Oh god, I hope he asks me.
My hands are pinned above my head.
He likes to take control.
I love it.
I squirm. Part for show, for him, and part because I'm getting so slick my panties are soaked. He better live close by, because I am not going to make it much longer. And I don't want to fuck him in his car. What I really want is a bed, I want to do this right. I want to scream his name and claw his back and have my mind blown into oblivion.
"Jessica Roan."
My eyes snap open.
He's not kissing me anymore. But he's still holding me tight. Too tight.
Somethings wrong.
Then it hits me.
"I didn't tell you my last name."
I see the guns. Plural. And I'm not talking about his biceps. Or the serious weapon that I can see he's packing in his pants.
My head is spinning. I feel like I can't breathe, like my lungs are working but I'm not taking in any oxygen.
What the fuck is going on? Were we not just in the middle of something important?
"Come with me. Don't make a sound. Cooperate, and I promise, you'll live. But if you try and escape, or disobey me in any way, you will not enjoy what happens. Understand?"
"What?" Is all I manage to sputter out.
Something just does not compute.
"You're coming with me. Don't make me hurt you. I don't want to, but I will if I have to. Got it?"
He takes hold of me under the chin and tilts my head up. His eyes are deadly serious.
"Jessica, do you understand?"
I nod. It's sinking in. I feel numb. I go where he tells me.
He takes me to his car. It's a Jaguar XJR, brand spanking new, jet black, shiny, the seats are leather. At any other time in my life, I'd be thrilled to be with a man as handsome as him in a car like this. Right now, though, I hardly pick up any of what's going on. I'm still processing what the hell just happened.
He turns the key in the ignition and looks over at me. Is that regret I see in his eyes?
I cast my eyes down and see he's still rock hard. There's a big promise between his legs, of the kind of fun we could have if this night would go just a little bit different.
"This is just business. I hope you understand that. You're a lovely woman, and I wish we met under different circumstances," he says. Then, he clears his throat. "And sorry about the cancer, by the way. I really hope your brother makes it."
The car roars. We speed off onto the L.A. streets and off to god-knows-where and I'm too shocked to even cry.
CHAPTER THREE
RYKER
I turn up the volume on my stereo. The music is blaring, some shitty classic rock song with wailing guitars, to match the screams of the woman in my front seat who's about to rupture a lung with how loud she's crying.
I told her to behave. But she's not.
Truth is, what I should do right now is pull the car to the side of the road and shove a gun in her pretty little face until she gets a handle on herself.
But I feel bad for her. Life's given her a raw deal and somehow she's wound up on Michael Drax's shitlist, which means things are about to get even worse for her.
Least I can do for her is let her cry a little bit.
Thankfully, it's not far to my safehouse in L.A. And this late at night, not many people are on the road, so there's little risk of anyone hearing her screams and deciding to poke their nose in where it doesn't belong.
We pull into the driveway of my three-story safehouse. It's a boxy, narrow, modern-looking thing. I hate the design, but the neighborhood is quiet, and it was a steal. I bought it a while back when the housing market was still in the dumps from a guy who was desperate to sell.
I get out of the car and walk around to the other side. Jessica's still in the front seat, eyes red, swollen, and blubbering.
"Get out."
Taking her by the arm, I haul her out. Lift her right off her ass and plop her right down on the pavement. For a curvy girl, she's still light as a feather. I start to think about all the fun we could have together, if circumstances weren't what they are. She's got a body built to play with, and I had more than a little fun with her back in the parking lot. My cock's still rock hard and I've got a pair of handcuffs in my dresser. There's a whole world of fun possibilities there.
But business is business. And that comes first.
She'll come later, if things work out alright.
I'm a professional, after all. And I'm good.
"Get up."
I've got my gun out, now. Military issue. Beretta M9 with a suppressor. I don't fuck around.
I'm a man on a mission to get out of this business, and right now, the only thing standing between me and freedom is a curvy, crying brown-haired blue-eyed woman with a pair of tits that I'd love to bury my face between.
I cock the hammer back and stick the gun right in sweet Jessica Roan's face.
"Get up." I growl.
She does. It takes her a second to wipe the tears away, but she stands. And quietly, too. None of that bawling that she did earlier.
I lead her inside.
I keep my safehouse clean, organized. Everything has it's place and it's all cataloged inside my head. In the living room there are two guns hidden away: one in the bookshelf and another under the far left cushion of the sofa. Another gun is stashed in the kitchen. Upstairs in the bedroom, there are three hidden away. And the top floor, my study, has two more.
Obviously, this is no place for a child.
It also makes things complicated when it comes to taking a hostage.
I drag Jessica upstairs.
She's dead quiet now, and I know she's probably feeling numb at this point. Most hostages do. It'll be a while before she's able to talk.
"On the bed," I growl and I gesture with my gun.
She looks at me for a second, wide-eyed, blinking.
I guess what she's getting at without her needing to say a word.
"I'm not going to rape you. That's not what this is about."
As if. I'm a professional.
I'm almost offended at the thought.
Doing my best to move slowly and calmly, I guide her to the bed, take my handcuffs out of the nightstand, and cuff her to the bed frame.
Professional or not, I have to admit, she looks good like that. Stretched out on my bed, hands above her head, her back arched, chest out, every inch of her calls my name.
I know that, back in the parking lot that, I could've fucked her right then and there. She wanted it. Needed it. She was shaking while she kissed me and her body was wound up so tight with tension that seeing her finally explode with release would be a beautiful thing.
Jessica Roan, beneath me, screaming my name, writhing with my cock deep inside her. The thought makes me so hard it hurts.
Again, different circumstances, I'd love to get to know her. But this is business.
I make a pass through the house. I secure the guns, I lock them away in the weapons safe in my office, and I make sure that any other obvious weapons are secure, because if this Jessica has herself on Michael Drax's shitlist, there is more to her than meets the eye.
I come back to the bedroom.
Jessica's still awake, still looking at me with those doe eyes, but she's a lot calmer now. Hardly even shudders when she breathes and the tears have dried up.
Tough girl. Good, I hate when the hot ones are all fragile.
"Who are you? And why have you kidnapped me? What the hell is this all about?" she says.
"My name is Ryker Blackwood. You can call me Ry if you want, though I'd prefer you don't. Most people call me Ryker."
There's no harm in telling her my name. I'm good, and I'm not on any watchlist. You don't make it as far as I have by winding up on the government's radar.
I'm an independent. There's no organization out there to protect me. No cartel to hide behind. Which means, anonymity is the most important factor in staying alive. Well, that and
being a dead-eye with a rifle.
I sit down on the edge of the bed.
I've learned that it pays to have a gentle hand with hostages. Smack them if they get out of line, keep a firm hand, but don't go scaring them shitless. Scared people get crazy, and crazy people are dangerous. It doesn't matter if you're a curvy, lovely woman or a Burmese warlord with a pet tiger named Lucifer — if you're crazy, you're trouble.
"As for question number two: I'm doing this because I was paid to. Someone gave me your name, your location, and instructions to pick you up. And so, you'll stay here and you'll cooperate, until they're done with you."
She's steadier now. Instead of freaking out, she's processing the info and I can see she's trying to put the pieces to the puzzle together. I can respect that.
"But why me? I'm not anyone important. I work behind a desk all day, I process paperwork, and I don't have any money. Heck, I'm going to have negative money just trying to figure out my brother's treatment."
Those are all good questions. But I don't give a damn.
I shrug. "Not my job. Not my concern."
"So, what, Ryker, you just do what you're told like a good little robot? Does a bigger man have you scared?" Her eyes flicker at me. She's trying to taunt me and get me off balance. She's got some real fire to her.
I like that.
I smile. "I'm a professional, Jessica. I know when to ask questions, and I know when to keep my head down and do my fucking job. It's simple as that."
"That's it? Don't you have a conscience? Or a family? What would your parents think if they found out their son was a hired killer? Or your wife or children, what would they think?"
I shake my head and make a casual show of toying with my gun. "My parents are dead, so I doubt they care. It's just me, Jessica."
Jessica looks about to say something else, but I'm done with this conversation. This isn't a counseling session. We're not here to talk about my family, or my fears, my dreams, or what I see in the inkblots.
I stand up.
"Stay here. Stay quiet."
Back downstairs, I take out my work phone and fire off a text back to the same number that Drax called me from. It's time to report in.
Got her. Instructions?
Short, sweet, and to the point.
The phone buzzes. He writes back almost instantly.
I know. I saw. Keep her cuffed and stay put for now.
He saw? What the hell does that mean? I know I wasn't followed.
And now I'm throwing open all cupboards in my kitchen. I don't keep any food here in this safe house. It'll just spoil for how often I'm actually in this place. But I do keep a nice bottle of single malt in here somewhere.
His text has me a bit out of my head right now and it takes me longer than I'd like to find the bottle. I know no one followed me to that bar. And no one followed me home. Nobody follows me. Nobody gets the drop on me.
I step outside, gun in one hand, glass in the other.
The street's empty. It's quiet. And I know every one of my neighbors, what cars they drive, and everything is in exactly the right place.
Is Drax just fucking with me now?
He seems like the type to do that. I'll bet his sense of humor is just as sick as the rest of him.
Back inside. Another glass. I check the rooms downstairs for bugs and cameras and turn up nothing. Everything's clean and exactly how it should be. How the fuck is he doing this?
Shouting snaps me out of my thoughts and back to reality. Jessica's making a fuss for something.
Not that I'm worried about the noise — my house is as soundproofed as a musician's studio. She could scream bloody murder and the Riley family next door wouldn't even bat an eye.
I go upstairs to check on her.
She's got her legs crossed, red lips pursed, and a bit of sweat on her forehead.
Jessica looks me square in the eyes. "I need to use the bathroom."
Just great.
Managing bodily functions is another one of those things I hate about kidnapping. Most guys, they give their hostage a bucket and tell them to make do, but that gets messy. And I like this safe house. The wood floors are new, the bed is comfortable as all hell, and it's clean.
And you know what can ruin all that? If you guessed 'shit and piss everywhere' you're right on the money.
"Number one or number two?" I ask.
I can't believe I'm saying this.
She looks at me like I'm five years old.
"Seriously, does it matter? I need to use the bathroom. It's urgent."
There's two bathrooms in this house. One's downstairs, and it is not an option. Ground floor means too many ways for things to go wrong. And then there's the bathroom here, just off the master bedroom.
I unhook her from the bed and then re-cuff her. She heads into the bathroom and starts to close the door behind her.
"Nuh-uh," I say, and she stops short.
"Nuh-uh what?" Her voice is all thorny indignation.
"Keep the door open."
"Why?"
She's challenging me. They always do that. Just like children, hostages always find a way t test boundaries.
"Just do it."
"No. That's weird. You're weird."
I cock back the hammer on my gun.
"Do what I tell you."
I'm not going to have her in a room all by herself where I can't see her. Yes, it's weird to have the door open, and no, I don't like it, but I don't leave these things to chance.
"No way. I won't be a part of your weird fetish. Besides, I bet you already have a camera in there, so you can just watch me that way. It's bad enough I have to do this handcuffed."
Her eyes flash at me one last time, then she slams the door and I hear the 'click' of the lock.
Then there's a splash, some muffled cursing, and then the clank of the toilet seat slamming down.
Serves her right.
I wait.
A minute passes. Then another.
I'm actually glad she shut the door.
Flush. There's the sound of running water. It goes on and on and on.
Too long.
I get up, crossing the room in two fucking steps because I'm practically leaping like a fucking Olympic long jumper.
Either the plumbings busted or she's raising some sort of hell and, either way, I'm kicking myself for letting her shut the door.
I bang on it.
"Open up."
No answer.
One more time, even though I know it's wasted effort. I do it because I really don't want to have to trash my bathroom door.
"Open up."
No answer.
I kick that door down.
Just like I knew would happen, the room's empty, the window's open, and my hostage has a minute's head start on me. Oh, and there's a thick wad of toilet paper plugging the drain in my sink, with water flooding out of it and onto the floor.
Fucking great.
CHAPTER FOUR
JESSICA
I hit the ground and do my best to keep my knees bent and I think I stick the landing, but it still hurts like hell. Being barefoot, handcuffed, and jumping from a second story window is not my idea of a good Friday night. Maybe it was back in college, but I've gown up a bit since then.
The grass helps cushion my fall. Just a bit, but it's better than nothing.
I start running. I don't know which direction I'm going or where I'm heading, but I know that anywhere is better than here. And if I can get somewhere public, maybe I can make it out of this alive.
I'm scared out of my mind, but doing my best to stay calm and focused.
Right now, I'm grateful that the Bureau gives basic training to everyone. Even lab techs like me.
I'm two blocks away and it is still dead quiet. Doors are locked, lights are out, everyone's asleep and I am totally alone. Ahead, maybe a half mile, I can see the lights to a small strip of nightlife.
There's a bar, maybe two, and I think I can even s
ee a couple people milling about. It's got to be at least 2 AM and most everything else is closed. I just hope that whoever these guys are, they're not the type to try and take advantage of a woman who's all alone and wearing nothing but a pair of cuffs and a little black dress.
Either way, I have to take the risk.
In the quiet night air, I hear the sound of tires squealing.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
There goes my sense of calm. He's after me.
My feet are pounding the pavement, but it's hard to run fast with bare feet and cuffed hands.
He's pulling up behind me now, and I know I'm not going to make it. There's no way. I'm not fast enough.
I scream.
"Help".
Once. Twice. I scream so loud my throat hurts.
Then I dart into an alley. Still screaming.
I'm loud when I want to be and the night is dead quiet.
My voice has to be carrying a long way.
Someone has to hear me.
I hear a car door slam. Footsteps come up behind me.
I stumble over a trashcan. It hurts. I think I broke a toe. But I keep running. And I keep screaming.
Those footsteps are right behind me.
A hand clamps over my mouth.
"Shut. Up."
No nonsense. His voice is deadly serious.
Even more serious is the gun I feel pressing against the side of my head.
It's cold like death. It shocks me to alertness.
It's fight or flight time, and, since I can't flee with him holding me, that just leaves fight.
I scream into his hand and then I stomp down on a foot. Hard.
He needs me alive. But I don't need him. At all.
He swears something filthy, a rolling growl of profanity that makes me blush, but doesn't let me go.
His grip on my mouth hurts. It's like he's trying to break my jaw or something.
"Calm down," he whispers.
But I'm not hearing it.
Adrenaline courses through my body. I'm seeing in tunnel vision, and I feel like some cornered animal. All I can think about is getting away from here.
I go limp for a second — it's a trick they taught us in basic training, it makes the target think you've given up, so they relax — then, I introduce my elbow to his crotch.
Viper: A Hitman Romance Page 3