Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  “And what the fuck did you think that would look like, Neil? Huh?”

  Neil. I remembered Neil. Or at least hearing about him. He was one of Scott’s employees. An up and comer with the company, according to Scott. Not that I knew what Neil actually did for the business. Hell, I could hardly explain what Scott did. He kept it all hush-hush. Said it didn't concern me, and I should keep my nose out of it. He’d told me repeatedly that his work wasn't a woman's business, he made the money and that's all that mattered. I just needed to shut up, look pretty, and do whatever he said when he told me to do it.

  Apparently, he had the same sort of relationship with his employees. Probably with quite a bit less smacking around, though.

  “I didn't think it would look like this,” he said.

  “Because you're fucking amateurs,” Scott said. “I was stupid to think you could help me with this.”

  “Maybe you should have done it alone,” Neil said, being braver than I would’ve been with a gun pointed at my face.

  “Yeah, maybe so,” Scott said, pulling back the hammer on the gun. “Maybe so.”

  I closed my eyes, bracing myself for a shot. But it never came. When I opened my eyes again, Scott laughed.

  “I'm not an amateur,” he said, grinning like a madman. “You don't shoot a gun like this in an enclosed space.”

  Neil got lucky, I thought. It's his lucky day.

  Of course, I didn't think I'd be that lucky for much longer.

  Chapter 14

  Jameson

  I rode into Palm Springs a little less than an hour after getting the address from Dave. Provided Scott and his stooges were bringing Isabelle back there, they couldn't have gotten there very long before I had. They couldn't have had much of a head start, and I'd ridden as fast as I dared go.

  My head was pounding, and my face felt like it was swelling up after the beating they'd given me, but I simply gritted my teeth and sucked it up. I had bigger things to worry about than my own bumps and bruises—Isabelle's life was at stake.

  I pulled my bike into a gas station to fill up and get something to drink. Walking into the small station, the guy behind the counter did a double take when he saw my battered face.

  “Take a spill out there?” he asked.

  “Nah,” I said. “Made the mistake of telling the wife her jeans made her ass look fat.”

  The kid laughed and shook his head. I couldn't hide my face, but I didn't need to tell him my business. I grabbed some aspirin and a bottle of Coke, and brought them up to the counter. When he got a closer look at me, the kid winced.

  “Looks like it hurts like hell,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Then it looks pretty much exactly how it feels.”

  “Sorry, man,” he said.

  I shrugged again. “Shit happens.”

  I paid for my things and walked out to my bike. It was ticking as the engine cooled. I took off the cap and stuck the nozzle into the tank, letting it fill. Tearing open the packet of aspirin, I popped them in my mouth and washed them down with a long swig of cold soda.

  I needed a plan. Rolling up to her old man’s house, knocking on the door, and asking him to let Isabelle leave with me wasn't going to work. I had a gun in the saddle bag on my bike, but all three of those clowns were strapped, so I was outgunned. Of course, being that they were rank amateurs, it might not be as big of a disadvantage as it normally might be. I might still be able to get the drop on them.

  But I needed to get to Scott's house without being noticed. My bike was loud, and they'd likely hear me coming if I just rolled down his street. Pulling out my phone, I punched in the address Dave had given me and pulled up the directions from the station.

  It wasn't far. I felt the seconds ticking away as I stood there, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do and how I was going to do it. First things first. I needed to find this house and see if she was even there. For all I knew, they'd taken her out to the desert, shot her, and left her in a ditch somewhere.

  Putting the gas cap back on the tank, I climbed on and started her up. Before I took off, I took off my cut and put it into one of my saddlebags. No sense in advertising who I was. After securing my bag, I rode off and followed the directions I'd gotten off my phone. Fifteen minutes later I came upon the street I was looking for, but the last thing I wanted to do was ride down it. Instead, I parked on the next block over.

  Getting off my bike, I looked around. The street was quiet and full of big houses obviously owned by the well-off. In other words, a street I'd probably never be able to live on. I scanned the windows closely, watching for anybody who might be looking out at me.

  Not seeing anybody, I leaned down and opened my saddlebag. I took out a ball cap and put it on, pulling it low on my head—wincing as it rubbed against my wounds. After that, I put on a pair of sunglasses. I figured it was best to obscure my face as much as possible—a man who'd obviously taken a beating tended to stand out. And I wanted to be as unmemorable as possible.

  Taking one last look around, I pulled the gun out of my bag and tucked it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back. Pulling my shirt down over it, I turned and walked back down the street, my boots thumping hard on the pavement.

  It was hot. Palm Springs always felt a lot hotter than Milling did, though the difference in temperature wasn't usually that great. Beads of sweat rolled down my back and my face—the salt from my sweat stinging the cuts on my face.

  I turned the corner heading for the house and stopped. The black van I'd seen in the motel parking lot was there in the driveway. I looked closely but didn't see anybody behind the wheel. It had been pulled in so that the rear doors were facing the garage which made it easier for them to get Isabelle out of the van and into the house unseen by the neighbors.

  The house was large and modern looking—all angles and glass. I thought it was a pretty ugly house, but then, I wasn't one of the upper crust, so my taste mattered for shit. Obviously, I wasn't as cultured or refined as these fuckers with money.

  I strolled up to the house, keeping a careful eye on the windows around me. It was hard to look casual and like I fit in on a street like this—a guy like me tended to stand out. Everything on the street was still. Silent. The people who lived here probably had day jobs they had to be at.

  Being careful to keep away from the front windows, I walked up the side of the driveway. I stayed close to the van so that if he happened to look out, he wouldn't see me. I walked as quickly and quietly as I could to the back of the van. Peering through the back windows, I saw that it was empty. Isabelle was either inside the house or—I didn't even want to contemplate the other possibility.

  So, it came down to one thing—I had to get into the house. Going through the front door was out of the question. If I was going to save Isabelle, I needed to use the only advantage I had—the element of surprise. They didn't know I was coming—probably thought they'd gotten away scot free and that I had no idea how to find them. They obviously didn't know me. When I got my teeth into something, I was as determined as a Pitbull with a bone.

  I edged over to the gate beside the garage and peered over. Deserted. I strained my ears to listen and heard nothing coming from the backyard. Maybe luck was on my side. As quietly as I could, I opened the latch and let myself into the side yard, closing the gate behind me. I slowly made my way down the walk toward the backyard. Everything remained silent.

  The walkway opened to an expansive backyard. A large swimming pool sat in the middle of the yard. There was a pond in a garden area to my right that had waterfalls flowing into it. The pond was filled with multicolored fish—the kind I'd seen in ponds outside of this Japanese food place I'd been to once. I supposed it was nice to look at, but it served a more practical purpose for me—the sound of the waterfalls masked my footsteps.

  I stepped up onto the wooden deck that led to the back doors, moving as quietly as I could. The back doors were floor to ceiling windows and thankfully, there was nobod
y in the room immediately beyond them. But it led to another problem—how was I going to get in? I wasn't an expert at picking locks by any stretch of the imagination. I had a lot of skills, but that most definitely wasn't one of them.

  I took a deep breath. One thing at a time.

  I made it to the back doors without anybody coming out—my luck was still holding. Crossing my fingers, I hoped for one more bit of luck. Reaching out, I grabbed the handle and turned it. It opened. I stared at it for a moment—my luck was never that good.

  Thankfully, I was dealing with morons. That always helped.

  Taking another deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Chapter 15

  Isabelle

  “This is not what I signed up for,” Neil said.

  Scott rolled his eyes and sighed. “I can't believe I hired such a pussy.”

  I sat on the ground in the middle of the room, my hands still bound in front of me and a gag in my mouth. The three men—Neil, Scott, and a guy I didn't know—stood near the foot of the stairs. The two men wanted to leave, but Scott clearly felt the need for an audience.

  “Look, man,” said the guy I didn't know. “Just give us the money you promised us to snatch her, and we're gone.”

  “Yeah,” Neil agreed. “We don't want to be part of a murder here, man.”

  “You're already a part of it,” Scott sneered. “Why not stay around for the money shot here?”

  Neil shook his head. “We're not a part of it. We didn't do anything.”

  “You helped me snatch the bitch,” he demanded. “At the very least, you're already an accessory.”

  “I can't believe this,” said the other guy. “I can't fucking believe this.”

  “You didn't tell us it was going down like this,” Neil said.

  “What does it matter?” Scott screamed.

  “It fucking matters a lot!” Neil shouted back. “You said you were going to scare her—”

  Scott's bark of laughter was bitter. “She looks pretty fuckin' scared to me, don't you think?”

  I looked from one man to the other and then at Scott. He was really going to do it. He was really going to kill me. And the only thing these other two assholes were worried about was being legally responsible for it. They didn't give a damn that he was going to hurt—let alone—kill me. All they cared about was themselves.

  “Just give us the money you promised us,” Neil said. “And then Oscar and I are outta here. Do whatever the hell you want, just leave us out of it.”

  Scott sighed and shook his head. “Unbelievable. What a couple of first rate pussies.”

  “Think whatever you want, man,” Oscar said. “But I'm not into this.”

  “What did you think was going to happen?” Scott snapped. “That I was going to make her tea and cookies?”

  Neil shook his head. “I had no idea you were going this far,” he said. “This is not what you sold this job as.”

  Scott shook his head. “Fine. Whatever.”

  He pulled a couple of envelopes out of his back pocket and threw them at the two men. The envelope hit Neil in the chest and fell to the ground. As he bent to pick them up, he looked me in the eyes. I tried to plead with him to stop this. To not let this happen. I begged him with my eyes to not leave me alone with Scott. And for a moment, I saw a look of sympathy flash through his eyes. I thought he might help me.

  But the moment passed.

  Neil scooped up the envelopes and handed one over to Oscar. Refusing to meet my eyes again, he lowered his head and the two men turned and started to head upstairs.

  “Remember,” Scott called after them, “at the very least, you're an accessory. If you go to the cops or anybody else, I'll take you down along with me. Your fingerprints and DNA are all over everything. Nobody will believe that you're not up to your dicks in this, and you'll do just as much time as me. Keep that in mind, assholes.”

  The two men looked at him, and any hope I might have had that they’d stand up to him to keep him from killing me evaporated entirely. I saw the look of acceptance in their eyes as they nodded grimly and turned, heading up the stairs. I wanted to scream at them, call them out as the cowards that they were. My blood was going to be on their hands, and they would rather live with that on their consciences than stand up and do the right thing.

  Scott was right about one thing—they were first rate pussies.

  When they'd gone upstairs, we listened to their footsteps crossing the hardwood floor above. A moment later, the front door closed and they were gone. I was alone with Scott. And he was going to kill me. The electric jolt of fear shot through me, and I couldn't keep my body from trembling.

  He sighed and shook his head again. “It's just so hard to find good help these days, isn't it?”

  Scott looked at me and gave me a smile that made my blood run cold. It was a smile I hadn't seen before. It was cold—predatory. It was the smile of a man who was going to not only commit murder—but one who was going to enjoy it.

  He grabbed a chair from the corner and set it down beside me. Pulling me to my feet, he pushed me down into it. I started to get to my feet, but he delivered a vicious backhand that had me seeing stars again.

  “Try to get up again, and I'll cut your fucking heart out,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

  The whole time I'd been with Scott, I lived in fear of him. He was abusive and cruel. But I'd never actually feared for my life. I'd never thought that he would actually do anything more than rough me up. I never in my most horrifying nightmares would have imagined that he'd actually kill me.

  He looked at me with disdain and took the gag out of my mouth. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fought to keep them from falling. The last thing I wanted to show him was fear or weakness. But I couldn't help it. They rolled down my cheeks anyway.

  “You don't have to do this, Scottie,” I said.

  “Actually, I think I do,” he said. “You made me look bad in front of my boys. I can't have that, sweetie.”

  “I—I didn't mean to,” I pleaded. “I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you.”

  He laughed hard and loud. “Oh, we're well past that point, Isabelle,” he said. “Well, well past that point.”

  I gave him my best doe eyes. “We don't have to be,” I said. “We can start over. Start from scratch and maybe build something new and better? Together?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “You watch way too many movies if you think you can flash me that innocent little smile and make me believe that you want to try it again,” he said. “Do you really think I'm that stupid?”

  “I don't think you're stupid at all, Scottie,” I said. “In fact, I think—”

  “Shut up,” he shouted. “Just shut the fuck up.”

  He was right, of course. I was hoping to play on his feelings and trick him into letting me loose. It was a stupid, desperate play, but it was the only one I had. And it had obviously failed spectacularly. I was at his mercy.

  He walked over to a corner of the basement and came back wheeling a rolling cart with him. A sheet covered the top of the table, and a sense of dread stole through me. I'd seen enough movies to know that whatever was under the sheet wasn't going to be good news for me.

  Stopping the cart beside me, he grinned as he gripped the corner of the sheet.

  “Ready for the big reveal, sweetheart?” he asked.

  Sweetheart. When Jameson had called me that, I hated it—I made him stop. Now I wished it was him saying it to me.

  I wanted to look away, wanted to look anywhere but at him or at that damned cart—but couldn't. My eyes remained fixed on the sheet and my mind swirled with ideas about what could be under it. With the flourish of a magician, Scott pulled the sheet off the cart and tossed it behind him. My heart dropped when I saw the top of the table covered with tools, knives, and other things I couldn't identify that looked horrifying. There was even a small blowtorch.

  Clearly, he was going to torture me. With escape being pr
etty much out of the question, my only hope was to goad him into killing me quickly so I didn't have to endure the torment and pain.

  “Here's how it's going to go,” he said, gesturing to a knife with a long, curved blade. “I'm going to use—”

  “You know the worst part of being with you?” I interrupted him. “Pretending to enjoy fucking you. Truth of the matter is, your dick is so small—”

  He gave me another hard slap to the face, and I immediately tasted the coppery flavor of blood filling my mouth.

  “You will not interrupt me when I'm speaking again,” he said, his voice steady.

  “Or what? You're going to hit me again?” I sneered. “Does beating up on me—somebody half your size—make you feel like a real man? Because let me tell you, Scott, you're about as far from being a real man as a person can get.”

  He raised his hand again and then stopped before delivering the blow, and a smile spread across his face as he lowered his hand.

  “Oh, I see,” he said. “You're hoping that if you piss me off enough, I'll just kill you and be done with it.”

  I raised my chin, looking at him defiantly. “You always were more about style than substance,” I said. “Especially in the bedroom.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, babe,” he said. “This isn't going to go that easy for you. I'm on to your little games.”

  We stared at one another in silence for a long few moments. Fear tore through my body, and I was doing everything I could to keep from breaking down then and there. I couldn’t believe I’d been in love with this monster. The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor above us. He looked up and then back at me, smiling that toothy, creepy smile.

  “Looks like someone has had a change of heart,” he said. “Looks like it's gonna be a threesome of pain here, babe. Hope you're ready for it.”

  Chapter 16