Taken

by Mia Ford

  All of a sudden it was like I was playing cards with a bunch of fucking horny teenagers. Eddie, Pete, and Ronnie fell all over each other to get to the door to peer out into the bar.

  “Holy fucking shit is right,” Eddie said. “Who is she?”

  “Don’t recognize her,” Skip said, peering over Eddie’s shoulder. “But I’d tap that ass.” He turned to me. “Rick, dude, you gotta see this bitch.”

  I blew out a long breath and threw my cards on the table. I picked up my beer and pushed them out of the way to see the woman that had gotten all their cocks hard.

  Sitting at the end of the bar, facing me, nursing a tequila shot, was a gorgeous piece of ass with hair so black it shined and a face that belonged to a fucking Victoria’s Secret model.

  She was wearing a black tank top that was overflowing with cleavage. Her arms were toned. I could see tattoos on her upper arms shoulders, but couldn’t make out what they were from that distance. My shoulders and back are covered with tats. I regretted getting every one of them. They hurt like a motherfucker. And they were like scars. Once you had them, it was virtually impossible to get rid of them without a trace. I gave respect to any woman who could sit through the pain it took to get the amount of ink she had on her.

  “I’m gonna go talk to her,” Eddie said, trying to elbow his way past me. “That bitch needs some Eddie Wright cock in her ass.”

  “Keep it in your pants, Casanova,” I said, holding up a hand that made them all take a step back. “Nobody’s sticking anything in anybody’s ass until I make sure she’s not a cop.”

  Eddie blinked at me. “Dude, you think she’s a cop?”

  “I think everybody is a cop,” I said. I tilted the bottle to my lips to drain it. “You fuckers stay here. I got this.”

  SANDY

  It took longer for me to sit in my car and muster the courage to walk into Dick’s than it did for someone to hit on me once I took a seat at the bar. I’d barely had time to slide onto the barstool when a slimy-looking guy wearing a wife beater and a Members Only jacket asked if he could buy me a drink.

  I told him to fuck off and he started to say something back to me, but the bartender came over and gave him a look that sent him on his way.

  The bartender, an older man with thick white hair, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie pulled loose from his collar (he looked like Coach from that old TV show Cheers) swirled a wet rag over the bar in front of me.

  He looked out of place compared to the bikers and sleaze balls lined up at the bar and sitting at the dozen or so tables that haphazardly dotted the room. There were three bikers shooting pool in the corner, leaning on their sticks and gawking at me like hungry dogs staring in a butcher’s window.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

  “What do you have?” I asked. It was the first time I’d ever sat at a bar. I had no idea what a bad biker bitch like me would drink.

  “Shots and beer,” he said, nodding over his shoulder at the bottles lined against the wall.

  “Tequila shot,” I said, trying to sound tougher than I felt. I had tried to psyche myself up, but my insides were churning. I could feel my heart beating in my neck. I was a nervous wreck, but I knew I couldn’t show it. A little voice in my head kept telling me to just breath… show fear, and they’ll tear you apart...

  The only tequila I’d ever drank was mixed in the margaritas at El Mexicana, the restaurant where Brent and I went when we had a craving for Mexican. I had never finished one of the icy drinks, served in a glass the size of a fishbowl. I put my elbows on the bar and tried to look tough as I watched the bartender bring over the shot glass of dark liquid.

  “Run you a tab?” he asked, wiping his hands on the rag.

  “Um, sure,” I said, picking up the shot and bringing it to my lips. The harsh stink of tequila filled my nostrils and made my eyes water. The old man chuckled and shuffled away. I set the shot on the bar without bringing it to my lips.

  Movement on the other side of the bar caught my eye. There was a room in the back of the bar. Several large men were standing in the doorway, gawking at me. One of them, the biggest one, stared directly into my eyes. The blood froze in my veins. I had just made eye contact with Richard Wright.

  I knew it was Richard Wright because I’d spent hours studying every line of his face. I had memorized every detail of his life that Mr. Beamon had sent me. I probably knew as much about Richard “Rick” Wright as the police did. I also knew everything there was to know about his brother, Eddie, and the rest of his band of thugs.

  I was shocked that Rick had never been convicted of any crime. He was the careful one, I supposed. Then there was Eddie; the dangerous, younger brother who had spent more time in jail than out. His criminal record included arrests for assault with a deadly weapon, assault and battery, breaking and entering, car theft, and burglary. He had been arrested twice for rape and once for sexual battery, but had not been convicted of those crimes. I suspected that Eddie was the one who killed Brent. I would know for sure the moment he smiled at me.

  I knew all this because Mr. Beamon had emailed me complete police dossiers of The Wright Brothers, sent to him by his pal on the force. I’d spent hours studying it, memorizing it, deciding how I could use it to my advantage.

  The day after getting my hair done, I drove to a tattoo shop near the Cost Clippers where I used to work. I’d seen the place hundreds of times over the years but had never given a moment’s thought to stopping in for a tattoo. I parked near the front door, sat in my car for a few minutes working up my courage, then went inside.

  The girl behind the counter had hair as black as my new dye job. She was wearing a skin-tight black tank top and skinny black jeans. She wore clunky combat boots on her feet. Her arms and shoulders were covered by tattoos; a mixture of colorful flowers, birds, butterflies, and smiling skulls. She had a small diamond stud on the right side of her nose.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing my fear of needles. “I want a tattoo.”

  “Okay. What kind of tattoo?”

  I nodded at her arms and shoulders. “I want that.”

  She frowned as if she didn’t understand. She asked, “You mean you want some flowers and butterflies? Where do you want them?”

  “No, you don’t understand,” I said. I gestured at her with both hands. “I want that. All of that. On me.”

  She gave me a smirk that let me know how amused she was by tattoo virgins who thought they wanted their bodies covered in ink.

  “This,” she said, gesturing to herself, “is about twenty hours and a couple grand. And it hurts like a motherfucker, so we typically space something out this big over the course of a month or two.”

  “I have two weeks,” I said, reaching into my purse. I counted out twenty-one-hundred-dollar bills into a net stack on the counter. Her eyes grew wider with each bill. “I’d like to have it done within a week so it has time to heal.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, reaching for the stack of cash. “We can do as much as you can stand today, then tomorrow, then the next day.”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  She folded the bills in half and shoved them into her back pocket. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  I looked down at her clothes.

  “Yes. You can tell me where you buy your clothes.”

  RICK

  I watched her as I sauntered behind the bar and pulled a fresh beer from the cooler. I twisted off the cap and tossed it in the trash on my way to her end of the bar. She glanced up, saw me coming, then looked down. The closer I got, the more beautiful she was.

  “Hi, there,” I said, holding up the beer. “Can I get you one of these to chase that with?”

  She blinked at me for a moment, like I was speaking fucking French. She picked up the shot and said, “No, that’s okay. This is fine.”

  “Okay, it was going to be on the house,” I said, brin
ging the icy bottle to my lips and taking a slow sip. My eyes went over her as I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.

  She had to be the best-looking woman ever to set foot in Dick’s. Fuck, she was the best-looking woman I’d seen in a long time outside of the place.

  Up close, her hair was the color of a raven’s wings. She had on heavy black eyeliner and dark lipstick that did not hide her delicate features.

  She wasn’t what the kids called “goth”.

  She was just dark and mysterious, like the queen of a biker bar where they only let good-looking people in.

  I wondered what she looked like without all that shit on her face. How would she look stepping naked from the shower with only drops of water clinging to her soft skin? For that matter, how would she look in the shower from behind, all soaped up and bent over with my hands digging into her hips and my cock slamming into her pussy?

  I shook off the fantasy and let my eyes drift down from hers. She had a long neck and big milky tits with deep cleavage that made my mouth water. Her shoulders and upper arms were covered in flowers and butterflies and smiling skulls. She had a little diamond pierced into the right side of her nose.

  If the rest of her, the part I couldn’t see because of the bar, was as hot as what I was looking at now, this was a woman I had to get to know.

  “That’s a lot of ink,” I said, letting my eyes go around her shoulders. I leaned back against the bar and crossed my arms over my chest so she could see the tats going up my biceps into my black t-shirt. “Must have hurt like a motherfucker.”

  “It was a little unpleasant,” she said. She picked up the tequila shot and brought it to her lips. She hesitated for a moment, then tilted her head back and tossed the bitter shot into her mouth. Her eyes widened for a second and filled with tears as the tequila burned its way down her throat. She started to gag a little. She covered her lips with her hand. For a second, I thought she was going to throw it back up on me.

  I chuckled and held out the beer. “Here, chase it with this. Makes the burn go away.”

  She shook her head for a moment, then reached for the beer and took a long, cooling pull from the bottle. I covered my smile with a hand and watched her recover.

  “Jesus,” she said, tongue hanging out, panting like a dog. “That really burns.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh when she tilted the bottle again and drained it dry. I stuck out my hand and gave her my best non-threatening smile.

  “I’m Rick,” I said. “Welcome to my place.”

  SANDY

  When I slipped my hand in his, I expected to be filled with a sense of revulsion, like touching the claws of the monster that had slaughtered your family. I held my breath and forced a smile as his long fingers closed around mine and he gave my hand a gentle shake.

  I swallowed the lump that had lodged in my throat.

  I said, “Hi, Rick, I’m Sandy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sandy,” he said, letting go of my hand and picking up the empty shot glass. He wiggled it at me. “Do you want another shot or something a little less toxic?”

  I held the smile as I stared into his eyes. They were gorgeous, deep blue, with dark irises and long lashes. Everything about him was gorgeous, from his warm smile to the Kennedy jawline to the thick muscles of his shoulders and chest. His brown hair was cut short on the sides and pushed back from his tanned forehead. He had several days’ worth of thick stubble on his cheeks and chin. When he grinned, I saw a mouthful of perfect teeth. There was no silver tooth shining back at me.

  “I think I’ll take one of those beers,” I said. My eyes tracked him as he went to the other end of the bar to pull two bottles of Coors from the cooler. His broad back tapered into the narrow waist of his black jeans. His ass was tight and compact. His legs were incredibly long. He was 6’4, according to his dossier. Brent was just 5’9. I towered over him in heels. I had planned to get married wearing flats. If I was standing toe to toe with Rick Wright, he’d tower over me.

  He was the hottest man I’d ever seen up close, but he was still a monster. He might not have pulled the trigger that killed Brent, but he was responsible still the same. It was his gang, his deal, his fault.

  “So, Sandy, what brings you to the dark side of town tonight?” he asked as he placed a napkin on the bar and set the icy bottle of beer on top of it. He took a step back and brought his bottle to his lips. “Looking for someone or just slumming?”

  I took a slow sip of the beer and licked my lips. I had never been a beer drinker, but it wasn’t too bad. I could get accustomed to the taste much quicker than I could tequila.

  I let my eyes around the bar to avoid looking at him. There was something in his stare that made me uneasy, like being watched from the shadows by a wolf that intended to devour you the moment your back is turned.

  I took another sip and asked, “Why would you think I was looking for someone?”

  He shrugged. “Why else would you be here?”

  “Maybe I just wanted a drink,” I said with a shrug. I held the bottle between my hands to keep them from shaking. I’d imagined this moment for weeks. I had told myself that I could handle the pressure of meeting him, that I could convince him of the lie, that I could kill him when the time came.

  He gave me a knowing look and slowly shook his head. “Nobody comes in here just to drink, Sandy.”

  “Why do people come in here then?”

  His eyes bounced from my lips to my tits like a pinball. “People come in here to get away, to forget, to get laid, but never just to have a drink.” He held the bottle to his lips and narrowed his eyes at me. “So, which is it for you?”

  “Which is what?” I asked, my teeth digging into my bottom lip. His eyes focused on my mouth.

  “Are you here to get away, to forget, or to get laid?”

  I stared into his eyes and summoned every ounce of courage I had left in my body. He had braced his palms on the bar and stood giving me the eye. The muscles in his thick arms flexed as he drummed his fingers on the bar. I briefly imagined his arms going around me, pulling me to him, holding me tight. Without blinking, I said, “Maybe I’m here for all three.”

  A broad smile crossed his lips. He held out his bottle for me to toast.

  “Well, Sandy,” he said, tapping his bottle to mine. “You have come to the right place.”

  RICK

  Sandy quickly drank five beers while we chatted at the bar. She seemed nervous at first; taking pensive little sips like she was trying to make each bottle last. But with each bottle, she drank a little faster. And her lips got a little looser.

  I grilled her easy, like a pro, and she answered every question without hesitation. If she was a cop or a mole sent in by the cops, I’d know it soon enough. Then I’d either toss her out on her sweet ass or let Eddie deal with her. Eddie hated rats; even ones as hot as this chick was.

  She said her name was Sandra Duval, but she went by Sandy.

  She was from here, born and raised.

  She said she was engaged for a while, but it ended badly.

  She lived by herself in a small apartment across town.

  She had never traveled any place fun.

  She had made a living cutting hair since high school but was tired of it now.

  She liked the taste of beer.

  Maybe she’d give bartending a try.

  “Do you know anything about tending bar?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, snorting. She nodded at Carl, who was standing at the other end of the bar watching a fight on TV. “But how hard can it be?”

  “Not hard in a place like this that only serves shots and beers,” I said. I plucked the empty beer bottle from her hand and brought her another. I studied her eyes as I asked, “You interested in working here?”

  The bottle popped from her lips. She wiped her mouth on her knuckle and gave me a dreamy look. “Here? Really? Do you need another bartender?”

  “I don’t necessarily need another bartender,” I sa
id, holding out my hands. “But old Carl would love the help. And if you worked here you would get to see me all the time.”

  She shot me a wary glance as if she didn’t know that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  I smiled. I’ve been told by more than one woman that I have a smile that would melt the panties off the Mona Lisa. It seemed to be working on her.

  She blinked at me as she played with a lock of hair at her neck and asked, “Are you offering me a job?”

  “Maybe. Are you looking for a job?”

  “Maybe.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her beautiful tits went up and down. I thought she was going to turn me down, but she stuck out her hand and gave me a cautious smile.

  She said, “Then I accept.”

  “Excellent,” I said, shaking her hand. Her hand was warm and soft and just a little damp from the icy bottle. I held it for a moment, warming it up. Warming me up. For some reason, I didn’t want to let her hand go.

  SANDY

  Holy crap…

  What the heck was I thinking?

  I didn’t want to work for Rick Wright.

  I wanted to kill him.

  But that would have to wait.

  I had to pee.

  “I need to pee,” I said. He smiled. My head bobbed. The words slurred from my lips.

  “In the back,” Rick said with a nod. He wouldn’t stop smiling at me. Fuck, I wish he’d stop doing that. His smile was making it hard for me to hate him. He watched me slide off the stool. “Need help?”

  “No, I’m good,” I said, holding up a hand as I waddled away.

  Getting drunk with Rick Wright was not part of my plan, but it seemed to be doing the trick. I had gotten close to him. He seemed to like me. At least he liked my tits because he couldn’t stop looking at them.

  I clutched the purse strap hanging over my shoulder and found a restroom in the back that had the word BITCHES painted in red across the door. I went inside, flipped on the light, and locked the door. I fell back on the door and took a minute to catch my breath.