspicious of nothing, I pull my hand from my bag and walk to the passenger window.
“I didn’t book a plumber.”
“We know,” the driver sneers, a sinister smirk crossing his face.
My heart lurches at his tone, chills running down my spine, and I turn to run. Two steps are all I manage before the van’s side door bursts open and two men leap out, each latching onto one of my arms, and dragging me kicking and screaming into the van. They slam the door shut as the van drives off at high speed, wheels squealing.
Screaming at the top of my lungs, I fight for my freedom with all I have. I manage to kick one of my attackers in the face before I feel a sharp pinch in my arm. Twisting around, I see an empty syringe sticking out of my bicep.
That can't be good.
My head grows fuzzy and my eyesight starts to dim. In the developing drug-induced darkness, I vaguely hear a man whining.
“Fucking bitch made my nose bleed. Fuck.”
Turning to search for the source of the comment, I’m hit in the temple with sickening force, and left with no choice but to embrace the beckoning darkness.
***
Blinking slowly because the light hurts my eyes, I lift my head to see if I can determine where I am. I vaguely remember being carried out of the van and then being thrown onto a bed before I lost consciousness again. It didn't feel as if I was out for long in the van, so I hope I’m close to home. Feeling slightly better at that thought, I try to make sense of my situation.
Everything is muddled in my head from whatever I was injected with.
Forcing myself to keep my eyes open despite the pain shooting through my temple, I discover that I’m in a large bedroom. A man’s bedroom by the look of the dark bedding I’m lying on. Male clothes lay over the foot of the bed, and the smell of cologne lingers in the air. The cologne smells familiar to my addled brain, causing my stomach to churn.
My strange reaction to the scent disturbs me, but before I can examine why, the bedroom door opens and in strides a large, muscular man with a shaved head and black tribal tattoos covering his arms. He glares at me, hatred shining from his hard eyes. Gathering as much energy as I can muster, I glare back. I can tell he’s the piece of work I kicked in the face, the dried blood on the front of his shirt and bruising setting in under his eyes giving that fact away. I make a point of grinning at him, lifting my eyebrows in amusement as I slowly drag my eyes over his face and blatantly examine the damage I inflicted.
“I see you’ve finally finished with your beauty sleep,” he snaps, advancing on me. “You looked pretty fuckable lying there moaning away like a bitch in heat...”
“You touch me and I'll have you killed,” I shout at him. I'm not bluffing. I know plenty of people who can dispose of anyone I ask them to. “Where am I? What the hell do you want with me?”
Lashing out at him with my legs, I land a good kick to his stomach. He grunts, but doesn’t slow his stride toward me. Ignoring my shouted questions, he slaps my legs down. Grabbing me by the arm, he hauls me off the bed, shaking me when I continue to struggle. My feet barely touch the ground as he towers over my five foot eleven frame, even with the added height of my heels.
This guy is massive, and regret fills me when he glowers down at me in rage. It’s going to hurt if he decides to turn violent. Silently, he drags me out of the room, down an expensively decorated hallway, and into an open plan living area.
“Is he here yet?” he barks to the other three men in the room.
They’re all equally as big and scary looking as the guy holding me. I didn't get a good look at the time, but I’m pretty sure they’re the other guys from the van. “She’s really starting to piss me off.”
“He’ll be here in ten. We've got plenty of time to teach her a quick lesson, Duke,” the black-haired guy sitting by himself at the breakfast bar announces to the bastard holding me. His gaze travels from the top of my long blonde hair and down my face, coming to rest on my breasts, which are heaving from the exertion of trying to keep on my feet during my trip from the bedroom.
“Good idea.” Duke sneers down at me, his intent written all over his face.
His grip on my arms tightens. My stomach drops and my adrenaline spikes. Backing me up against the closest wall, he rips open my satin dress shirt, exposing my blue lace bra. I instinctively struggle, albeit sluggishly because my head is still foggy, but he pins my hands above my head by holding both my wrists in one of his big paws. Groping my covered breasts without finesse, he squeezes and pinches. I’m a
bout to knee him when one of the men sitting on the couch jumps up and pulls Duke off of me.
“If you value your fucked-up life, you won’t touch her. We’re here to snatch and deliver, not for fun,” the man states.
Duke lets go of me as he’s yanked backward by the man speaking. Once I have enough space, I rear back and punch him in the face before kneeing him in the balls. My ample self-defense skills are rising to the surface, the residual fog from the sedative they injected into me clearing somewhat. My strike to his family jewels causes him to drop to one knee. His attempts to rise to his full height are hampered by the guy holding him. Even so, he still manages to backhand me across the face, my head jerking to the side from the impact. Pain shoots through my cheek and lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. My face throbs, but I ignore it, choosing to make a run for the front door. Thank God I'm able to run in heels, my movements sure and balanced.
Finally shaking off the guy who pulled him off me, Duke, grabs me around the waist, successfully foiling my escape. When he pulls me back against him, I throw my head back and strike him in the chin. He bellows, but doesn’t loosen his hold on me.
In the chaos, the other men rise to their feet and pull their guns. I vaguely register the weapons as they’re trained on me, concentrating instead on my struggle with Duke. I land a couple of good punches to his face and another knee to his groin. He gets some strikes in, but I don’t let them deter me. An unexpected, booming shout from one of the other men makes me hesitate, and interrupts my momentum. I’m forced to stop struggling, coming to a halt with my hands palm up by my sides to indicate that I’m not going to fight anymore.
Seizing me from behind, Duke pulls me back to his chest. Using his arms to pin mine to my sides, he slides a clammy hand into my bra and kneads my breast.
“Stop fucking touching her,” the guy who pulled Duke off me initially orders him once more. His serious, almost professional expression matches the take-no-prisoners persona he presents with his crew cut, cargo pants, and khaki T-shirt. He looks like a mercenary.
Pushing Duke away from me and grabbing me by the top of my arm, he squeezes tight when I resist. I’m going to have serious bruising on that arm if they don't stop manhandling me.
“Duke, fuck off over there and stay the fuck away from her. I won’t tell you again.” He points at the couch. Duke stares at me, intense loathing in his eyes, before he limps off and collapses on the lounge. “Cain, take her back to the bedroom and watch her.”
He shouts this at the smart mouth from the breakfast bar before he turns his back to huddle with the man he was sitting next to when we entered. Cain salutes the order, winking at me like we're about to share a private joke. I shudder under his lust-filled perusal.
“No problem, Stu.” The mercenary-looking man now has a name.
I mentally catalog their names. They’ll come in handy later, I’m certain.
The two who’ve huddled are talking in hushed tones, ignoring the rest of us. They appear to be the leaders of this group, so I assume this house belongs to one of them. My first thought when I look at them is that they have military backgrounds, their upright bearing and haircuts a good indication. Either military or MC. They wouldn’t look out of place in a cut either.
My lingering confusion is bugging me.
I can’t work out why they’ve abducted me and who this guy is that they're waiting to arrive. The only thing I know for sure—if this has something to do with my Dad’s MC—he’s going to go apeshit on their asses.
It’s a cardinal rule that women and children are not involved in Club conflicts.
Cain saunters over and grabs me by my sore arm, dragging me away from a glowering Duke and down the hall. I return Duke’s glare with narrowed eyes as I'm pulled passed him, sending a prayer to the universe that his balls hurt for at least a week. We’re nearly at the end of the hallway and out of sight of the living area when Cain surprises me by slapping his hand over my mouth, pushing me against the wall. My head hits the drywall with a sickening thud, and he presses his leg between my thighs. I scream, minimal sound escaping around his hand.
He licks the side of my face as we wrestle for control of my arms. Overpowering me after a short scuffle, he grabs my wrists and secures them above my head with one of his hands. I try to bring my hands back down so that I can defend myself, but Cain’s too strong. Using the leg he wedged between my thighs, he lifts me up the wall, spreading my legs with his hips, moving between them and pressing his denim-clad erection against me. My skirt has ridden up, exposing my lace-covered core. Feeling his hardness against me through my thin panties, I try to squirm away. I can’t stand the feeling of him pressed against me so I kick him in the back of his thighs with my heels. He doesn’t budge.
“Stop fighting me, bitch. I don’t give a fuck what Stu says. You’re too hot to hand over without tasting,” he tells me, his mouth to my ear.
Ignoring him, I yell against his hand because I know he isn’t supposed to touch me. It achieves nothing, the sound too muffled to carry down the long hallway. He releases my mouth only to punch me hard in the face for disobeying. My head bounces off the wall again, shooting stars bursting through my vision. Fear that I’m going to pass out from the impact overcomes me as he roughly grabs my breasts and grinds himself against me. The world dims. Cain breathes heavily in excitement, his mouth tasting of stale coffee as he forces his tongue into my mouth. I cringe at his invasion, despair winding its way through me.
When his hold on my hands loosens as his groping gains enthusiasm, I wrench them from his slackening grip and strike out at him. My wild swing misses when Cain is pulled off of me and thrown to the floor. I hit the ground with a thump from the unexpected loss of his weight holding me against the wall.
I watch in a daze as a large man with dark brown hair pounds on Cain, hope rising within me that I might be about to be rescued. It quickly dies when nobody comes to investigate the growing commotion.
Wriggling my skirt back down my hips, I sag to the floor, clasping the pieces of my top together. My mind is racing, my body trembling. I can feel blood running down my chin from Cain’s hit, my lip throbbing in time with my racing heart. There’s nowhere for me to run because they’re blocking the hallway, and this scares me almost as much as Cain’s attack.
Abruptly the man stops beating Cain, lifting him up by his shirt and dragging him back down the hallway. He doesn’t acknowledge me. He just drags Cain’s prone body away. I hear him yelling, his commanding voice sending chills through me.
It dawns on me that he's the other guy they were waiting for.
“Get this piece of scum out of my house. The rest of you can go as well. This part of the job is done. Stu will be in touch to organize the next phase.” I assume he’s talking about Cain when he continues in a demanding tone, “Find someone to replace him. If I see him again, I'll kill him for touching her. She's mine.”
I creep to the end of the hallway and peek around the corner. Cain’s lying on the floor near the front door, still unconscious, while the others are standing near the breakfast bar with their backs to me watching the newcomer as he goes through my handbag. Even though I’m only looking at his back, he seems familiar.
Ominously familiar.
He leaves the room and my range of sight as I’m still struggling to place him.
My handbag’s presence means my handgun and my phone are here somewhere. The first burst of real hope I've had since I regained consciousness explodes within me. If I can’t get away right now, I might be able to get to my phone to call Mik, or get to my gun to protect myself.
Duke and the blond guy whose name I haven't learned turn away from the breakfast bar, nodding to Stu in farewell. They pick Cain up by his arms and drag him through the front door, closing it without a word behind them.
My heart leaps when I don’t hear the telltale click of a lock when it engages.
Quickly glancing around for any of the remaining men, hope grows when I don
’t see any of them. Spotting my phone lying on the kitchen counter, I can hear it vibrating. I’d bet everything I own that Mik’s calling me nonstop to see where I am. My man would be home by now, and losing his mind since I’m not there when I told him I was.
Lord, I’d give anything to go back in time and wait at the office for him like he asked.
My addled mind is finding it hard to wrap itself around what’s happening. I take a few steadying, deep breaths, exhaling slowly through my nose to calm myself.
Peeking again, I see that they’re still gone.
It’s now or never to make my run for the front door.
I button my shirt up as well as I can and slip my heels off so I don’t slow myself. My favorite pair of Manolo Blahnik’s are about to be sacrificed for my escape, and my father will be replacing them.
Edging around the corner of the hallway, I spare one last glance in their direction before rising from my crouched position and running as fast as I can to the front door.
I make it to the front door without detection, twisting the handle of the door with urgency. My shaking hands make a mess of it, impeding my escape.
“What the hell?” a deep voice exclaims, and someone rushes toward me.
Turning the handle with increasing desperation, I squeal with delight when the door finally flies open. My first step toward freedom is aborted when I’m grabbed around the waist and slung over a large shoulder. My breath leaves me in a rush from the impact.
A large hand swats my ass with a stinging slap, causing me to gasp in shock and pain. The sudden intake of breath forces the cologne from the bedroom to flood my senses. My sedative affected mind finally remembers why the smell made me feel nauseous.
Terror rising within me, I struggle in earnest, kicking my legs and punching my captor in the back with all of my strength.
“Now, now, Lainey. Calm down, darling girl. You don’t want to end up hurting yourself, do you?” His deep, velvety smooth voice mocks me.
Brawl Page 22
