Boss: Complete Box Set: A Mob BDSM Romance

by Rae Lynn Blaise

  I hurry to my room and return with a set of yoga pants and a roomy tee shirt. She’s desperately trying to rub the stain off herself, an action I find odd for a professional housekeeper. Even I know that something this bad needs stain remover and a pre-soak.

  Taking her by the upper arm, I guide her along to the bathroom in the hallway. She resists at first, but then comes along more easily. It’s too early to feel excitement over this, so I stomp down the little flame of hope that ignites in me.

  Gently, I push her into the restroom and hand her the clothes.

  “I insist on washing that for you. In fact,” I lie, “my mother was a goddess at getting stains out. I’m a pro.”

  She doesn’t respond, just comes back out and holds the uniform hesitantly out to me. I take it with a smile and she slinks back to the kitchen, obviously ready to be done with me. Taking out my phone, I complete my request on the Uber app and nearly have a panic attack. The clock is literally ticking down for me right now. There’s one part of my plan that I didn’t think through, and I race to fill that gap.

  Remembering the meeting, I go into the kitchen with her uniform draped over my arm and pretend to look at my phone.

  “Mr. Masters just texted me,” I say with authority. “He’d like eight bottles of wine brought up from the cellar for later today. Come and help me.”

  “Eight?” She repeats, but I’m already striding off to the cellar door. It’s thrilling to hear her footfalls racing after me, but I’m dreading what I’m about to do. I’ve never been one to hurt anyone or cause distress—not intentionally anyway. I really hate that I’m sinking to this level, but damn it, my life is on the line.

  I flick on the light as we reach the bottom and round a slight corner. The basement is finished in the same style as the upper levels. But Brent’s crowning glory down here is his precious wine cellar. It’s a specialized room with temperature control and racks specifically made to hold the bottles at just the right angle.

  It also locks from the outside.

  Lucky, lucky me.

  It’s too easy, really, as I press the code on the security pad, turn on the light, and have her branch off to the left to look for a made up brand of vintage merlot. While her back is turned, I slip out and lock the door behind me.

  It takes a mere two seconds for her to start hollering through the door. But it’s so well insulated that her voice is strained and weak. No one will hear her. Not for a while. Bursting into action, I undress and slip her uniform over my head. I’d grabbed a cute knit cloche hat from my things when I’d gone upstairs to get the yoga clothes. Tucking my hair up the best I can, I settle the hat on my head. Then, I fill the uniform pockets with a hundred in cash and one credit card that I’d taken from my purse.

  Everything else stays.

  This is it, all that’s left of me.

  Ascending the stairs, I peek out to be sure no one is around before I lightly close the door. Then, with my head bent, I march back to the kitchen and find the housekeeper’s coat and purse in the closet. I toss the coat over my arm, the purse on my shoulder, and go.

  Go, go, go. Down the hall to the front door.

  My head is still down, and thankfully, the light is off so the area is a bit grey. The guard is there, of course, at his post like he wasn’t earlier. Fuck. I can’t overthink this or I’ll screw up, so I don’t. Instead, I start muttering about a spoiled, pampered woman spilling coffee all over me.

  “I’ll be back,” I say curtly, skewing my voice in a way I hope is enough. I reach for the door handle. His hand snakes out and bumps against mine. Fuck. Fuck, fuck! I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t jerk away.

  It all takes a second, but it feels so much longer as I move my hand a fraction, still mumbling about my uniform, sure he knows it’s me and not…

  The door handle clicks as he opens it.

  “Hurry back here.” It’s an order, barked like I’m nobody and I just nod. Warm air touches my lips, light rays of sun kiss my bare forearms and I’m glad to be nobody. Then I hear it, the crunch of tires on gravel and a silver SUV pulls into the driveway, just like the one Uber told me was coming.

  “Hey!” The guard yells behind me.

  I jerk, torn between acknowledging him and making a mad dash for the Uber. I hold my breath as my skin begins to crawl. He doesn’t wait for my reply though.

  “I said hurry back.”

  Oh, thank God. I don’t answer, just nod vigorously and bolt into the Uber.

  “Drive,” I burst. “Just drive out of here and don’t stop.”

  A young man looks back at me in the rearview mirror with obvious concern. “Ma’am?”

  “Please,” I touch his shoulder and hold back a sob. “Just drive.”

  And he does.

  2

  I stand at the sink in the women’s bathroom at Target as nausea rolls passive-aggressively around in my gut. I made it; I’m free. The Uber driver agreed to wait while I popped in to grab a few necessities. But now that I’m here, I’m a little disoriented.

  What do I do next?

  The faucet drips with a methodical pace, one drop taking an extraordinarily long time to drip into the sink, to the point where I think it might stop dripping altogether, and then it happens, the droplet finally falls when I stop expecting it to. Focusing on the annoying sink helps refocus my brain some, but it also reminds me that everything in my life right now is like that uncertain drip.

  Something is going to happen when I least expect it. Which is exactly why I need to keep moving, to keep thinking.

  A woman walks in and side-eyes me. I’d forgotten I’m still wearing the maid’s outfit. It’s too big for me and the gigantic stain is more than a little obvious. By now, they’ve probably found the real housekeeper and alerted Brent that I’m gone. Taking out my cellphone, I turn it on. I’d shut it off after I used the Uber app to be sure it didn’t ring and give me away once I’d swiped the maid’s clothes. My chest clenches hard as I wait for notifications to load… but there are none.

  Nothing. Not a text, not a voice mail. No indication that Brent had tried to contact me. So, either he doesn’t yet know that I’m gone, or—

  Or?

  I can think about the possibilities as I shop. I wash my hands and press cool water to my cheeks before heading out into the store. I feel eerily exposed, despite the amount of people and things that clutter the spaces. Probably because anyone could be hiding behind anything in this place and pounce out at me when I least expect it. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to continually look over my shoulder or watch my own back, but it is the first time I’ve felt so off balance. Usually when it comes to taking charge of my safety—which has happened many times in my life—I’m more emotionally composed than I am right now.

  Given the chance, I’d completely crumble right now.

  Crumble into total devastation. Curled up in a ball, rocking on the floor. For every ounce of mistrust and fear I have for Brent at the moment, there’s a double helping of fucking love and measured misery that is eating me up inside. He’s betrayed me so badly, yet I can’t pretend that I don’t crave him with every feminine nerve inside of me. All I want, more than anything, is to rush into his arms and have him tell me why I’m wrong. To smell his cologne, to feel his arms wrap around me.

  Tears sting my eyes and I don’t do much to hold them back. They don’t fall, just make browsing for and choosing the items I need a pain in the ass. I grab personal care things—toothpaste and a brush, deodorant and mascara. Then, two cheap yoga outfits and underwear, and a backpack to put everything in. I’m almost done when I remember my phone.

  A man like Brent would have the resources to track my phone easily. If I make just one call, he’ll be able to trace me.

  But…I don’t even have anyone to call.

  I stop by the electronics section and browse cheap prepaid phones. What use do I have for a burner phone? It’s not like I have a wide friend group. Donetta is the only friend I can claim, and I d
oubt she’ll miss me. Everyone at work thinks I’m on medical leave with mono. Absolutely no one will pace the floor, worried because they haven’t heard from me in a few days.

  There isn’t anyone to care about me. Not even Brent.

  I. Am. Pathetic.

  Despite my failure at making real personal connections in my life, I can’t be without a lifeline, and a phone is exactly that. I choose a small flip phone, and then pay for everything. I know the driver is waiting and the longer I keep him, the more cash I burn up in fare. I’m still not certain where to go, but I know I don’t have enough money left for him to take me away from here. On the way out, I’ll take an advance off my credit card at the ATM. Screw it, I need the money. I know Brent can probably trace my card too, somehow, but I can’t get far on the twenty bucks I have left.

  I take a few minutes to change in the bathroom. Rolling up the uniform, I ditch it in the garbage can on my way out, grab my cash at the ATM and leave the store. The Uber SUV is in the same spot, and I sigh in relief. Part of me was a little afraid he’d get tired of waiting and take off or something. I’ve decided I want to go to the outskirts of the city to a motel for the night.

  I slip into the back. I catch the side of the driver’s head as he looks down at his phone. He’s wearing black sunglasses now, making it hard to see his expression. Not that it matters. Getting buckled, I dig out the new phone and rip open the packaging. The car starts to move—he’s pulling out of the parking lot, I assume— while I pop the battery into the phone and attach the cover.

  “Can you jump on the interstate and go south? I just need to look up an address quick.” This little phone is supposed to have mobile data included, but it’s so cheap that I seriously doubt I’ll be able to Google anything. I fiddle with the activation, getting so caught up in it that I don’t realize how far we’ve gone.

  The driver’s been quiet this time, strange, I realize, since he made small talk the entire way to Target. I look up, really look up, and catch his image in the rearview.

  My stomach bottoms out. Did I get in the wrong fucking car?

  The driver is not my other driver; his hair is straight, not curly. He whips off his glasses and looks back at me in the mirror. Bright blue eyes, not brown, and a face that’s a good two decades older than the young man who drove me here.

  How the fuck could I be so preoccupied that I didn’t even look at the driver before getting in? Fuck me for letting my guard down for a few seconds.

  I reach for the door handle on instinct and a sickening click follows my actions.

  “Who are you?” I demand, but my voice is shaking. I grapple for a lock release, but they’re childproof. The man slips his shades back on and settles against his seat like we’re on goddamned vacation.

  “Georgios would recommend that you sit quietly and enjoy the ride, yes?” His Greek accent is thick and fills me with familiar disgust. Georgios. The intonation of their voices are the same, and if the driver is anything else like his boss, he’s capable of anything.

  Anything.

  This is Brent’s doing, isn’t it? I think I’m going to vomit and there’s nowhere for it to go but on the ground. Doubling over, I cross my arms over my middle and dry heave on the floor board. Nothing comes up and the pain and unease in my gut won’t go away. My throat tightens and I can’t breathe.

  I’m panicking and I can’t stop it.

  Brent knows how much I fear Georgios and how that man has ripped my life apart. My sister… he knows what happened to her. How could he do this to me? How can the man I love, the man I gave my heart and body to, turn on me like this?

  Because it was all a game to him. A means to some end that I’ll likely never know about.

  “Awwww, car sick?” The man taunts. He rummages in the front seat and hands a bottle back to me. It’s Vodka. “Have a swig and relax.”

  “Fuck off.” I barely croak the words, but just getting them out makes me feel better. He chuckles as if he appreciates my spunk and uncaps the bottle for himself. The “swig” he takes could kill a horse. And if I’m lucky, or unlucky depending on how you see it, maybe him, too.

  “Don’t be a bitch. Bitches get shot where I come from.”

  I highly doubt Georgios would let anyone else kill me, so I know his threat is empty. But when he looks at me through the rearview again, I can feel the chill of his glare through his sunglasses.

  “There’s nothing extra in it for me to deliver you alive.”

  Icy shivers race down my spine. He stares at me until I finally look away, only because I’m afraid we’re going to crash if he doesn’t focus on the road again soon. I sit back the best I can, my arms still harnessing my middle. Trying to find my center, I take a couple shaky breaths and look out the window. We’ve gone north and aren’t far from the Canadian border.

  Panic doesn’t describe adequately the force of whatever this is going through me. He’s whisking me away to another country and no one will ever know what happened to me. I’ll disappear, simply vanish from everyone else’s reality. Georgios is vicious enough that he’ll keep me in a new reality, a hell, forcing me to suffer beneath the surface of society’s collective gaze. I will cease to exist.

  Each mile brings us closer until signs come into view announcing the border crossing. The man reaches back and scrambles to grab ahold of me.

  “Get up here next to me, girlfriend.”

  I swat his hand away, but he catches my knee. His grip is like an iron clamp and he uses that strength to pull me by one leg until both knees bump the back of the front seat. Pain sears through my thigh, but without any of the accompanying edge of pleasure Brent brought me.

  I pry at his hand and he lets go long enough to get a new grip. I can feel the bruises coming up beneath his thick fingers.

  “Fine!” I shout as he makes another grab for me, not wanting his hands on me a second longer. We’ve slowed down now and blend into a triple lane of traffic waiting to cross the border. I try and climb into the front seat as gracefully as I can, but there’s no good way. I end up supporting myself by gripping his meaty shoulder and hating myself for it.

  Finally in the seat, my gaze lands on the door lock. Hope flits through me. I could bolt, make a run for it. He’ll never catch me across three lanes, even with the congestion. There are border guards lined up ahead, checking passports and vehicles. I’d reach one of them before my kidnapper got ahold of me.

  I swallow and temper my breathing. Be. Normal. Act compliant. But my fingers slowly uncurl from my palm and creep toward the lock.

  A metallic click makes me pause. I know what it is before I look.

  I’m well versed in the sound of a cocked gun.

  “You’re my girlfriend. My willing and compliant woman. Smile, bitch, and slide over here.” He pulls me over and up against him, his arm sliding over my shoulders. I have no idea where he’s suddenly stashed the gun, or the vodka, but I know the deadlier one of those two is close by.

  He won’t shoot me, not when he’s stuck in traffic with no chance of escape himself. Even if he blew a hole in me right now, he couldn’t stash my exsanguinating body anywhere.

  “You won’t shoot me.” I’m braver this time. There’s no waver in my voice. I know he won’t shoot. He can’t. There’d be no way out for him but his own capture.

  He doesn’t bother to look at me as a confident smile pulls his mouth up.

  “Perhaps not at this very moment, no. However, Mr. Masters is an expendable acquaintance. One text message from me, at any moment, will end his life.”

  I can’t care about that. Brent! He did this to me.

  But I can’t stop the flutter and rise of anxiety and grief that any harm might come to him. I just…I just can’t. Despite everything, he’s a part of me that I can’t unlearn or release. I don’t question my captor or push him to see if he’s serious. I already know the answer. Georgios would kill his own mother if the inclination arose. Everyone was replaceable to him, even his longtime business partner,
Brent Masters.

  “Be a good actress and your sugar daddy lives. Do you agree?”

  Resigned, I slink into my seat and nod. I no longer care that his arm is around me, nor do I really feel the burn of the smile I plaster on my face. He produces a passport for me and makes small talk with the border guard. This was all planned out—Georgios was just waiting for the correct time. Who knows how long he’d really been tracking me and plotting my capture?

  Suddenly, there is a tap on my window. I jump and feel the sharp glare of my captor’s warning stare slice through the back of my head. A young border guard smiles and waits for me to lower my window. I do. As the glass inches down, removing a barrier between myself and freedom, I feel all the fight start to ebb out of me. Fresh air slaps me in the face, teasing me.

  “Hello there,” the guard says. “How are you today?”

  Are you fucking kidding me? The man’s arm tightens around me, painfully so. I hold back a wince and think of Brent. Of dead Brent. I shouldn’t care.

  I shouldn’t love him.

  “I’m—I’m fine.” I find my voice. “Thank you.”

  “Here’s your passport,” my captor says, handing a passport to me. I whip to face him, one eye cocked. I don’t say anything as I dumbly hand the passport across to the border guard outside my window. Obviously someone like Georgios would have fake documents at his disposal.

  “Will you be staying long?” There’s a lilt to the border guard’s voice that is starkly Canadian, just like on the movies. He’s handsome in a clean-cut way, if bored and disinterested. I try to make eye contact with him, but he doesn’t look at me as he flips the passport book open.

  I have no idea what my captor has already said to the other guard, so I shrug. “Depends on how much fun we’re having, right hon?”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “Oh, we’ll be having plenty of fun. Dear.”

  The young guard’s pale face flushes red. He takes a step back and nods. “Okay, then. Enjoy your time in Canada.”

  That’s it. Just like that, the barrier goes back up and we drive through the checkpoint. It’s heavily wooded through here. It’s beautiful, really, the trees and undergrowth are full and thick and lush. There seems to be miles and miles of perfect places for this creep to hide my body. Cut to pieces, scattered all over the fucking place.