Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3)

by Nicolette Hugo

  Maybe Killian was just fucking with him. A pissing contest.

  “Why would I take this bet? If I lose, I get nothing.”

  “You’ve been sitting there wondering if I am going to honor our arrangement. I’m a man of my word. You can keep the fifty you earned. Our wager is for the remaining fifty. Winner keeps it.”

  It was generous terms—a payoff to go without a fuss. The twist was just for Killian’s amusement. The man was toying with him; Killian knew he needed all the money, knew the number that had made him sit down and listen to the proposal in Killian’s office.

  The man knew Jerricho’s price.

  The fifty was being dangled out there as a reminder of who held the power.

  The bell rang and Jerricho looked back at the ring.

  “Preliminary matches don’t go past four rounds. It will go to the judges’ decision. A match seldom ends in a draw,” Killian explained, as if they were sitting there just shooting the breeze.

  Not with them. With them, there was definitely going to be a winner and loser.

  Except he wasn’t losing, he’d still walk away with the fifty. He could make up what he needed in three to four months. He could take the money and make the weekly payment. He could keep Dado off his back about medical favors. He was one giant fucking winner.

  So why did he feel like he was losing?

  Tonight.

  He had to leave tonight. He could see it playing out. A drive back to Killian’s office to collect the money then back on the streets. Jerricho thought back to the kiss.

  To Scarlet.

  “Lorenzo or Johnston, who’s it going to be?” Killian asked.

  The names meant nothing.

  “Why did you hire me, Killian?”

  “I’m asking myself that same question.”

  They looked at each other, each man simmering with his own fury.

  “You’d like to hit me right now.”

  “One day I will.” It was a promise casually delivered with certainty instead of a threat. Killian’s gaze moved behind him and he smiled. “Crash.”

  “Killian.” The man named Crash came up to them and shook Killian’s hand then Jerricho’s.

  Everything about Crash said fighter. From the short hair and crooked nose to the fit of his clothes. He turned and surveyed the crowd and the ring.

  “I hear you’re leaving, Crash, switching to UFC?”

  Crash turned to look at them again and shrugged. “That’s where all the pretty boys are going.” He smiled.

  Killian laughed. “Yeah? Then who the fuck invited you?”

  Crash laughed back. “Money talks. TV loves the cage …” He turned back to the ring with a look of longing. “You betting tonight?”

  “No, Black here is. Tonight I’m just spectating.”

  Crash turned and nodded at Jerricho. “You got a favorite?”

  He shook his head. “I’m new to boxing.”

  Crash raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’ve sparred with them both. Tight call. But I know where my money is going.” He winked at them.

  It was an unspoken offer for advice. All Jerricho had to do was ask. He expected Killian to butt in, but the man only watched him, waiting for his move.

  Crash was his lucky break. Hadn’t Killian said something about needing luck?

  And yet he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ask for the tip.

  This wasn’t about the money; this was about the girl.

  A girl who’d never leave her husband.

  And still it didn’t matter.

  Fuck it. He was the loser.

  He shook his head. “No. I’ve just made my choice.” He looked at Killian. “I’m all in, all of it for a chance to say goodbye. Tomorrow.” The only reason his voice remained steady was because he was strung so tight.

  He’d just put his freedom on the line to spend one more night with Scarlet. If ever there was a moment he was expecting Killian to slug him, this was it.

  Killian didn’t reply. The man just watched him, measuring him for what seemed like a long time.

  No.

  Killian was going to say no.

  The tension burned like acid chewing up his joints. He needed to move, but he sat there calm, contained, eyes never leaving Killian.

  Killian slowly nodded, raised his glass and saluted him.

  It was done.

  “I’ll bet on Johnston.” For no other reason than the “J”.

  He finished his vodka with a gulp. He’d just cost himself his freedom. He could barely breathe, and she was worth it.

  Crash smacked him on the back. “Smart man.”

  He didn’t feel so smart; he’d just bet one hundred thousand dollars for a goodbye.

  Twenty-One

  Scarlet heard the car roll up toward the house as the song ended. She didn’t know if she needed to take a deep breath or a deep sip of alcohol. She walked over to her piano, picked up the bottle on top of it and poured a generous splash of wine before sculling it. She drank it like it was the cheap stuff, except it wasn’t. Because of that, she’d had to drink a fair bit to get this drunk.

  Not drunk enough to cause this sick feeling in her stomach. She shouldn’t be nervous. Killian never lied to her. Had never lied to her. She had never been torn between Killian and a lover before. Some things were sacred. And then they weren’t.

  Killian walked into the room, hands in pockets. “What are you doing in the dark, Scar?”

  The room was barely lit. She’d been practicing in her studio in front of a wall of mirrors, but tonight she really couldn’t face herself.

  Killian hit the light switch just as Jerricho came in behind him.

  Relief. Sweet, giddy relief.

  She giggled; drunk and happy, she couldn’t hold it back.

  Killian tilted his head at her.

  “I can’t tango.” It was a deflection, but true. “I mean, I used to, but tonight my feet can’t remember.” She was babbling now, but she couldn’t stop. “The show. They want me to tango.” She laughed again.

  “You’re drunk.” Killian started walking toward her.

  “No. Tipsy. And I need someone to help me tango.” She couldn’t deal with anything deeper right now.

  He gently took her glass.

  “You kept your promise,” she whispered as their fingers touched.

  “Always.” He looked into her eyes. “I didn’t touch him.”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes prickled. She felt bad for doubting him.

  Killian placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

  She closed her eyes and breathed him in. “I love you.”

  He froze. Or maybe she imagined it.

  “It’s been a long time, Scar.” He pulled away and lightly cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the apple. “A long, long time.”

  That made her want to cry even more. All this time, she had been thinking it instead of saying it. All this time, what had they been doing? But tonight was good …

  She blinked away the tears; it was so easy to slip into the malaise of drinking. She didn’t want to cry. Tonight she wanted to celebrate.

  “I want to dance.”

  Killian smiled.

  “I want to dance.” Her voice rose as her gaze traveled over to Jerricho. “My husband loves to watch me dance. Do you know how to tango?”

  It could’ve been her distorted senses, but there seemed to be a pause, both men stopping. Then it was gone, imagined, because they moved as if they had an understanding.

  Jerricho came up and Killian passed her hand to him. His hand was warm as he took hers.

  Real.

  Jerricho was real.

  Killian had stuck to his promise.

  A fresh wave of relief, like a swoon, made her lose her balance.

  “I don’t think you’re good for dancing.” Jerricho’s hand gripped her arm as he steadied her. He sounded disappointed.

  “I’m good.” She smiled.

  “No. I don’t want you to twist an ankle. You’ve got a show.�
��

  She opened her mouth to argue then closed it. “We can dance tomorrow.” There was no rush.

  He gave her a smile tinged with sadness. It tugged at her conscience.

  She looked to Killian as if he had answers, but he was only watching, studying the two of them, with that impassive gaze.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary but something was wrong.

  “Dance for me now?” she said with a new urgency, feeling an instinctive panic she couldn’t explain.

  Jerricho laughed.

  “Please.”

  He looked at her, sobering because she was serious. “I can’t dance on my own.” That same sadness was in his smile. Bittersweet.

  She looked around helplessly. “Killian. Dance with Killian.”

  The men laughed together, but she wanted to cry. The bitch of it was she didn’t know why. “Please. Just … dance with him. For me?”

  She looked at her husband; he shrugged as if he had nothing to lose.

  She looked back at Jerricho.

  He sighed. “For you.”

  ***

  Jerricho moved together with Killian to the middle of the floor, half circling toward each other, half pulling away.

  What was he doing? Except Jerricho knew.

  He was saying goodbye.

  This was not how he wanted it. But goodbyes never were.

  And maybe this was easier—easier to leave on this disappointment than to leave the sanctuary of her bed.

  In that moment, he understood why Killian had hired him. All the questions he had answered—when you loved someone, you give them what they wanted.

  They came together. Both of them raising their arms, ready to lead.

  Behind Killian, Scarlet raised her brows. Now that Jerricho had agreed to dance, she was back to smiling.

  “Everyday songs to tango to.” She raised a remote into the air and pushed play.

  The unexpected guitar riff of The Animals classic, Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood filled the room.

  Using the distraction, Jerricho grabbed Killian and began to lead the man across the dance floor. The motion of his own body pushing them where he led, even as Killian pushed back. The slow steps less of a glide and more like wading through a bog as the man resisted.

  How had Scarlet thought this would work? Them, together. Impossible.

  The tango was not a contact sport.

  But this was not the tango.

  Their chests bumped into each other as they executed the steps up close.

  They were in each other’s space.

  In each other’s face.

  It was impossible to ignore Killian. Impossible not to feel every inch of Killian’s strength pushing up against his body.

  Jerricho tightened his grip.

  A moment’s pause before they wrestled the turn and lead. In a real fight, he was sure he’d go down to Killian, but in the semblance of the dance, the man was keeping it polite.

  Somehow they slowly moved along the floor in something of a dance until they slammed, straining into each other again. Killian moved his weight, stole the lead and did a step to rock them—still feigning the dance.

  Neat adrenalin coursed through his veins with its feel-good rush.

  Jerricho shoved, pushed the man out of his hold, then grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back. He didn’t give Killian time to get his footing as he took the steps … slow … slow … quick, quick, slow.

  He thought he heard Killian laugh but the music blared. The man slipped his foot between Jerricho’s legs and almost tripped him.

  Jerricho let go, the men rolling against each other as they got their balance. Chest to chest, back to back, each contact a heightened awareness. Until facing each other again, Jerricho grabbed and raised Killian’s arm to lead again.

  The man ducked under it as if he was going to use the momentum to turn the tables, but Jerricho jerked him sharply against him. The solid knock of Killian’s body slamming into his own was exhilarating. Jerricho clamped his hand on the man’s neck, tilting Killian’s jaw back and forcing his head to fall against him. Feeling the throb of Killian’s pulse under his thumb and forefinger, Jerricho placed his cheek against the man’s hair and breathed deep. It was so tempting just to squeeze. So tempting to own Killian’s breath, his heartbeat. Despite himself, Jerricho’s cock stirred.

  Killian maneuvered out of his hold and shrugged him off.

  Shoulders bumping, they turned on a tight axis to circle each other again; they had lost all semblance of the dance. The tango lost to testosterone, brute strength and hot tempers.

  Jerricho reached behind Killian’s neck and pulled him in again, leaning against each other like college wrestlers.

  His forehead pushed against Killian’s, like two stags locked in a game of dominance, and somehow dangerously intimate.

  Short, harsh puffs of breath meshed as their gazes held, equally fixed.

  There was defiance and acquiescence rolled into one as Killian’s weight leaned heavily into him even as the man moved lightly on his feet just like the boxer he was. The contrast was captivating.

  The second most erotic thing under his hands, after a submissive’s complicit surrender to their undoing, was the fight for it. Killian’s resistance and strength excited Jerricho.

  The music stopped, the silence repelling the men from each other like a cold shower.

  Killian’s eyes blazed with awareness as he jerked back.

  “Holy fuck.” Scarlet’s words broke the spell.

  Jerricho turned to look at her. The sheen of her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, no longer seemed related to the alcohol. Her tongue peeped from between her lips, licking as if she could taste what he’d felt between them.

  He shook the fog of it from his head, turned, and left the room.

  Twenty-Two

  “What do you mean Romeo’s gone?” Killian swiveled in his chair behind his study desk. Already irritated by the night before for some reason, this morning’s news about the kidnapper was not welcome. If there was a cliff, he’d just gone over it. His stomach was in free fall and, for a moment, all Killian could concentrate on was the impending pain when he smashed into the hard reality of that statement.

  “He didn’t show for the plane.” Eli sounded irritated.

  Irritation didn’t help. Killian couldn’t do anything with irritation. For months they’d been tracking Romeo’s movements between cartel strongholds. Always under protection, always out of reach.

  His stomach stopped reeling, but his muscles stayed locked, tense, suspended in anticipation for the splintering devastation that was still to come.

  “That’s not the bad news though. The bad news is he’s managed to shake our tail.”

  “Fuck.” The word was so soft, so calm despite the turmoil inside him. “We should’ve tried to grab him the last time he moved. We—”

  “Don’t go there. You’ve got nothing to gain by going there. You would’ve started a war. Waiting was the sane thing, the only thing—”

  “Christ, Eli, stop giving me platitudes like we’re on a first date.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sweet on you, Killian, but you’re not that pretty.”

  He snorted, and the pressure eased, a slow leak from a valve.

  “We’ll get the bastard.” Eli sounded so sure. “There was a shift in the power players; everyone with the wrong allegiances has scattered. Our mark is running scared.”

  Killian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the steady pressure a pleasant ache but not enough. Nowhere near enough pain to help him now. Pain gave your world edges. Pain gave you crystal fucking clarity about your next move. Pain spurred you on. He’d learned that from the uncompromising fists of his father.

  He thought about the boxing match; he used to chase that same edge in the ring. It had been too long since he’d chased that clear edge and sparred with somebody. He pinched his nose harder. “Tell me some good news, Eli.”

  “Romeo
no longer has guardian protection.”

  This was the moment they had been waiting for, and now it was no good to them.

  “But we don’t know where he is.” Finally, here came the crash-landing. Here came the agony …

  “No. I didn’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “We have an unconfirmed lead. Word is Romeo is on a boat. Dumbfuck jumped one of the cartel’s own boats to get back to Australia. Apparently, he’s hoping to join up with the man who helped him on the night of the kidnapping.”

  “Do we know for certain?”

  “The source is new. Untested. But we’ve got nothing to lose by following it up.”

  Their relationship went back far enough to know Eli didn’t make empty promises.

  “How long?” Hope born in a gutter was hard to kill.

  “Only a couple of days till he makes shore.”

  “He could land anywhere. Jesus Christ, the government could pick them up. If he gets into detention, he’ll be out of reach.”

  “Detention doesn’t put him out of reach, just out of your hands.”

  “No. My hands. I want him in my hands and I want him alive.” Which was ironic because Romeo Reyes was a dead man walking.

  “As soon as I get him, he’s yours.”

  “I’m tired of dancing with this fuck, Eli.”

  “I have something else. Maybe a lead about the day of the kidnapping.”

  Killian kept quiet. He’d always suspected the cartel had help; they knew when and where to strike, got close enough to put her finger with his lunch order. Except the obvious suspect, Scarlet’s driver, had been killed in the abduction.

  “Tell me.”

  “No name yet.”

  “Close?” Must be, why else raise it?

  Eli made a non-committal noise and then waited before answering. “It points to your house.”

  Tension was a bitch today. She grabbed hold of his gut and twisted. Cold ran up his spine. The news was confirmation more than a surprise.

  “As soon as you know.” You had to cut out the rot quickly.

  “As soon as I know.”

  He put the phone down, his movement slow, measured. In control.

  The silence was empty.