“Good, I—”
I fall silent as I notice the figure standing back about a hundred feet in the trees, watching us.
Fuck.
2
Raven
When Stringer falls silent, I follow his sight line and my stomach comes up into my throat “He…” My voice is shaky, I’m not quite sure how to say what I need to say. “He was the one driving. Stringer, he was the one that said they should… They should…”
I clear my throat, the tears stinging my eyes as I watch him watching us. Somehow, I’d missed the fact that there were only three of them around me, when there had been four in the car while we drove.
Perhaps because of Stringer being here, making me feel safe, protected. Off my guard. I was ready to believe that it was over. Ready to believe in him, the way I always believe in him. When he’s around, I don’t feel so much that I need to protect myself, like he’s actually there to look after me.
But, I shouldn’t want him the way I do. I shouldn’t look at him and wonder what his hands would feel like touching me. It’s wrong to think of my stepfather that way. He’s older too, his face showing the scars of his past. His nose is crooked, broken more than once, and a deep indented silver scar intersects both his lips making him look like smiling would be impossible.
Yet he does smile. At me, such as it is. His smile is rare and subtle, but on his usually emotionless face, it stands out, and I remember each and every time I’ve seen the flicker of light behind his blue eyes when he’s looked at me.
I think of him shirtless as I’ve seen on occassion. His body is thick, but with a solidness that leaves no doubt the power he possesses. The sun on his skin when he’s been outside working, not knowing I was watching, makes my belly feel like it’s being tickled from the inside out. There are more scars on his back and chest and I wonder if he was in an accident because that’s the only explanation for the weaving of so many signs of injury.
He makes me feel things I shouldn’t and that’s why I persuaded Willow to go to the bar with me tonight, to get myself out of that house where I forget to keep my guard up. I didn’t even really want to drink. We both had sodas most of the evening, only bothering with one beer each just to see what it tasted like.
It wasn’t good.
That’s why I got taken, because I let my guard down and forgot to put it back up.
That’s why I almost…
The memory comes back in a dreamlike haze and I remember what the fourth guy had said as he walked away from the car while the others dragged me into the woods.
Gotta piss. Save her ass for me. I’m an ass man…
Sure thing, Nev.
His laugh. Oh, God, his laugh. Nev was the worst of them, the one with all the ideas, the one that was still sober, that hadn’t even come into the bar, but still looked at me like I was a doll he wanted to defile.
Why isn’t Stringer moving? The bastard’s right there, barely a hundred yards away, silhouetted against the red sky just visible through the canopy of the trees.
“He’s fucking dead,” he murmurs, one suit-jacketed shoulder just moving a little, blocking my view of Nev, putting himself between the two of us. “Get down.”
I do as he says and take a shaking breath as he moves to the left, shielding me as he takes his pistol from the holster under his arm. He’s intensely calm. I’ve seen him like this before, when he’s playing chess against himself in his study. The stillness around him is comforting, familiar, and I know that whatever happens right now, he’ll be in charge.
I count my racing heartbeat. One, two, three, fo--
The suddenness of the action is superhuman. When he raises his arm, leans to his right, I catch sight of Nev.
Stringer’s gun I didn’t even know he owned firmly in his grip, all I catch is a flash of silver, a reflection of the failing light, and then the loud blast of gunfire cutting through the silence. There’s a far-off yelp, and I see a faint spray of blood hit the trunk of a tree as Nev is spun around by the force of the bullet.
But he doesn’t go down. He starts to run.
“Shit,” Stringer spits out, shifting slightly and taking another shot even as his weak knee gives way and he falls to the ground with a grunt. Some sort of tennis accident, my mom told me, one of the reasons why he retired early from his job, although I could never quite understand how that would affect his ability to do tax accounting. There is far more at play here than a number cruncher and a tennis accident. “Fuck.”
I’m at Stringer’s side, forgetting about Nev as I try to help him up off the ground, but he pushes me away looking into the distance where Nev disappeared.
“Come on, let me help.”
“I’m fine,” he says, pressing his hand against the ground in an awkward lurch to his feet. Glancing around at the carnage, he takes a breath through his nose. “I need to deal with this mess.”
“Okay, we’ll call the police, tell them exactly what happened. Those bastards were trying to rape me and you got here in time to save me.”
He’s already shaking his head before I even finish, growling low when I say the word rape. “No police. And no more cussing.” Tucking his gun back into the holster, he takes his old, gnarled flip phone out of his pocket, taps it a couple of times as he stares at the screen, then dials a number holding it to his ear. “Hi, my name’s Errol Hubert. I’ve got a bit of a rat problem and just hoping you can help. I killed three of them but there was another one that got away…” He rattles off an address and zip code I don’t recognize, followed by a string of numbers, saying one is where he lives and the other is his phone number before hanging up, leaving me more confused.
I watch gape-mouthed as he removes the SIM card, tucks it in one pocket of his pants, then smashes the phone against the tree next to him and shoves the broken pieces into his other pocket.
“That’s not our address,” I say, and Stringer raises one eyebrow.
“My car is parked out on the road. Are you able to walk?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Are you?”
“I’ll be fine. Let’s go.” He reaches for my hand and the contact sends that familiar zing through my body.
In my head I see the image of his broad chest, the dark curls of hair wet from the shower as my eyes glanced down to the outline of that monster hanging down his leg, under the white towel held low on his hips and I catch my breath. The memory of catching him through his open bedroom door coming out of the shower last night so fresh in my mind, I feel the familiar wet warmth seeping into my panties.
He’s a man of habit. Every night at ten PM, he retreats to his bedroom and I stand outside listening. The rush of water as he takes his shower, I listen, remembering, then I retreat to my bed, fingers between my legs or rolling my pillow and climbing on top, dreaming of his voice, his hands, his mouth, knowing the things I want will never come true.
* * *
When we get to the road, the sight of the car they abducted me in makes me pull back. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Stringer catches hold of my arm, his massive form making me feel small and vulnerable in his presence.
“Raven.” His blue eyes send a flush of heat downward. “Are you all right?”
I nod. “Those bast—” I stop myself, remembering how much he dislikes when I swear. I’m not usually so accommodating to him, but the reasons for that are not his fault. “That was just really intense.” I try to hide the shiver in my shoulders and the break in my voice, but I can see in his eyes I’ve failed.
“Nobody is going to hurt you now.”
I stare at his chest, wondering if his heart is beating as fast and hard as mine, centering myself, then take a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Good girl.” He guides me with a palm on my lower back and another sort of shiver takes me. Whenever he calls me good girl, it grabs hold of this deep-down secret part of me and I love it and hate it at the same time.
Once we are out of the trees where the two cars are parked, he leaves my si
de and leans down next to the passenger rear tire of the Ford that brought me here.
I watch as he pulls a knife from somewhere under his suit jacket then I hear the hiss as he punches it through the rubber. A second later, he slams the silver butt of the knife through the passenger side window with the crack of shattering glass.
He reaches inside, opening the door and rummaging around for a moment before stepping back to his SUV and nodding his head toward me.
“What’s that all about?” I ask him when he returns to his Suburban, grabbing a gas can from the back.
A moment later, he splatters it inside the broken window and then all over the exterior before pouring a long line of the flammable liquid back onto the road. Then he jogs back and tosses the gas can inside.
“What are you doing?”
“Wrapping up loose ends. Now I need you to strip.” He starts loosening his tie as he walks past me, back to the open tailgate of the SUV.
“What?”
“You can keep your bra and panties on. Everything else goes in here.”
He pulls out black trash bag from a roll in the trunk, puts his tie inside, then takes off his jacket and stuffs that in as well. I don’t move as I watch him take his gun out of the holster, putting it in the trunk along with the knife as he starts to unfasten his belt, then turns my way.
“Raven, we don’t have time. Take your clothes off.”
“Why?”
“Clothing picks up DNA like a dog picks up fleas. I hope nobody connects us to what happened out here, or we’ll have bigger problems than the cops to deal with, but if they do the last thing we want is to hand them all the evidence they need to hang us. Put everything except your bra and panties in the bag.”
“We should just call the police. If we explain what happened—”
“I said no cops. Now, take your fucking clothes off.”
I feel exasperated and electrified as I pull my t-shirt up and off. It’s like my hands are moving to obey him even as I’m still struggling to catch up with what’s going on. “You’re an accountant, you’ll never get away with murder.” By this time, I’m pretty damn sure he’s not an accountant but I want to hear it from him.
“Not murder,” he says as he lowers his pants, kicking off his shoes as he goes. “Taking out the trash.”
I can’t help but notice the outline of his cock as it tents his boxers underneath as he puts me in the car a few minutes later, fastens my seat belt, then starts it up, backing up, turning the big SUV in the direction of the main road right next to where he stopped pouring the gasoline.
As if he’s taking a breath, he pulls out a pack of matches from the center console, rolls down his window, lights the entire pack and tosses them, igniting the liquid to flames, and we pull away.
In the side mirror, I watch as the fire races down the trail of gas on the road then engulfs the vehicle, Stringer pushes the Suburban until we are turning onto the paved road and the sound of the explosion hits me like a punch in the chest but my eyes still drift to his lap.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen that bulge. When we’re at home together, I’ve caught him a few times while he’s been working out in his home gym or watching me. It’s very obvious that his cock is something monstrous, almost frightening, and it might not be appropriate, but I’ve often found myself thinking of my mother taking that beast...then I want to throw up.
It’s not right for a daughter to be jealous of her mom, especially after that mom has passed away, but more than once since I came to live with them I’ve fantasized about taking her place, about being in bed with him, listening to him gasp as I take him deep into my mouth. Or him stretching me, taking me, making me scream with pain and pleasure as he ruts inside of me.
It’s wrong. And even if it wasn’t there’s no way that a guy like Stringer would ever think of me that way. He’s powerful, solid and experienced and could probably have any woman he wants, and I’m just me. Plain. A little too skinny for guys to be interested in with a face that’s instantly forgettable. Not like my mother at all. She was beautiful. Exotic and curvy, with the elegance she inherited from her Eastern-European parents.
I tried to ignore the way my nipples were poking at the thin fabric of my bra as I bent to take off my leggings, and hoped that he couldn’t see the wet patch that was starting to form on my lacy white boy shorts as I thought those dirty thoughts all over again. When I handed him my clothes, his eyes darted down over my nearly naked body, making me tingle, but it only lasted for a second before he was all business again.
I’m sure Stringer just sees me as a nuisance his late wife left him to deal with.
Why I can’t seem to accept that, I’m not sure, but if I did, life would sure be easier. An uneasy anger takes over as we drive away, irrational perhaps but necessary. As much as I’d like to throw myself at Stringer and tell him how I feel, instead I need to dig in.
I tell myself to keep my guard up. Especially now. Because he’s clearly dangerous.
3
Stringer
Raven was silent in the car as I drove out of our way to dispose of the bag of clothes. Making a fire in a little pull off picnic area, near an abandoned bridge, I watched as it all went up in flames. I could have thrown them into the burning vehicle, but I wanted out of there fast and if for some reason the gasoline didn’t finish the job, I didn’t want our clothes half burned as evidence.
Now, if anyone finds the remnants of this fire, they’ll just think someone had a campfire or a cookout. Nothing out of the ordinary, and not close enough to the scene to raise any suspicions if by some chance the cops do end up making an investigation.
After that, back at home I feel like I can finally take a breath once we are safe inside the locked gates of my ranch.
I bought this place after the bullet destroyed my knee and I said fuck this and retired. I’d made enough money from my ten years in the army, followed by nine with Taylor Security, to last me a few lifetimes, and you don’t make that kind of money unless you have very specific talents that put you in demand.
Talents that I had in abundance.
The whole thing is known as wetwork.
The kind of work that most agencies consider messy, dangerous and too risky for them to handle.
Raven’s silent treatment ended the moment we got inside the house. I don’t know why her demeanor changed so much since we left the woods but her mouth is writing checks her ass is going to have to cash for her if she’s not careful.
“Stay away from me!” Raven screams as she points at me from where she’s standing at the bottom of the stairs. My cock is still thick and throbbing for her, and I don’t give a shit anymore about hiding it. She’s eighteen and it’s like my body has decided it’s go time and a rare smile takes my lips but it only seems to fuel her vitriol. “Stop smiling!”
I can’t help it. She looks so cute in her white cotton bra and matching boy-short panties, getting all riled up for what reason I’m not sure. She keeps flip-flopping between wanting me as far away from her as possible, and wanting me to show her I’m not going anywhere no matter what happens.
Who knows, maybe they’re the same? Testing me to see if I’ll leave just because she’s giving me shit. Well, she’s going to find out I’m not going anywhere.
“Calm down, hellcat,” I tell her. “You should have never left here without telling me.”
She folds her arms over her chest, which irritates me slightly because I want to see those taut little nipples pushing against the fabric. “You’re the one that keeps telling me I need to take responsibility for my own life. You made me finish school. Now I should have my own life, right?”
She does need to take responsibility, and I do keep telling myself that I should let her go. But, at the same time, I know that’s impossible. From the first moment she showed up here after her so-called father got carted off to jail for the tenth time, I knew I’d never be able to let her out of my sight. She doesn’t understand the dangers of
the world—just look at what happened tonight. After living with her father, she’d been infected with his rot, and it’s taken me this long to start to get her back on track.
“It’s my birthday. I’m eighteen,” she says, her words long and thick, over enunciated, glaring at me, her mouth turning to a thin line.
“I know that.”
Because I’ve been fucking waiting for this day. Why a day over seventeen years and three hundred and sixty-five days matters, but somehow it does. Lusting after my stepdaughter is bad enough, but lusting after my sixteen- and seventeen-year-old stepdaughter felt significantly worse.
She gives me a glare and I scoff. “I got you a present. Made you Happy Birthday pancakes.” Suddenly, it occurs to me with a jolt that maybe she was angry with me about her gift. It wasn’t enough, and that’s why she ran off.
I’d get her anything. Give her everything, but she’s never been that girl. Maybe I misread things.
“I’ll give you anything. Just tell me what you want…”
Except your freedom. That’s not on the table.
She falls silent for a moment, her hands moving along her upper arms. Then she looks away when she answers. “It’s not that. I like the gift. I do. It’s just… You killed three people!” Her eyes snap back to me. “You killed them and what if the police find out? They’ll arrest you for murder. And I’ll be an accomplice.”
“That won’t happen.”
“How do you know?”
“I won’t let it,” I tell her. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”
“And what about you?”
“Trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”
* * *
Raven
Wetwork Page 2
