Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  “But you don’t know about us, do you?” Marcus asks. He shakes his head. “You’re sort of the reason that we’re going after Jacob Waters. Our father was invited to one of the social events after you two got married. It was the one that, well, let’s just say it was the garden party for those people who didn’t want to get noticed by the newspaper.”

  “I remember that party,” I reply, shivering. “It was that night that Jacob graduated from being just a little rough to actually hurting me. The next night was when I first told him no.”

  “Probably for the same thing that we hate him for,” Marcus says sadly. “At that party, you met a man, about our height. He was just over forty at the time, kinda looks like us?”

  I think back, nodding. “Yeah, I think so. But it all seems like it was so long ago. I think I remember him. He was the one person who made me feel like I wasn’t just a side of meat to be paraded around. He actually listened to what I said, and when he smiled, it was a genuine one. It was after that smile that he said I reminded him of his sister.”

  “Our aunt,” Marcus says, getting up. “Jacob thought that Pop was flirting with you, that he’d been disrespected. So, he had Pop dragged out of his own home by a couple of his thugs and then shot right in the parking lot of our apartment at the time. Ryker was staying the night. He was going to community college at the time to try and get into City, and Pop was so proud of him, and he had us both over to throw Ryker a party. Instead of pizza and beer, though, Ryker and I watched as Jacob blew our father’s brains out all over the blacktop, then he just turned and got back in his BMW and drove away. The cops, of course, were in his pocket. They said that Pop was a suicide. How you commit suicide via gunshot wound to the back of the head, they never did explain.”

  I gasp, shocked at the story. “Your dad dying . . . he did that?” I swallow thickly, my throat going dry as a lump forms. “Jacob killed him because of me? And you thought I knew.” I barely get the words out of my mouth. I feel like I’m breaking down, overwhelmed by sadness.

  “We thought so,” Marcus agrees, getting up. “Or at least that you weren’t innocent. But I can see it in your face that you really didn’t know. None of this is your fault at all. I’m not saying it’s going to change your situation, but that’s just the way things go.”

  “I guess,” I reply, sighing. “Jesus, Marcus, I really didn’t know. I’m just . . . I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Seems there’s nothing you have to apologize for,” Marcus says. “But thank you for it.”

  “So, what now?” I ask. “You know, now that I’m sort of stuck here for a while.”

  “Now?” Marcus asks. “Now, I’m going to set up your whiz bucket, Ryker’s orders. If you need to do more, I walk you to the bathroom and back. Oh, and this.”

  Marcus reaches into the bucket again and takes out a book, handing it to me. “Sorry if it ain’t your taste, but Ryker’s the reader. I was always the guy who was more interested in video games and the streets than the books. Don’t think that Ryker doesn’t handle his shit either, though.”

  I look at the book, seeing that it’s a Dean Koontz thriller. “Thanks, I guess. Sure you won’t stick around a little longer?”

  “Sorry, but I’ve got work to do, mainly making sure that you stay right where you are and keeping you safe,” Marcus says. “Ryker’s orders.”

  Marcus leaves, and I consider what he’s said. I look at my bucket, and I wish I’d told him that I did need to use the toilet. It would have at least gotten me out of this bed for a while.

  A whole day later, and I’ve polished off the book and I’m bored out of my mind. Other than two more meals—oatmeal for breakfast, a ham sandwich for lunch—and two trips to the toilet, I’ve been stuck on this bed and the roughly two-foot quarter circle that the chain and my left arm give me to move around in the whole time.

  This is worse than prison, maybe even worse than Jacob’s. At least if I were in prison, I’d be allowed out to move around for part of the day. My eyes have done more moving than any other part of me in the past thirty-six hours. Even the digital clock on the other side of the room is maddening as it counts off the minutes of my capture.

  The door rattles, and this time it’s Ryker who comes in, carrying a bowl. “I’ve got dinner. Sorry I’ve been gone. I’ve been . . . well, working.”

  “Please,” I beg, not wanting to but feeling broken down, “please let me go. I won’t go back to Jacob. I won’t tell him where you are or what you’ve told me, Ryker. Please.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am, but that’s not going to happen,” Ryker says, not brutally but with finality, setting the bowl down on the small table. “You’re what’s keeping me safe right now. Your husband has already begun taking steps to try to get you back. I thought I was being funny when I quoted thirty-two million for you, but apparently, he’s trying to get it together.”

  “No!” I gasp, backing up. “No, please! Please!”

  Ryker comes over, sitting down by my feet like he’s ready to listen. In his deep blue eyes, I start to feel both empowered and ashamed. I’m embarrassed to look like this in front of this man. I want to be like the Sarah D. that he might remember. I want to . . . I want to feel worthwhile again, and in his eyes, I can see that he understands me, even before the words come out of my mouth.

  “Ryker. I . . . I need a shower. I’m fucking filthy. And I need to get out of this room.”

  I don’t mean to cry, I really don’t. But within seconds, I’m bawling, sobbing as the idea of going back to that house fills my mind. Oh, God, poor Stanzie. What’s Jacob been doing to her since I was taken? He’s probably lashing out at everyone. I reach down, grabbing my half-ripped shirt, and wipe at my eyes before blowing my nose on the tail of the shirt. Looking at the disgusting mess that comes off, the makeup and lipstick and snot all mixing into a filthy mess, I don’t even think as I peel it off, angry at this whole fucked up situation. “See? See what I’ve become?”

  “I see that you’re naked from the waist up,” Ryker says in shocked amusement. He reaches out, and I think he’s going to try and cop a feel before his finger rests on one of my scars. “Oh, Sarah.”

  “You see? I’d rather be your prisoner than go back there,” I sob, the tears coming again. I find a dry, semi-clean spot on the rag in my hands and wipe at my eyes again. “But Ryker. I need to get a shower. I need to get all this filth off me. I need—”

  Ryker takes his hand from my skin, his hand hesitant before he stands up. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to be patient with me about the shower.”

  “Why?” I half beg, half yell. “I won’t try and run! I mean, strip me naked beforehand. I won’t get anywhere that way!”

  “It’s not that,” Ryker says. “The bathroom is a little out of order at the moment.”

  “What?” I ask. “You have a what, four thousand square foot penthouse? Don’t you have more than one bathroom?”

  Ryker nods. “I let my crew who’s helping with security use the bathrooms. And some of these guys . . . they’re my boys, but they’re fucking stupid, to put it lightly. I guess there’s a shared drain or something because everything’s clogged. Marcus is out now to get a drain snake and some drain cleaner.”

  I can’t help it, I start laughing. I don’t know why. It’s not even funny. I guess it’s just all the emotions going through me. Finally, I’m so breathless that I try to hug my knees and my left arm rattles the chain on my handcuff, making me stop, sniffing at my armpit. “Let me know when I can.”

  Ryker nods then turns around. “Gimme a minute.”

  He leaves without another word, coming back a minute or two later with the handcuff key. “I wanted to make sure you’ve got privacy and a fresh t-shirt at least. Can’t do much about the rest.”

  He unlocks the handcuff, and I can see he’s tempted to cuff my other arm behind my back, but then he instead handcuffs himself to me. “One way to make sure you won’t get up to any mischief.”

  �
��Mischief?” I ask. “And why would I get up to any mischief?”

  “Oh . . . I seem to remember that your character loved to get up to all sorts of mischief,” Ryker says. “I’m just making sure that fiction stays fiction.”

  Being so close to him, naked from the waist up, I can almost feel the magnetism of his presence pulling me toward him as we leave the bedroom. I can’t help but check him out a little as we walk, and he’s in phenomenal shape. He’s right—he’s nothing like Jacob. Inside me, a small voice wonders . . . but I don’t really know this man.

  We walk to the bathroom, where I can see a small pool of water in the shower stall. “I see what you mean.”

  “Yeah, well . . . be quick about it,” Ryker says gruffly, and I think he’s half embarrassed himself now. He grabs a washcloth and some body wash from the shower stall. “A sponge bath should be okay for now, right?”

  I’m doubtful at first, but as I start to wash my face, it’s wonderfully refreshing, and washing my body feels good too. As I wash, I can still feel Ryker’s presence next to me, and I notice that he’s looking at me with something that I haven’t seen in a long time, so long that I’m not sure if I’m seeing things correctly.

  I think it’s genuine attraction, not the perverted power play that Jacob likes to play but instead the real thing, and heat starts to creep up my cheeks as I wipe down my breasts, my nipples getting hard from the sensation.

  “You know, it’d be a lot easier if you unlocked me,” I rasp, trying to sound bitchy but failing when I see how he’s looking at me. “I promise I won’t run.”

  “I left the handcuff key in the bedroom,” Ryker says half apologetically, but I can hear in his voice that he’s not sorry. “I could help.”

  I consider it, then nod, handing him the wet washcloth. “Can you get my back and shoulders? And then maybe . . . turn around so I can finish?”

  Ryker nods, lifting his arm so that he can stand behind me, our arms wrapped around my upper body. His hand rests on my stomach as he starts to wash, and while at first, I feel self-conscious about him touching me, the warmth of his strong hand soon replaces it and I relax.

  His touch on my back is gentle, almost a caress, and when my hips unconsciously push back, my ass bumps against something hot and hard.

  Ryker stops, and I realize what I’m pressing against, both of us freezing stock still. Ryker’s hand drifts up my stomach, cupping my breast, and the warmth of his fingers on my nipple sends tendrils of desire shooting through me, and I push back again, moaning this time. I stand up, turning around as best as the chain allows us, and look up at him. His face isn’t filled with bitter hatred or the evil madness of Jacob, but instead with something purer, just normal desire.

  Ryker pulls me closer and kisses me. His kiss has something that I thought was lost in the world, strength and tenderness in perfect balance, demanding but comforting. His tongue traces my lips, and I suck him into my mouth, moaning as his warm lips caress me and his free hand cups my ass through the sweatpants while my breasts crush against him.

  I don’t know what’s driving me, but I can feel the rising desire to fuck him grow inside me. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me or maybe it’s the kind words or the fact that he hates my bastard of a husband. Or maybe it’s just that Ryker’s the sort of man I’ve always wanted, strong and virile, intelligent and powerful, but still, when he looks at me, there’s respect in his eyes.

  My hand is going down to find his cock when the door to the penthouse opens and I hear bootsteps in the hall. “Yo, Ryker! I got it!”

  Marcus. Ryker lets go of me and steps back, both of us breathing a little heavier and Ryker looking a little guilty as he does so. He turns and goes to the door, sticking his head out. “Gimme two minutes!”

  “Cool, bro,” Marcus says, and I think he sounds amused, as if he knows something was going on between us.

  I try to gather myself, my nipples still aching from the feeling of being pressed against his shirt, and my body is warm from his touch, but reality is setting in again. He is the man who kidnapped me, after all. And while his eyes might show respect, he’s still just another criminal, the type of man I need to get away from. I should have learned a lesson, but maybe I’m drawn to the man who says he’s going to kill my abuser, something I’ve longed to do myself for so long.

  “Here, tuck this in your pocket,” he says, reaching past me and opening the medicine cabinet, grabbing an unopened toothbrush. “I’ll take you to my room and you can get a real t-shirt before dinner. You just have to promise not to try and shank me with it later.”

  After a quick trip through a walk-in closet that’s outfitted with a surprisingly fashionable wardrobe that looks like he’s ready for anything from Wall Street to 8 Mile in order to grab me a thicker if still plain t-shirt, we go back to my bedroom. Ryker unlocks the cuff from his wrist and lets me put my t-shirt on. When he doesn’t move to lock me up again, I raise an eyebrow. “Are you setting me free?”

  He shakes his head, getting the bowl from the dresser and handing it to me. “Sit. It’s just canned beef stew with rice, but it’s better than a Value Meal. I’ll stay, and then after you’re done eating, I’ll lock you back up.”

  The chance to use my left arm again is unexpectedly pleasant, and as I dig into the beef stew, I smile. “I guess you and your brother aren’t gourmets.”

  “I love good food,” Ryker counters, sitting at the end of the bed and watching me with his intense blue eyes. “I just can’t cook very well. Still, I do enjoy going out when I have the free time. Maybe in the future, I’ll learn how to make something good. You know, when I retire or something.”

  His light attempt at gallows humor makes me smile a little, and I keep eating, relishing every bite. Too quickly, the bowl is empty and I’ve scraped out almost every droplet of liquid inside. I hand it back to him, aware more than ever of his eyes on me. “Thank you. Might not be on Yelp, but it was good.”

  “You’re welcome.” Ryker stands up, and I’m less resistant this time to watching the cuff close on the bed slat. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

  “A new book?” I ask. “I finished what Marcus gave me. Something a little different this time, if you have it.”

  Ryker picks up the Koontz book, chuckling. “Okay, I’ll see what we have.”

  He reaches for the door, and I speak up again. “Ryker?”

  “Yeah?” Ryker asks, turning back.

  I shake my head, looking down. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Last night, Marcus told me about your father. I’m sorry that he got killed.”

  Ryker’s hand falls off the doorknob and he turns the rest of the way around. “Thank you,” he whispers. “He wasn’t a perfect man or even father, don’t get me wrong. But he loved us, and Jacob Waters shot him in the back of the head while he knelt in the street. I’ll never forgive him for that.”

  I’m struck by the intensity of the emotion in his voice, and I swallow, looking down. “I’m sorry I got him killed. I was thinking over the past day, and I do remember him. It just took me a while. He was . . . he was just being nice to me. And when he said I looked like your aunt, he said it so bashfully, I sort of kissed him on the cheek. He was just being cute and I was so happy. I gave him a peck, and he turned so red it made me laugh. I didn’t know that Jacob—”

  Ryker comes over and lifts my chin, looking me in the eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for. My hatred is reserved for one man and one man only. When his city is my city and his blood is on my hands, that hatred will be satiated. But thank you for telling me. I’ll bring you a book later.”

  Chapter 9

  Ryker

  After dropping off another book to Sarah, I go out to the living room, where I find Marcus blowing his nose and wiping at his eyes. “You okay?”

  “Yeah . . . just that drain cleaner smells fucking terrible!” Marcus says, chuckling. “I poured a bottle in each shower, and then the fumes hit me. Felt like something had reached up and grabbed
my brain and was pulling it out through my fucking nostrils!”

  I go over to the kitchen garbage, where I see the bottle in the trash, and I pick one up. “Holy shit, man, you’re lucky to be alive. This is the industrial grade shit and on the back, it says you’re supposed to wear a ventilator and goggles when you pour it. Where the hell did you get it?”

  “Louie’s Plumbing Supply,” Marcus says. “You know, the company owned by Downtown Bootsy’s brother?”

  I nod, putting the bottle carefully back in the trash before washing my hands in the sink. Better safe than sorry. I’d like to not dissolve my eyeball. “Be careful with that shit. And the rest of what you went out for?”

  “Streets are still on lock, man. The dealers are ready to pay directly to us, and the street workers are too. The Docks are ours already, and it might take a while, but I think we can get the airport under us quickly too. With some pressure.”

  I nod, thinking as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Okay, we’ll focus there. Anything from Jacob?”

  “Just what you heard. He’s supposedly raising the money somehow. He’s called in markers with a lot of people. Word is he wants her back bad.”

  I shake my head. “Maybe, but I was wrong about her.”

  “About Sarah?” Marcus asks as I pour him a cup of coffee and hand it to him. “How so?”

  I sit down, trying to separate my logical thoughts from the physical memories of having her pressed against my body, her lips on mine as we kissed in the bathroom.

  “When we talked about snatching her, it was not just to paralyze Jacob. We assumed she was guilty too,” I finally say, sipping my coffee. “But we were wrong. We thought she was involved, that she had to know. You said it yourself.”