He was safe. Everyone in the ambulance was safe.
He peered out of the window, through the haze of dust; it seemed as if a sandstorm was bearing down on them.
Flames rose off the debris of a vehicle while soldiers swarmed around the second, undamaged truck. The Coalition convoy had set off a roadside bomb.
He opened the back of the ambulance.
Dust invaded his nose and mouth, and he coughed.
“Stay here.” He coughed again and lifted the neck scarf to cover his mouth and nose.
Campbell nodded. The order was standard procedure; they were not equipped for battle.
They were aid workers. Their remit was to help as soon as the hostilities ceased fire, except Jerricho couldn’t accept that. He jumped from the ambulance as more rounds were fired, Aamir running at his side.
To the wounded, every second mattered.
The shooting trickled to sporadic pops, and they split up to move through the bodies, looking for victims with the highest chance of survival. The law of triage was harsh, but necessary.
There.
Jerricho knelt down, but on closer inspection, he realized the soldier would bleed out as soon as they moved him. Still conscious, the wounded man was staring at him. Jerricho reached out and squeezed the man’s shoulder.
A flash of red darted across his peripheral vision and he turned to look. Seemingly out of nowhere, a local stood up ahead of him, staring vacantly, as if dazed. Their eyes meeting only briefly before gunshot mowed the man down.
Jerricho was on his feet.
“Stop!”
He kept moving.
“Stop!”
More gunfire. Behind him? He wheeled around, halfway down in a crouch and hyped on adrenalin.
A corporal, standing by the wounded soldier, held his gun pointing into the air. “What about Bradford? You left Bradford.”
Jerricho shook his head. There was no need to say it in front of the dying man.
He turned back to see if he could help the local instead.
“You take one step closer to that dog and I’ll say you got caught in the crossfire.”
Jerricho stopped, hung his head forward, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
Words.
They were just words. Tempers were thin.
But so was control.
He turned slowly back to eyes that shone with righteous fury.
“You look after the goddamn soldiers first. Everyone else is expendable.”
A hush fell around him.
“You can’t just leave him there.” Jerricho gestured with his head to the wounded civilian.
Teeth gleamed in a heartless grin. “I say I can.”
Jerricho didn’t flinch. War was ugly, and he’d seen the worst of it. Seen it tarnish the pure and punish the brave.
He looked around. On the outskirts of the scene, oblivious to the unfolding tension, soldiers were moving bodies.
“Get your boys to load the local in my ambulance, and I’ll sit with your man.” He started back to the dying soldier—Bradford, the dead had a name.
For a moment, it looked like the corporal was going to ignore him, but then the man gave a small nod and started to order some men.
Relief came in a wave of light-headedness as Jerricho knelt down next to Bradford.
Aamir ran up to him. “Ambo is full. One blast victim, one gunshot.”
Jerricho looked around and saw the soldiers were carrying the local man toward the dead. The shot man was alive and chanting, the weak words weren’t clear but it seemed like he was praying.
Jerricho searched for the corporal, the man was standing by the surviving truck, talking on a radio.
“He can ride on the floor.” He wasn’t leaving the man with them. “Just check him out and put him on the floor.”
Jerricho turned his attention to Bradford, slow tears rolled down the man’s cheek. He knew he was dying.
“Are you in pain?” The most he could do was try to make the man comfortable.
Bradford shook his head. Blood loss and shock had probably rendered him numb.
The boom of the second bomb sucked all the oxygen out of the air and knocked Jerricho flat. He was back to deaf; the dull ringing and foggy head, an ache in his eardrums seized the muscles in his jaw.
And then the rain of dust and the hail of debris started to fall.
Shielding his eyes, he tried to click his jaw free of the tension.
Blinking against the grit, he looked around. A severed hand lay a meter in front of him. Jesus, he knew that ring. Aamir was dead.
So was Bradford.
Coughing, he pushed up from the ground to his knees. Dust was on his tongue; he could taste the devastation.
One of the soldiers was screaming something about a BCB—the local had a body cavity bomb.
His stomach convulsed as he dry-heaved. He’d insisted they bring the man right into their center.
A boot kicked him back onto his ass.
“You … YOU ….” Hate hissed and he looked into the eyes of his mother. It was all there, the same sneer of distaste and accusation of betrayal.
“I’ve got questions for you.” A finger jammed roughly into his chest, a blunt prodding that felt like nothing. The hurt, the bone-splitting hurt, was tearing him up from the inside.
“Don’t you move.” Those frenzied eyes burned into him. “Don’t you fucking go anywhere.”
***
Jerricho’s body rocked as the car took off from the light.
Of course he’d moved. He’d found Campbell and gotten out of there. At the medical camp, they’d tried to convince him it was all a misunderstanding—to stay and clear his name.
The thing was, he’d looked into the eyes of someone who’d called him a traitor before. He knew from his mother, once you were branded, your accuser never listened.
Clear his name?
He had a fucking fatwa on his head for working with the Coalition and they were questioning him?
The only thing that had made sense was the idea of distance.
Nine
“He didn’t discuss this with you first?” Jerricho’s stomach churned as he stood on the doorstep of the Bailey residence and watched the fallout of Killian’s proposal.
“No.” The answer was written all over her face—a mix of shock and anger, warring with her outwardly calm demeanor. “He just … rang and said we would have company.”
In a less fucked-up world, Jerricho might have questioned what he was doing here, hired for another man’s wife.
In a less fucked-up world, he wouldn’t be hell bent on staying.
“For forty days.” More than casual company.
“Yes … he said someone would be staying for forty days.”
The pause stretched uncomfortably.
He should leave, but he didn’t move.
There were things you could do that made it hard to live with yourself; this didn’t come close. Dammit, why did he have to like her?
“Jerricho, I’m still….” She tilted her head. “What exactly does Killian want with you?”
“A better question is what do you want from me?”
Her brow winkled then smoothed as her eyes widened in recognition.
The door slammed in his face.
He didn’t move.
He was stubborn at holding onto hope, and she had given him a glimpse of it. There had been the briefest flash of lust after she’d opened the door to him, a breathy inhalation between her parted lips, and the softening of her shoulders. He clung to that fraction of a second of melting.
Slowly, the door re-opened and with it his chest.
Her hand clutched her blouse, pulling it up to her throat. “He hired you?” Even though she’d worked it out, disbelief still colored her voice. “For me? Why?”
She seemed to go back into her head, which was good, because he didn’t have any answers.
Nothing about Killian had screamed cuckold. Jerricho was sure, if h
e were being hired as a Bull for the man’s wife, it would have been a very clearly stated kink. The arrangement made no sense, but for the money, he was willing to trade-off that requirement.
She looked past him, then back at him, her gaze traveling down. “Do you have any bags? Or does he just expect us to run around naked?” She still clung to her shirt, her white knuckles betraying her glibness.
“The driver said he’d take them to my room.”
“Of course. I’m not—” She swallowed. “I’m not thinking properly.”
Scarlet finally let go of her blouse then smoothed her palms on her thighs, her spine straightening.
His muscles burned, his nerves itching to move, but he didn’t want to spook her. He was looking at the miracle he needed, and miracles were fragile things.
“It’s just, when Killian phoned to tell me we were expecting a guest—”
“You weren’t expecting me.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile.
“No. I wasn’t expecting you.” She gave a short, disbelieving laugh that ended with the threat of tears.
Fragile.
Guilt, the unease of it was so familiar, as it settled thick in the back of his throat.
It was easy to think of Killian as the bastard; he’d had to know how his wife would react, but Jerricho stood on the doorstep not backing down. The fact that it was hard to swallow; he was not the better man.
His eyes were drawn to Scarlet absently wringing her hands. His own tension groaned for release, his muscles begging to move. Slowly he raised his hand and rubbed the tightness at the back of his neck. Being this passive was uncomfortable.
“Scarlet.”
She flinched as if he’d snapped a whip.
“I’ll admit, this is an unusual situation but—”
She looked at him and then laughed.
And laughed.
Eventually, she caught her breath. “No shit, Sherlock.”
Her smile was less convincing than her laugh. So close, but she was not over the line.
“We have to get past the front door, don’t we?” For a moment, she looked as if she didn’t know how to do that.
He nodded. “We do.”
She looked up at him. “You’re in the boathouse. It’s at the end of the property.”
His chest eased another fraction, but the knot in his stomach didn’t let go. She sounded no more accepting than when she’d opened the door.
Complications.
Her. Him.
Everything.
The expansive garden was perfectly manicured. Jerricho had the same impression standing on her doorstep looking into her house. Easy living. Nothing stiff or pretentious, just elegant order.
A façade for a home that seemed to be falling apart.
Despite his inglorious beginning, that fact made him comfortable—broken homes were intimately familiar.
They walked in silence for a moment, and Jerricho pondered his next step.
How was he going to play this? Ethically, logistically, the whole arrangement raised questions—questions he didn’t have the luxury of analyzing.
Nerves churned in his gut as he stole a sideways glance at Scarlet. On the surface, she was back to being composed.
On the surface, he hadn’t allowed himself anything but being composed, but the nerves he felt weren’t just about the money.
Every time he saw her, the sense of connection felt deeper.
Dangerous thoughts.
He pushed them away and looked out at the harbor view, the beautiful calm of it, oblivious to the emotional churn.
The peninsula finger jutted out into the water, seeming to float between Sydney’s North and South shores. Moored boats dotted the blue. An exclusive enclave of society and money—a world away from the world.
“Do you have a boat?” The best way to get through this was to talk about nothing.
“No.” She shook her head. “Killian has no sea legs. He hates boats, but he likes the view, the openness.” She gestured with her hand. “He hates being boxed in.”
What Killian wants …
“And you? Do you hate boats too?”
She shrugged as she looked out at the water. “I don’t know. I’ve always been afraid of drowning.”
“Scared of the deep?”
“No.” She looked back at him. “I’m drawn to it.”
She was so earnest as she looked at him, a sad smile tugging the corner of her mouth. It cracked something open in him, something that was sharp instead of warm and welcoming. He broke the moment and looked away.
“That’s the boathouse.” Scarlet pointed as they neared a rustic-looking wooden shed next to the pier. “We converted it into a guest studio. It’s cozy but perfectly self-contained. Water taxis run right up to the jetty. It’s very—”
“Private. I like it.”
She smiled as she opened the door.
The inside of the boathouse belied its humble appearances. The timber was smooth and pale, almost Nordic. The furnishing expensive and low key, a stylish calm reflecting the flat bay waters outside its windows. It was complete luxury compared to his apartment.
“I’ll just make sure everything’s covered. I’m not sure if the housekeeper has been down here yet.” She opened the small kitchen cabinet and bar fridge. “For snacks really. If you want anything, just come up to the house.”
He spotted his bags sitting on the floor. He’d deal with them later; he was used to living out of bags. He’d left home at eighteen. His father had died later that same year. The connection between the two events had always felt inevitable. If there’d been anything to salvage with his mother, he might’ve stayed on in France after his studies. Instead, he’d landed up blowing about the desert like tumbleweed.
Now, he needed to stay.
Forty days.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Despite giving him this room, she still hadn’t explicitly said yes.
Consent was important. Consent was everything.
Consent could be coerced. He ignored that little voice inside his head.
Scarlet moved to the bathroom. He watched her skirt stretch and move with the swing of her hips.
He was hyper aware of her, a predator stalking prey. The tension in his body still screamed to be burned off.
The pool they’d passed in the garden looked inviting, cool water for a cool head.
Restless, he undid the buttons on his shirt cuffs and started to roll-up the sleeves.
Scarlet came back out into the room. She seemed back to awkward as her gaze fell on the bed then flicked back to him, narrowing on the slow reveal of his forearm.
He stilled.
This could all still end.
Her mouth wordlessly opened as she looked back up.
Heat.
It rolled toward him. An invisible wave that burned the oxygen out of the room.
His nerves soothed.
Her tongue slid along the curve of her bottom lip as he began to unbutton the rest of his shirt.
He was not going. Not yet.
***
Scarlet’s hand was at her throat; she could feel the racing pulse fluttering against her fingertips. She dragged her eyes off Jerricho. Looking made it hard to think.
Out the window in the distance, the water lapped at the hulls of the boats. Such an innocent motion and all she could think about was the rocking and that constant slap … slap … slapping.
“Scarlet.”
The honeyed sound of his voice buzzed under her skin, causing small vibrations that threatened to shake loose her foundations.
She turned back to face him. He was all planes and shadows, from the angular lines of his face to the hard definition of his body under that opened shirt.
“What happens next is up to you.” He gestured at the bed. “Is this what you want?”
They both knew this was what she wanted, but she stood there conflicted. Anger for Killian simmered in her belly. Heat mingled with the warmth in her
core, making it something else…
Her limbs still ached from the memory of Jerricho. A sore lingering that was swallowed as her body swelled and ripened, the capacity for pleasure and pain unfathomable.
The longer they stood there, the quieter her head was.
“I don’t care why you’re here.”
He looked at her as if he could tell she was lying.
“I just want to feel you inside me.”
What Killian had done tore up her voice, even as lust blew smoke into it.
He walked toward her—padded, like some magnificent animal.
“I don’t want sweet. Please don’t give me sweet.” Sweet would break her. “Just fuck me filthy.”
The smile on his lips made her knees buckle.
Then he was in front of her, lifting her and carrying her to the bed before dropping her on it.
Free falling.
Before she’d even stopped bouncing on the mattress, his fingers grabbed tight around her ankle. He yanked her to the edge of the bed, toward him. “Filthy?”
She nodded, her tongue too thick to speak.
Shoving her skirt above her waist, his rough hands yanked down her panties as she squirmed to raise her hips. A sudden desperate urgency consumed her now that he was here. Now that she’d said yes. Now that there was no more denying the desire.
Jerricho loomed over her, staring down at her writhing nakedness while all she did was pant. His gaze glanced over her like a physical touch.
She wanted more.
She wanted his fingers, his tongue, his cock—she wanted everything Jerricho Black would give her. Killian had just made her shameless.
Greedy fingers crept between her thighs, desperate to fill the need.
Jerricho’s iron grip snagged her wrist.
Steel fingers crushed delicate bones.
She yelped as he caught her other hand, bringing them together in that unbreakable hold.
The strength in him made her weak. And God, she was tired of being strong.
Leaning over her body, he pinned her hands above her head. “Maybe the last few times you weren’t paying attention.”
She breathed harder; the heat of his body singed her nose and throat.
“Maybe you’d like me to help you remember.”
She moaned, but it was nothing intelligible. She was captivated by the musk and salt of him.
Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) Page 7
