by Liz K. Lorde
As much as I want to drag this charade out, I didn’t wait this long just to miss the damn ceremony.
“I think…this one,” I say finally, plucking the glass quickly from his right hand.
I smile broadly before tilting it to my lips, downing the contents in a single swallow. Maybe it’s too much, but as I pull the cup away, I can’t help but lick my lips in his direction.
After the way he’s been taunting me, it’s only fair, after all.
“Did I get the right one?” I ask playfully, taking a step nearer to him.
He laughs, turning to watch the door to the hall shut behind the final guests.
“What do you think?”
I follow his gaze.
Well, damn, time to go.
I slam my now empty glass down on the bar before shooting him a wink.
“Thanks for the drink,” I say simply, turning to leave.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I hear him mumble as I go.
As much as I’d like to question this latest statement, I’m fresh out of time to flirt. I reach the end of the bar, beginning to round the corner as the first wave of dizziness washes over me.
What the fuck?
My head suddenly feels heavy, my limbs seeming to soften beneath me.
I lift my foot to take another step. I open my mouth to cry out. But reality is fading fast, awareness already blurring at the edges.
I feel myself slump, my hip striking the bar as my legs give out beneath me.
I’m preparing to hit the floor, knowing it’s coming at any second, when I feel arms wrap around me. A tight embrace lifting me bodily upward.
Oh, fuck.
Just when you think a guy is kidding…
I try again to open my mouth, wanting to call for help even though I know there’s no one near enough to hear it.
Note to self: no one fucking jokes about roofies.
Idiot. I’m an idiot! I saw the entire wedding party go into the hall, after all.
I watched and stood out here flirting with the guy who—god—actually just drugged me.
Or actually, it’s even worse than that. He didn’t drug me. I drugged my fucking self.
I can’t believe I picked the wrong cup. Not that I had actually believed there was a wrong cup.
I groan. At least I’m still capable of that much.
I feel the arms around me tighten as my vision reduces to a single pinprick of light, darkness pressing in quickly, robbing me of even that.
“If it makes you feel any better,” a familiar voice pipes up, “the odds really were stacked against you. I mean, after all, both drinks were roofied.”
That son of a bitch.
Then there’s only darkness and the taste of a bitch-ass betrayal in my mouth.
Chapter 3
Leo
That was easy.
That was so. Fucking. Easy.
I almost feel bad about it. Kristen really trusted me for a little while there, and I…well, I roofied her. And now, I’m kidnapping her…
Poor girl didn’t even stand a chance—not really.
But they never do.
I don’t know why I’m still surprised that they fall for my act. But then, a lot of people are suckers for a guy with my kind of face and body, and my confidence usually keeps their attention and makes them trust me. A lot of people—women especially—are suckers for a man who sits comfortably on the sexy side of arrogance.
And, what can I say? After all these years, I’m just good at my job.
That’s why Lawson trusts me so much. I bet there’s no one else he’d rather ask to slip a girl away from a wedding without anyone noticing.
Now that the guests are in the wedding hall, it’s all too easy to scoop Kristen up into my arms—bridal style, ironically—and carry her out to where my car is. A part of me keeps waiting for something to go wrong—for her to wake up, or for us to get stopped, and questioned by someone…but we don’t.
One of the employees stops us briefly as we make our way to the exit, looking at me and then at Kristen, whose head is resting against my chest and is dead to the world.
“Is she okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” I say with a smile. “She just hit the complimentary champagne a bit too hard, I think she was nervous about the wedding.”
“Of course.” The man smiles back and lets us carry on our way as I take her out into the parking lot.
I look over my shoulder as I open my car door carefully, making sure not to bump Kristen’s head or leg or whatever on the corner of the car. Lawson would be pissed if I showed up with her looking like she just stepped out of the ring with Ronda Rousey.
It’s my job to get her to the warehouse. Whatever happens to her after that is not on my head or coming out of my paycheck, and I’m determined to get every dollar that Oberon Lawson owes me.
‘Cause once I’ve got the money, I’m done. I’m out.
After tonight, I’m never going to lift another girl, whether it’s from a wedding, a birthday or a funeral…
It doesn’t matter how much you pay me. I’m through with it.
After tonight, I’ll have enough money to tell Lawson to go fuck himself, and with the leftover dollars, I’ll finally have enough money to start running my own business as a bodyguard.
I know, the irony is unbearable.
But I’m good at getting people who don’t want to be—I’d almost say I was the best, if I was feeling cocky. And when word goes around that I’m starting an agency, I’ll hire new recruits and train them to be as good as me; so that one day I’ll be able to kick back, put my feet up, and watch the cash roll in as I profit on people’s paranoia.
And all I’ve got to do is get to the warehouse in one piece and let Lawson do whatever he wants with her.
Which is not very nice of me either. However, I didn’t get this far in life by being a bleeding heart, and besides, it’s not like Kristen is completely innocent in all of this. When you rack up that much debt from gambling with men like Lawson, you’ve got to expect some kind of repercussion to come your way.
The bank of Mom and Dad isn’t going to bail you out forever, and sometimes you just have to be a grownup and face the consequences of your actions…which is what Kristen is going to be doing today.
I don’t think about what those consequences might be. It’s better if I don’t.
Like I said, once I hand her over, she’s not my problem. I’ll be driving into the sunset, sipping on expensive champagne as I celebrate my new life of freedom.
I carry Kristen from the car over my shoulder, taking her through the dark warehouse and into the main room. She’s beginning to loll and stir on my shoulder, and, for a second, I really hope she doesn’t dribble on the back of my nice suit. I don’t want to have to waste more money on getting it dry cleaned.
Beneath the high beam spotlight that hangs from the ceiling, I click the handcuffs shut and fasten her to the pipe hanging over her head. In her heels, she can barely reach the floor. She looks so vulnerable…
It’s almost enough to make me want to cut her down again. But the big fat dollar signs behind my eyes remind me exactly why cutting her down would be a dumb idea.
“Wha…” After a few moments, Kristen’s head begins to roll around and her eyelids flicker.
I watch her scrunch her eyes and try to force herself to have a clear head.
But there’s no such luck; the roofie I gave her can’t just be washed away with some will power. She’ll be groggy for at least a little while more—and hopefully, that’ll mean that she’s also docile, placid and an all-round ray of sunshine.
We don’t want her scaring anyone off, after all.
“Morning, Princess, how’s your head?”
Kristen cracks one eye open to look at me, and, for one second, it’s piercingly angry, before fading away to mild confusion. But I smirk at her all the same. She can be angry at me all she wants, but this is, kind of, her own fault.
“You…you, jackass.”
“Yeah, that’d be me.” I smile at her and walk a little bit closer.
“That really wasn’t very nice of you.”
“It wasn’t, was it?” I tilt my head to the side as she looks up at me.
I can see the cogs in her mind working overtime to figure out who I am, who I’m working for, and why I’ve done this to her.
“You could have gotten lucky, you know.”
I smile.
“Oh, Kristen, with you looking like that, I’m the luckiest man alive.”
She rolls her eyes—weirdly, she’s totally cool with being hung from the ceiling. No doubt her arms ache to shit, yet…she’s more interested in flirting with me.
No doubt she’s probably trying to get me to lower my guard. And I really can’t blame her for trying.
She’s not as out of it, either, as I was banking on her being. She’s bounced back from the roofie pretty quickly, which is not like any other girl I’ve seen hung up like this. Perhaps Kristen isn’t going to be such an easy mark as I assumed her to be.
I really hope she doesn’t fuck this up for me. Where’s Lawson? How long could that wedding take without either a bride or groom?
“Where am I?”
Her voice calls my attention back to her as I realized I was staring off into the darkness of the warehouse. She’s still squinting under the high intensity spotlight that beam down on her like she’s an angel. Of course, we both know better—if Kristen was such an angel, she wouldn’t be in this little situation in the first place.
“Why, you’re in a warehouse.”
“Hah,” she says flatly. “I bet you think you’re clever.”
“I know that I am. I was smart enough to trick you.”
“Sure, you were.” Kristen lifts her chin a little, smirking at me all the while. “Who says this isn’t exactly where I wanted to be?”
“Oh, you wanted to be hung in a warehouse in front of a strange man?”
“I like assholes. They turn me on.”
Kristen’s staring me dead in the eye, wiggling her hips a little as she says it. She’s challenging me, showing me that she’s not afraid.
She’s a fighter, clearly, and there’s a spirit in there that I know so many men are going to want to see broken. I bet Lawson is going to make a killing after tonight, and while some of the regulars might not show up to see her, Kristen is going to draw in quite the crowd.
And all she’s really doing is silently telling me that she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into by being here, which almost makes me feel for her. I almost feel bad that she doesn’t understand the danger she’s in. But I suppose spoiled little rich girls have to come back down to earth eventually.
If Kristen thinks I’m an asshole now, she should wait and see what Lawson has in store for her. She’s about to fucking hate me.
“Oh, yeah? Then I guess you better get ready to get wet.”
Chapter 4
Kristen
The handcuffs clack loudly against the pipe as I sway slightly in my heels, my balance still not quite returned to me.
I don’t know how I managed to get myself into this fucking mess, but I’m bound and determined to find my way out of it.
Emphasis on the bound.
I wrap my fingers around the chains holding me, pulling against them with as much strength as I can manage.
Nothing. Not so much as a creaking sound rewards my efforts.
These clearly aren’t your garden variety novelty cuffs, which means this asshole means business.
Exactly what business remains to be seen.
Still holding the chains in a death grip, I slowly lift my feet from the ground. If my strength can’t break me out, maybe my weight will.
Again, nothing.
I bite back on the groan that tries to escape me, frustration boiling through my veins.
I have no idea why I’ve been brought here, who I pissed off, or how I managed to do it. Though admittedly, there are some definite possibilities.
I know I haven’t exactly been a shining example of good behavior.
But to be chained in some desolate fucking warehouse without any answers, and in this godawful dress, no less? Well, this seems a step beyond anything I might deserve.
I’m gonna die in this fucking dress.
Talk about cruel and unusual.
I’d rather die naked than in this monstrosity.
With a sigh of defeat, I set my feet back on the ground, tottering even more after the expended effort.
There’s a fucking cloud fogging up my mind, and I can’t seem to get clear of it.
I actually shake my head. Which, of course, only serves to make me more dizzy.
I feel eyes on me, prying gazes roaming across my skin. It’s not Leo, who I can plainly see isn’t even looking at me now.
It’s someone else. If I had to guess by the feel of it, multiple someones. Guarded faces hidden somewhere in the shadows of this hellhole.
I raise my head, trying to get my eyes to focus. The spotlight is damn near blinding, though, making me squint whenever I look in that general direction.
This time, I do groan, roughly yanking at my chains and hearing the satisfying clangs as they repeatedly strike the pipe.
“Why the fuck did you bring me here?” I demand.
Obviously, I’m not gonna be able to Houdini my ass out of here, and seduction didn’t really have the desired effect either. So, I guess I’ll have to take a more direct approach.
Leo finally turns back to me, the smirk now noticeably absent from his face.
“Oh, come on, Kristen, is that what we’re gonna do here? We’re gonna play dumb?”
“No, Leo or whatever the fuck your name is, we’re not. In fact, playing with you is what got me into this mess in the first place. Fuck if I’ll do that again.”
He laughs, a sound totally devoid of humor.
“Really, is that what got you into this mess? I don’t think so.”
I pull harder at my chains, ignoring the way they bite into my wrists at the movement.
“Just tell me why I’m here, you son of a bitch!”
He takes a step closer to me, half a smile forming on his face.
It wasn’t very long ago that I was pondering just how perfect that face is. Now, I’d like nothing better than to break it.
“You’re here,” he says, “because you’re apparently as bad at gambling as you are at judging character.”
There might be a valid point in there.
If so, I choose to ignore it.
I channel my best Cruella Deville laugh, leaning forward and trying my best to close the gap between us despite the pain that flares in my wrists.
“Well, I guess that’s something we have in common.” I spit out, gritting my teeth around the words.
“And what makes you think that?” he asks, daring to take another step in my direction.
“Because you have so clearly fucking underestimated me.”
He opens his mouth as if to reply, but apparently thinks better of it. Closing his lips around whatever he had meant to say, he stands perfectly still, his eyes locking onto mine for a long moment.
I feel like he’s staring into my soul, judging me. For the briefest of moments, my heart thumps at the intensity of his gaze, chills running down my spine.
I can’t pretend that it’s fear eliciting the reaction, as much as I’d like to. The simple fact of the matter is: I’m not afraid.
So this is something else entirely.
The moment, however brief, seems to drag on a long time; ending abruptly as he glances away.
When he speaks again, his voice is different. Somehow softer.
I don’t trust the change for a second.
“Do you know what you’re here for?” he asks, glancing back in my direction.
I look pointedly upward at the cuffs before wriggling my eyebrows at him. “I’m guessing…fetish?”
He actually laughs
at that one, a small chuckle escaping as he turns away.
“Cute,” he says simply, bending to grab something out of my eye line.
“Does that mean you’re gonna keep me guessing?” I ask, watching as he walks back toward me.
He ignores my question, his eyes focused on whatever he’s holding in his hand.
I follow his gaze, actually feeling a surge of fear as I see the box cutter in his fist.
What fresh hell is this?
“I’m gonna have to cut you out of that dress,” he says by way of explanation.
Not exactly ideal, but a far cry better than the buffalo bill scenario that was already starting to play through my head.
“All you had to do was ask,” I say, grinning nastily across at him.
I don’t step back as he nears; neither do I beg or protest. With a force of will, I keep the smile cemented to my face, loving every ounce of the confusion that it seems to conjure on his.
He reaches a hand out when he’s in front of me, grasping the neckline of my ridiculous bridesmaid’s dress in one hand as he brandishes the box cutter in the other.
With torturous slowness, he brings the knife forward, sliding it slowly through the flimsily fabric.
The layers of gaudy material give way easily, slicing cleanly down the center with a sound like tearing paper.
He keeps his eyes focused on mine while he works, his gaze odd and intense.
“You might wanna watch what you’re doin’ there,” I suggest, looking pointedly towards my exposed skin.
To my unending surprise, he actually listens, lowering his gaze to the task at hand.
I feel the box cutter snag briefly on my bra before slicing through that as well, the thin lace popping open down the center.
Still, he slides the instrument further.
My ribs, my stomach…inch by inch, I feel cool air washing over my skin; which, obviously, explains my goosebumps.
The reason for my shortness of breath, on the other hand, well, I’ll need a moment to figure that one out.
He works his way ever lower with surprising skill, never getting too near to my skin, never needing to go back over a portion of missed fabric.
