Knocked Up and Punished: A BDSM Secret Baby Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  I briefly consider asking Makayla to wait outside in the hall, but they might also be expecting that. Whatever happens, she’s safest with me. “Stay behind me,” I whisper to her.

  She nods as we creep inside. My hair prickles on the back of my neck when I hear my dog whining from the bedroom. The door was open when I left. She shouldn’t be trapped in there. I close the door behind us and quietly re-lock it. If we’re not alone in here, I don’t want any surprises coming from behind.

  I turn off the lights. The blackout curtains make the apartment almost pitch black, despite the rising sun outside. “Stay right here,” I whisper. I guide her through the absolute darkness to crouch behind a thick bookshelf that should shield her from most directions. It’ll have to do for now.

  I can barely see the whites of Makayla’s eyes as she nods. My dog whines in the distance, but I don’t hear anything else. I move past the kitchen, stepping silently and sliding a chef’s knife from the block on my way. I hold the knife in my left hand, which is still a little weak from the hold Liam put on me last night, and my Glock in the right. I’m about to reach my bedroom when I hear a sudden rush of movement. I whirl toward the sound just as there’s more movement from behind me, coming from the guest room. One of the assailants bumps into a side-table in the near darkness and I hear him crash into the floor. The other tries to take cover behind my couch. I can’t see much, but when I hear the groan of the couch’s leather armrest, I know exactly where to point and shoot.

  I squeeze off two rounds, catching split-second freeze frames of the room in the bright muzzle flash. I see a black hole ripped through the inside of the couch’s armrest from my first shot. A second hole appears an inch to the right and this time I see a man falling out from behind the couch, clutching his chest. I turn just in time to ram the knife in the other assailant’s stomach.

  He’s holding a taser and a small black club, both thump to the floor as I ram the knife into him. Hot blood rushes over my hand and I instinctively pull the knife free, driving it home through his heart, ending him in an instant. I cross the distance to the downed man behind the couch, aiming my gun in his direction as I approach. I kneel, dragging the blade of the knife across his throat to finish the job.

  I wait outside the door to my bedroom, staining my ears to listen for any sound, but all I can hear are Makayla’s panicked breaths. She’s trying to keep as quiet as possible, but her breathing is too rapid. I hate that she’s here for this, but I hope the darkness has shielded her from most of the bloodshed.

  I open the bedroom door and rush in, gun raised. There’s a burst of light and an ear-splitting sound as someone fires a heavy caliber pistol toward the doorway. I roll inside, distracted as my dog rushes toward me, whimpering. I fire three rounds toward where I saw the gunman, but I still hear movement and cursing from behind my bed.

  I didn’t hit him.

  I run past my dog, sliding down on the other side of my bed and then lifting the frame and mattress in one quick motion, flipping the whole thing over toward the gunman on the other side.

  He’s forced to run out into the open. I fire once, hitting him in the shoulder. His gun clatters to the ground and he’s jolted backwards, squeezing a hand to the bullet wound. I rush him, pinning him to the wall by the throat.

  “What the fuck are you here for? What do you want?”

  “You,” he croaks. “We were supposed to capture you and...” his words are cut off as my hand tightens. I’m forced to ease up, letting him get enough air to speak. “Boss wanted to make you watch while he fucked your girl. Then he’d kill you.”

  My blood burns like acid in my veins. I grip his throat again, digging my fingers into his flesh until I feel his tendons straining. His eyes bulge and he claws at me. I ease up one more time. “Who is he? Who’s your fucking boss?”

  “The Jackal,” he coughs, voice like sandpaper as he collapses to the ground, retching and trying to crawl away from me.

  I aim my Glock at the back of his head and fire, dusting my carpet and walls with his blood. Makayla rushes into the room, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. She stutters to a stop, taking in the violence one piece at a time.

  “Are you…” she mutters, eyes glassy.

  I move to her, taking her shoulders and easing her from the room. I’m probably smearing blood all over her, but I talk in low, soothing tones, trying to calm her. My mind is elsewhere. Liam did this. I let him go because it appeased my guilt and now I’ve put Makayla in danger because of it. And as long as I’m involved with her, she’s never going to be safe. I keep my hand on my holstered gun as we step into the hallway.

  “Come on,” I whisper, slapping my leg to get my dog’s attention. She hurries after me, happily panting and slobbering. “We can’t stay here. Cops are probably already on the way. I should be in the clear because it was a home invasion, but we can’t afford to get tied up with questioning right now. We have to stay on the move and low key. Okay?”

  Makayla’s eyes are still distant, but she nods. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” she asks.

  “Yeah. They’re dead. They can’t hurt you now.” Those men can’t, but whoever else Liam plans to send still can and will. And if I keep selfishly staying involved with you, they aren’t going to stop.

  We take the elevator downstairs. An elderly couple steps inside with us and the woman smiles up at me sweetly.

  “Honey,” she says, touching my arm. “You’ve spilt ketchup all over yourself.”

  I look down at my left arm and side. It’s misted with dried blood. My hands are caked in the stuff and Makayla’s clothes are too. “Oh,” I say. “I just really love hamburgers. I must have gotten carried away.”

  She laughs, touching my forearm. “You’re too funny.”

  I give a strained smile, hoping neither of them notice how traumatized Makayla looks. The distraction of looking after her is helping keep the flashbacks at bay, but the smell of sand and blood reaches my nose. I can feel the sun on the back of my neck, even though I’m in an artificially lit elevator. There’s a rifle strapped to my back…

  No. I’m in an elevator. I’m not in the desert.

  The doors ding when we reach the lobby. I lead Makayla and my dog to the garage, ushering everyone into the car.

  I rip out of the parking garage and head toward my safehouse, stomach clenching when I think about what I am going to have to do to keep her safe. I’m going to have to break her heart again, and I fucking hate myself for it.

  63

  Makayla

  Jesse’s safehouse is a sparsely decorated building in the middle of town. We’ve been here for a day already, and Jesse and I have hardly spoken. I try to wrap my head around the fact that it was only four days ago that Jesse came back into my life. Four days and so much has already happened. I had to go to the set and film this morning, despite Jesse’s insistence that I stay somewhere secluded. When I threatened to walk if he didn’t take me himself, he finally relented and went with me. I think I set a record for the number of takes needed to satisfy Camillo today. Needless to say, my mind is anywhere but on the job.

  No matter how much I try to push what I saw from my mind, it keeps coming back. I can still hear the ear-piercing rip of gunfire. I can see the blinding flashes of light and freeze-frame images of a man falling to the ground, mortally wounded. I can smell the gunpowder and blood, the burnt upholstery.

  I can’t seem to completely get rid of the tightness in my chest, the looming sense of dread. Everything has taken on a sense of immediacy, and I can’t stop the flow of melodramatic thoughts assaulting my consciousness. I wondered if the shower I took this morning would be the last, or if today would be my last day on set. The questions have had the unsettling side effect of making me question what I’m doing with my life in the first place.

  If I really want to act in movies, why am I settling for a TV show? Why am I assuming I have all the time in the world to slowly work my way toward my goals?

  Just thinkin
g about it all makes me want to hyperventilate.

  Now I’m on a simple, uncomfortable couch in Jesse’s safehouse, trying not to let my thoughts drive me crazy. He had to let me stop on the way home to buy a few spare sets of clothes and underwear. More than anything, I wish I could just relax in my own apartment for a day, using all my normal shampoos and soaps and maybe even drawing myself a nice, hot bath. Instead, I’m in this cold box of a building. It’s a converted TV set that he apparently acquired from a previous client.

  The part of the building that we’re in is an old set overlooked by an area that would have sat about four hundred audience members. When Jesse turned the stage lights on, we couldn’t figure out how to turn the blue filter off, so everything is cast in midnight blue light, making the shabby space feel eerie. The set is arranged to look like a small apartment--I can imagine it was used for some kind of 90s sitcom. I’m sitting on the couch in the ‘living room’. The only other real pieces of furniture are a small bed and an aged table with chairs. Everything else in the space is a prop.

  He has been on his phone all morning, talking in low tones and casting furtive glances my way. What are you up to, Jesse? Ever since the gunfight in his apartment, he’s been distant, cold even. If it wasn’t for Makayla, my bulldog counterpart, I would feel completely alone. She’s nuzzled beside me, panting happily and displaying the jutting shelf of her lower jaw proudly. I rub the folds of skin on top of her head, sighing.

  How did this happen? One day, I’m living my life like normal, completely tunnel-visioned on my goals, occasionally daydreaming about the guy who let me go. The next? My life is threatened and the man who broke my heart comes crashing back into it, seemingly set on wedging his way back into those broken pieces. How did everything fall apart so quickly? And why would someone want to kill me? I’m no saint, but I can’t think of anything I’ve done that would warrant hurting me, let alone killing me. The masked man’s words from the cafe come back to me. Someone I trust. Who do I even trust? Kennedy? Jesse? My stepfather?

  Jesse obviously doesn’t want to see me hurt. Kennedy would have no reason to want something bad to happen to me. That only leaves Hubert. I can’t buy that either. He’s always been like a collector of people and things, gathering what he considers to be pretty and valuable and then hoarding it for his own satisfaction. I’ve never known him to give up the things he prizes, and as far as I know, he prizes me. So who then? All I can think is that the man in the golden mask was wrong. After all, he was obviously part of the same people who want to kill me so is it so hard to believe that he would be lying to me?

  Jesse hangs up the phone and stalks toward me. He looks gorgeous in a gray suit and crisp black undershirt. But he looks more than gorgeous, he looks deadly.

  He is deadly. I remind myself.

  The thought bubbles up without warning, turning my stomach. Why does that draw me to him so much? I hate violence, yet seeing how brutally effective and competent he is does things to me I’m not proud of. It makes me feel safe, cared for, and prized in a good way, not in the selfish kind of greedy way that Hubert prizes me.

  “I’m going to check the perimeter. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I frown, already so dependant on his presence that I don’t like the idea of being left alone. I watch him walk across the stage and exit out the back.

  After ten minutes go by, I start to worry. I get up and move to the exit, carefully stepping outside so his dog doesn’t follow me.

  Outside, I see Jesse leaning over a car and talking to two men in suits. They nod as he walks away and they step out of the car. My heart stops. What’s going on? I watch Jesse get in his car. I see him punch the dashboard and yell something I can’t hear behind the closed doors before he drives off.

  Jesse… What are you doing?

  I watch the two men approach with a creeping dread, knowing there’s no point in running. The taller man holds a calming palm to me when he notices me. He’s freakishly tall with a bald head and a long face. The other is shorter with thick lips and protruding ears.

  “We’re your new protection,” the tall man says once they’re closer. “I’m Edwards.”

  “Rosenthal,” says the shorter man.

  I realize I’ve backed up until I’m pressed against the door. I force something like calm to come over my face, but my mind is racing. New protection? “Where’s Jesse?”

  “He has been reassigned,” Rosenthal informs. From their demeanor, I gather that Rosenthal is the more serious of the two. Edwards has a calm ease about him while Rosenthal looks like he doesn’t know how to smile.

  “Why didn’t he say anything to me about it?” I ask. I feel like I’m on the verge of absolute panic. My pulse pounds in my head, breaths coming shallow.

  “We’re not at liberty to say,” says Rosenthal. “Miss, we should really get inside. It’s safer.”

  I feel a cloud of anger settle over me. Edwards has the decency to flinch a little. Some professional, I think. “I’m not taking that for an answer. I paid a lot of money for Mr. Slade’s protection. He can’t just--”

  “Your money is already refunded,” Rosenthal quickly states. “Mr. Slade also paid our fees for you. Everything is taken care of. Now, can we please step inside?”

  “You said he was reassigned. Why would he pay my fee if he was--”

  Rosenthal manhandles me, wrapping my arms in front of my chest and pushing the door open. He leads me inside and lets Edwards in before slamming the door behind us. “Let me make one thing clear. Your protection is my top priority. If I have to displease you or upset you to keep you safe, I won’t hesitate.”

  Edwards looks at me apologetically, spreading his big hands and shrugging.

  I pull away, straightening my clothes and glaring at him so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t wither where he stands.

  Two weeks. Two fucking weeks and I haven’t heard a word from Jesse. Instead of the immediate, heart-crushing pain I felt when he left me ten years ago, all I feel now is a creeping sort of finality. It’s like I’m walking on a frozen lake, watching the cracks spreading beneath my feet, threatening to give out. Every moment threatens to shatter the false sense of “everything’s okay” I’m trying so hard to project, but it’s a balancing act in the worst kind of way. I know sooner or later, it’s all going to come crashing down around me with a cold kind of reality that will leave me numb and dead inside. This isn’t a simple broken heart, this is something soul deep--irreparable.

  I go to work. I read my lines. I spend time with Kennedy. I eat, sleep, shower, and repeat. All the while I ignore the two men who shadow my every move, unable to avoid constantly comparing them to Jesse, to marvel at how much safer I felt in the protection of one man than I do with these two. I keep thinking I see Jesse. In the corner of the coffee shop, looming behind the crew while I’m on set, waiting in a parked car outside the safehouse, or mixed in with the crowd on the street. I see him everywhere, but I know I’m just imagining it. I can’t stop torturing myself with thoughts of him. He’s gone, Makayla. He’s gone again. You knew he’d leave from the start.

  I’m trying so hard to hate him for leaving, but I can’t. All I can do is miss him and think about what I would do differently if he came back. I’m definitely still pissed, and if he has the nerve to show his face, he had better get ready to be slapped. But beneath the shallow layer of anger is a deep, agonizing need to be with him again. I already crave his touch and his smell, wishing I could have his strong arms around me again, protecting me and making me feel safe.

  I pace around the abandoned set that has become my prison, waffling between hating and missing Jesse. Logically, I should hate him. I should be ready to leave him in the past where he so clearly wants to be, but my stupid heart still wants the man I used to love. But I’m confused… why would he leave his beloved dog behind? It must mean he plans to come back, right?

  I don’t know how much time passes while I’m lost to my thoughts, but a slow kind of resolve w
ashes over me. I’m stronger than this. I don’t want to be some weakling that sits around waiting for a man that doesn’t want to be with me. I decide here and now that I’m going to move on. I won’t waste my time again. I won’t lose another ten years secretly hoping he deigns to come back. I’m going to live my life for myself. It won’t be easy, but I’m not going to let myself wither away again over Jesse Slade.

  64

  Jesse

  I rip the golden mask from his face and punch him across the jaw, leaning in so he can see my eyes clearly. He blinks through the pain, wincing and working his jaw, struggling against the ropes that tie him to the chair.

  I prowl around him like a restless animal, hungry for blood and on the edge of losing myself. How long has it been since I walked away from her for the second time? Two weeks? Three? It’s all been a blur of too little sleep and far too much bloodshed. All I have to do to find these gold masked fuckers is tail Makayla. It’s like a small army of the worthless pricks is out there, creeping around. The toughest part is sifting through the pretenders and the real deal. Ever since the news picked up the story of the “Gold Stalkers”, there has been an explosion of activity. Celebrities are being kidnapped, beaten, and even killed.

  “Who do you work for?” I ask.

  I already suspect this guy isn’t just a pretender by the way he took my punch. He’s a professional. Not like the last couple I rounded up.

  “Who do you think?” he asks.

  My fist snaps out as I land another hard punch across his already bruised face. I nearly topple him and the chair, but he manages to stay upright. “You’re going to kill me anyway. Why should I tell you anything?”