Driven to the Edge: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance

by Morgan Black

  “Good morning, darling.”

  He beams a grin at me, then wanders over to the bed. I slept in nothing but a towel, which has long since come undone while I slept. I don’t try to cover myself with the blanket or my one free hand. I let him look all he wants. The swell of my breast is barely covered by the thin hotel sheet, which is only wrapped around one of my legs.

  He takes it all in before he leans down and cuts away the zip-tie, freeing me once more.

  “You’ve got a big day ahead of you,” he warns me.

  I have no idea what I’m in for. The entire time I shower, there’s cold dread pooling in my stomach.

  It turns out that by “a big day” Jake means... shopping. It’s not what I was expecting.

  He forces me into the Maybach--at least not at visible gunpoint this time--and has me drive him into town. As we pull in toward Vegas, all the glam and glitter of it muted by daylight, I wonder again what he’s here for. Is he involved in some sort of mob gambling debt thing? He looks like he could be, given his size and build.

  But I know better than to ask questions.

  Jake instructs me to look up the closest high-end shopping center on the GPS, and I pull into the parking lot a mere twenty minutes later. I sit in the driver’s seat, arms folded, and look to him for instructions.

  “We’re going to be working incognito a bit while we’re here,” he says. “Plus it’s quite rude of me to drag you all over the desert without a change of clothes.”

  Clean clothes have been the absolute last thing on my mind.

  I’ve been far more concerned about not getting murdered.

  We lock up the Maybach and he leads me into the mall, one of those sun-drenched, palm-lined outdoor pavilions that would fit right in at The Grove or Beverly Hills. I haven’t spent much time in Las Vegas, but even I know it’s synonymous with “conspicuously throw money around.”

  The mall has a fake creek running through the middle of it. Jake takes my arm and walks beside me, keeping close. I know it’s for security reasons--he doesn’t want me running off--but I can also sense the change in his body language.

  I’m not his chauffeur anymore. He’s pretending I’m his girlfriend or his wife. Or at least his temporary Vegas arm candy.

  Which means I’m going to have to dress the part. Oh.

  We reach an area rife with little boutiques, from names I haven’t heard of up to names like Kors, Chanel, and McQueen. Jake puts one hand on the small of my back and pops a glib little smile down toward me.

  “What will it be, love?”

  Frankly, I don’t have a clue. Even when my studio was doing its absolute best, I didn’t shop at places like this. Ever the frugal small business owner, I stuck to basics and a lot of fine wool that could withstand years and years of use.

  “You look a little lost,” he says. He picks a shop and guides me inside. It’s one of the smaller buildings, framed with giant potted plants outside, the exterior done up in some sort of faux hacienda style. Inside, it’s bright and airy, lots of terracotta and white paint.

  I’m used to shopping at stores where things are organized by style and size, but that’s apparently not how they do things here. Each brand has its own little display and alcove. And it’s names I’ve only ever heard on Academy Awards dress review articles in magazines.

  “What strikes your fancy, hm?” Jake keeps hold of my arm, a continual reminder that I am not free, that I am not here of my own volition.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” I admit.

  “Well, price is no object. I’d say you need one or two daytime dresses and one evening dress. At least to start. I hope we’re not here long enough to require more.”

  The idea of spending more than a few days held hostage in Las Vegas is just as weird to me as shopping at a boutique where the price tags read in the four digits.

  Thankfully, an assistant comes to my aid. Wearing a smart black uniform, she swoops in like an off duty guardian angel to rescue me from my own cluelessness.

  “Can I help you with anything?” she asks. And it’s so strange to say, because there is a lot more help I need than just picking out clothes right now, but all I say is a “yes, please.”

  Is this what Stockholm Syndrome feels like? Why aren’t I crying for help?

  The sales assistant eyeballs my measurements and asks what sort of attire specifically I’m looking for. I defer to Jake with my eyes, looking to him, almost pleading.

  “Ah, something light for lunch and maybe a cocktail dress for this evening,” he says. “You can’t ever be overdressed in Vegas.”

  “So true,” says the girl. Then she dimples a quick smile at me and flutters off.

  When she returns, she has all sorts of exciting fabrics draped over her arms in colors and patterns I’d never even dream of wearing. I glimpse a six thousand dollar price tag on one of the dresses, a blue and gold monstrosity I’d never wear, and I feel a little faint.

  It’s every girl’s dream to get the My Fair Lady treatment, right?

  Why did I have to get mine at the hands of a gun-toting madman?

  Shopping is exhausting. And also harder than it looks. And also, the worst thing about trying on six thousand dollar dresses is finding out that a lot of them look just as blah on you as forty dollar dresses.

  But the ones that do actually fit? Damn.

  Pinned into the fitting room, Jake waiting to the left of the door, the sales assistant to the right, I feel more trapped than ever.

  But when she hands me The Dress, I can’t help it, there’s a permanent reduction in stress.

  It’s navy, faintly floral-patterned, although not garish. Almost a sort of vintage fifties style cut: narrow waist, flared skirt.

  I wiggle into it, then zip it up most of the way. Before the zipper even reaches my neck, I can tell this is The One. Or at least The First. The smooth silk-lined cotton is like a cool caress over my skin.

  I look in the fitting room mirror and feel like I’m looking at a stranger. I admire it on myself for a moment, then admire the detailing on the print. The hems are pristine. The stitching is so tight and invisible.

  It’s Oscar De La Renta. It costs thirty-nine hundred dollars.

  But when I step out of the fitting room, Jake’s face lights up.

  “We’ll take it,” he says in a heartbeat.

  15

  ~ Jake ~

  We have a few more errands to run before our reconnaissance trip this evening, but all I can think about is Alicia in that navy blue dress. Something about the cut, the color, or just the entire package... it’s incredible. She’s drop dead gorgeous to begin with, but in that dress, that’s the first time she’s ever looked like she owns that gorgeousness.

  I’m proud to have her as a pretend fiancee.

  She also buys a slinky black merino number, a blazer, and a silver sequined dress for the evening. And of course, you can’t wear any of that without the matching black Louboutins.

  All told, it rings up at over eighteen grand, including the stockings and underwear. I can’t say I mind. She has to look the part.

  She wears the black merino and blazer out. It’s like an upmarket version of her usual uniform, but it changes the way she carries herself. She knows she’s an attractive woman, but up until now, I’ve never seen her walk like she’s flaunting it.

  It’s... distracting.

  “We’ve got one more stop,” I say. “Then we’ll grab a meal together, hm?”

  She says, loud enough for passers-by to hear: “Lovely, dear.”

  I feel a stirring in my stomach, the beginnings of desire. She’s playing into this. I know it’s only to appease me, but hearing those words out of her mouth is like a rocket that shoots straight to my cock.

  I direct her to a pawn shop on the border of Vegas proper and North Vegas. Close to my old stomping ground. The sort of place that will have exactly what I’m looking for.

  I instruct her to wait in the car with my usual warning about sl
aughtering all the nearby civilians, then duck inside.

  Pawn shops are so depressing. Apart from the depressing-as-shit nature of their very existence, I worked in one when I was growing up. Watching people mortgage away their most valuable possessions was a soul-crushing experience. And one of the reasons why Alain and I were so determined that we’d make a good life for ourselves, for our eventual children.

  My chest tightens at the memory. But I put on a bored, disinterested expression when I approach the counter.

  I scan the jewelry inside. It’s typical pawn shop shit: several very expensive, high-quality pieces. A bunch of mid-range ugly crap.

  I don’t need anything too outlandish. Just a big enough diamond to suit the persona Alicia and I are putting on.

  Shit. I realize I don’t know her ring size. Maybe it’d be best to just buy three and see which one fits her.

  But I know she’s got fairly small hands. I’ve held them in my own, when I was fighting with her, holding her own. I imagine I can eyeball it.

  In the end, I select a tension-set diamond in a spiral setting. The band itself is platinum. The rock is big enough for appearances. Two point five carats, or so the tag says. Not that these places are a hundred percent honest.

  I haggle him down to just over nine thousand dollars.

  Not that I need to haggle at all. The thing about working in accounting for organized crime is that it’s a remarkably lucrative field. Not even counting all I inherited from Alain, I’m a wealthy man.

  No, the haggling was a principle thing.

  You know what they say. You can take the kid off the streets, but you can’t take the streets out of the kid...

  Back in the car, Alicia eyeballs the diamond like it’s a snake that might bite her.

  “This is insane,” she says. “This is my fake engagement ring? Jesus Christ.”

  I take her hand in mine, put on a big old smile. I dip one eye closed in a wink.

  “Alicia... hm, Alicia whatever-your-last-name-is. Will you marry me?”

  She stares at me like she’s trying to bore a hole in my head while I slip the ring up her finger. It’s a little loose, but not enough that it’s suspicious. She keeps staring at it, turning it over on her finger.

  “You can keep it when we’re done with all this,” I offer. “Pawn it off, whatever.”

  Alicia glances up, eyeballing me. I can sense the hint of a sarcastic reply on her tongue, but it doesn’t ever come. How strange.

  Sinking back in the driver’s seat, staring into the glittering facets of her diamond, she asks me what’s next.

  I tell her the plan.

  We pull into the valet lot at Augustine’s, one of the Császár family’s casinos. For now, we’re here for a meal and a bit of recon. I even leave the Sig in the car. This is the sort of place where a visible bulge under a jacket is a noticeable thing.

  As the valet drives off, I pull Alicia close to me, enjoying the feel of her body pressed in against mine. I keep my posture casual, doting.

  “Quick,” I ask her as I sweep her up toward the glittering, black-glass construction. “What’s the most extreme sport you ever did?”

  Alicia blinks, hard. But she does answer.

  “Uh, scuba diving?”

  I bite back a laugh.

  “All right. Alicia, my dear fiancee. We met scuba diving. We’ve been engaged for four months. That’s the story if anyone asks. And fucking stick to it, or else.”

  She doesn’t need to be told twice anymore.

  We stroll in through the rotating doors and into the casino’s lobby, which is all shades of smoky glass and teak. It’s less gaudy than some of the other Császár properties. Classier. More expensive. The sort of place Jake Hawthorne would take his scuba diving fiancee.

  Breezing through the lobby to the elevators, we take one up to the fourth floor. There’s apparently eleven floors. The guy who forwarded Martinsen the flight plans works on this property, but fortunately he has no idea what I look like, so I’m not concerned. Although that also means I have no idea what he looks like.

  I’m aware of Alicia’s presence beside me even as I case the joint, noting positions of security. Cameras, guards, locks on the elevator doors. The sort of thing that seems like good casino security is also a benefit if you work in organized crime.

  We don’t need our cover stories at all, it turns out. When we reach the restaurant floor, we’re led to a table without an inquisitive question between us. The staff here must be very well trained to mind their own business.

  Our meal could either be a late lunch or an early dinner, depending on how you look at it. Alicia and I both get the wagyu beef, and to my surprise and amusement she orders a steak twice the size of mine.

  “Is it just because I’m paying?” I ask, playful.

  She gives her eyes a slight roll across the table.

  “It’s because I’ve barely eaten for the last three days.”

  Fair enough.

  God, I can’t stop looking at her. Maybe it’s the new clothes, maybe it’s the slightly less wary demeanor she displays now. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve touched her in her most intimate of places, heard her cry out in pleasure.

  She’s mesmerizing now. I can’t look away.

  I order us a bottle of champagne and sit back while the sommelier pours it, wondering why she’s crawled so deep under my skin.

  Maybe it’s because she’s the only thing in my life right now that isn’t gunpowder and revenge and death.

  A thought creeps unbidden into my mind: we haven’t talked about what happened in the bathtub.

  But why on earth would we? She’s my hostage. She was drunk. It was a weird moment of weakness on my part. There is no future between us. No mutual attraction. It was just a failing of defenses on both our parts. I still feel like I shouldn’t have done yet.

  Yet when she sips her champagne, she watches me over the rim of her flute. And later, when she’s tearing into her steak, she dips her tongue out to lick her mouth clean, and her eyes meet mine.

  It can’t be unintentional.

  Is she just trying to seduce me so she can run away again? Or is it possible that this spark I might be feeling is mutual?

  Over the slow, relaxed course of our meal--and the entire bottle of Moët--I find my attention torn between wanting to observe the security at Augustine’s and observe Alicia.

  I’m so close now. I can’t let myself get sidetracked.

  16

  ~ Alicia ~

  There’s a difference between cheap champagne and the good stuff, it turns out. The problem being I don’t realize how much I’ve had until the server asks if we want another bottle. Fortunately, Jake says no.

  The steak is incredible, melt-in-your-mouth and cooked to perfection. It’s easily the best meal I’ve had in my entire life. Me being me, I got french fries for my side. But they’re french fries with shaved European cheese I’ve never heard of and truffle oil. Holy shit.

  On the way out, I notice Jake eyeballing the exits and the staff. He said he needed to come to Augustine’s Casino to check it out. Which left a bad, bad taste in my mouth. I’m assuming his version of checking it out means preparing to murder a lot of people here.

  Light-headed with a buzz and feeling foreboding, I’m relieved when Jake leads us back outside. The Vegas evening air has just a hint of a chill to it. I’m glad I wore my blazer. We were in the restaurant for almost three hours.

  “We’ll be staying just down the road,” Jake tells us. And then to my surprise, he climbs into the driver’s seat once the valet brings the Maybach back around.

  But I suppose it makes sense. I’m his fake fiancee now. Not his chauffeur.

  He drives us to a slender, high tower three blocks down the street. Now that the sun is starting to fade, the lights of the Vegas Strip have come out to play. And they’re breathtaking.

  The hotel we’ve chosen is just off the main strip, presumably for security reasons, but that gives us an ex
cellent view. The glittering lights and iconic architecture bring out the photographer in me. I wish I had a camera with me, to capture the way the giant spotlight bursts from the roof of the Luxor or the streaking cars down the broad lanes.

  Another valet sweeps the Maybach away and we go to check in to our room.

  I don’t know what to expect. The hotel is smaller than many in this part of Vegas, but it seems private and upmarket. There’s a wrought-iron fence all the way around the building and when we walk into the lobby, I catch a glimpse through a glass panel of a lushly-manicured courtyard.

  Jake drags me with him to the marble desk that splays along the lobby wall and I force myself to look like a winsome newlywed. Or about-to-be-a-newlywed, rather.

  He gives the desk clerk a completely different name--his fourth or so that I’ve heard him use--and before long, a bellhop is guiding us over to a glass-walled elevator.

  “The Founder’s Suite is our finest room,” the bellhop says to Jake with a twinkle in his eye. “You’ll love it.”

  When he throws open the French doors, revealing our suite, I can’t say I disagree with him.

  The sprawling suite looks like something out of a movie set. Like it can’t even be real. I’ve stayed in some nice hotels doing what I do for a living, working with the clients I work with, but nothing like this. The high-ceilinged room, all gleaming walnut wood and cream leather furniture, has a touch of authenticity about it that you don’t often see in Las Vegas.

  Or in hotels anywhere else, rather.

  I can see why Jake likes this place now. It must be older, back when luxury was something real, rather than a facade every building on the Strip felt the need to put on.

  I turn in a wide circle as I step inside, admiring it all. There’s a full kitchen with stainless steel everything, far more furniture than we could ever need. The gleaming wooden floor is softened by sheepskin throws, a gleaming shade of white that stand out brighter than the off-white leather of the couches.

  “It’s amazing,” I say, genuinely breathless.