Sawyer’s dark blond brows draw together. "You like him?"
"I did in high school. Years ago. It was a stupid, meaningless crush, based solely on Trey’s looks as I had no idea he lacks both brain and personality."
Sawyer’s lips twitch in a smile for a second, but it disappears. "So that’s why you wanted to go to bed with me? To learn how to seduce that asshole?"
"No! I mean—"
"It is, Claire. That’s why you propositioned me, which I have discovered is very unlike you."
"I—" I’m floundering. I did want to experience sex. I did think Sawyer was gorgeous. My heart had been broken by seeing Trey with another girl. "I don’t know why I did it. But when I—uh, when we made love, I did not care about Trey. I don’t care about him."
He looks so hurt. I can’t understand it. He just told me that I made him unhappy, and that he was in love with someone else—someone he couldn’t forget. How can he be hurt by a stupid crush I had on Trey that is now over? Is his pride hurt because he thought I had been crazy about him from when I first saw him and that was why I propositioned him?
He’s had one blow after another: losing his girlfriend, having his mother reject him, losing Jaxon, having to do whatever a group of violent criminals want him to do.
"I couldn’t care less about Trey now," I say. "I do care about you. Even if you don’t want us to date, I won’t stop caring about you."
"I care about you." He approaches me, his head tipped down. He holds my gaze. "I really care about you. I guess it scares me. My girlfriend’s name was Kerry. I knew she was unhappy about stuff at home, but I acted like she didn’t need help. I acted like she didn’t need anyone other than me. She really needed to talk to someone who knew how to help her through depression. My stupidity hurt her. My stubborn need to be the most important person in her life killed her. Because if I’d been supportive and got help for her, she wouldn’t have committed suicide—"
"You don’t know that," I gasp. "And you were young, too. I don’t think it was your fault."
"I’ve been afraid to tell anyone about that. You’re the only person who knows."
I get up on my tiptoes and touch my lips to his. After wanting to learn how to kiss, I know how to kiss Sawyer now. Tenderly. Lovingly.
He cups my face and returns my kiss.
When we stop and take ragged breaths, he looks deeply into my eyes. "I can’t understand how you can accept me, now that you know about this."
"Well, I do," I say.
"After everything I’ve said to you, are you willing to spend the night with me?" he asks.
Oh God, of course. "Yes," I whisper.
* * *
On Saturday, I meet Sawyer at our diner—that is how I think of it now—for breakfast. I can tell he is distracted. He didn’t order a large breakfast. He’s just drinking coffee.
I pry, poke, prod, and beg him to tell me what’s going on. Finally I sigh. "Okay, Sawyer. I care about you, but I can’t just stand by and let you continue to be in danger. I don’t care if you need the money. I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of my life. I’m going to go to the local cops right now if you don’t tell me what’s going on."
He jolts up and gapes at me.
"I’d rather lose you than see you end up dead, Sawyer."
He winces. "I talked to Helman last night. He made it clear that my mother would get hurt unless I do what he wants."
"God, Sawyer, this has to stop! You’ve got to go to the cops. This is crazy."
"Claire, I’m buying time right now. I’m going to do what he wants. I’m going to keep winning money for him, while I figure out how to get out of this. If I go to the cops now, I have no way of ensuring Mom is safe." He drinks the rest of his coffee. After the waitress brings one for me and refills his, he slips a silver flask out of his pocket and sloshes in a liquid I am sure must be Bailey’s. Which he should not be drinking in here.
"I do know of one way out," he adds grimly. "If Helman were dead, I’d be free."
Oh God. God. God. Fear makes my veins ice up. "Sawyer, you can’t do that. You could be arrested for murder. You could spend your whole life in jail. You—you wouldn’t really do it, would you?"
I’m so terrified, my hands are shaking. The thing is: I really don’t know Sawyer well enough to know what he is capable of doing if he’s pushed into a corner. The thought of him being willing to kill scares me. I mean, I understand. When I was being bullied in high school, I used to say that I wished Heather, my main tormentor, was dead. But in my heart, I didn’t really want her to die. I just wanted her to leave me the hell alone.
Murder isn’t a solution. Sawyer would be giving up his entire life. "Sawyer, answer me. You can’t do something like that."
"I won’t, Claire."
"Please don’t race tonight."
"That I can’t promise, Claire. You’re supposed to go out tonight with your friends. Go and have a good time."
This is so wrong—he shouldn’t be afraid for his life, for his mother’s life.
"I really don’t feel like going out."
He strokes his fingers along the back of my hand. Goosebumps wash over me. "I want you to go. Don’t you think I hate myself for putting you through this? I don’t want you to stop living a normal life." His intense violet eyes are grim, but he tries to smile. "You’ll be safe. Helman believes we’ve broken up. Since he’s threatened my mother, he won’t touch you."
* * *
Saturday afternoon I take a cab to Westingham’s local police station. I made my decision. Sawyer and his family are in too much danger. He may hate me for this when he learns that I did it. But I care for him too much not to go to them.
The cops question me and I don’t have much information to give them. I don’t know where the races happen. I only know the name "Helman." They thank me and I leave, not knowing if I’ve done any good or not.
That night passes in agonizing slowness. Sawyer has to race. Abby and I go off campus and end up in one of the most popular dance bars. I can’t focus on my friends or what’s happening around me. I can’t talk to anyone about my fears.
The cops promised they wouldn’t do anything to put Sawyer or his family in danger, but what if Helman finds out what I’ve done?
At the dance bar, DJ Mike has the music blaring so loud it thrums through my body like another heartbeat. I’m the designated driver, so I’ve been sucking back diet Cokes. Abby, Shanelle, Kylie and three other girls are dancing on one of the tables. I’m standing with other girls from Yardley.
I drain my soft drink. Maybe I’m overloading on artificial sweetener, but I feel strange. My brain feels kind of disconnected from my body. My vision is blurry. If I’d been drinking alcohol, I’d suspect I was getting drunk.
It must be stress. Shakily, I get to my feet. Maybe if I go to the bathroom and run cold water on my wrists I’ll feel better. With the bright lights on the dance floor and so many people crammed into the space and dancing, it’s really hot. My hair is actually damp with sweat.
My legs are weak. On my way to the bathroom, I stumble into a booth. A guy sitting on the end jumps to his feet and steadies me. "Are you okay?" he asks.
I try to focus on him. I can understand that I might feel sick from too many soft drinks, and I feel weak and shaky from stress, but why can’t I see properly? Things that should be stationary look like they’re moving, are growing bigger or smaller, and almost everything is out of focus.
When I moved into residence at the beginning of the year, we received ‘talks’ from older students. Warnings about situations to beware. Date rape drugs were discussed.
Am I a victim of a date rape drug? But how did it get in my drink? I never left my diet Coke alone. I’ve been a table surrounded by girls ever since I got here. No man has been anywhere near my drink.
"Are you okay? What’s your name?" The guy from the booth is talking really loudly. Almost shouting at me.
"I’m not okay. I’ve been drugged." My words are
slurred.
"Oh God, what’s happened to her?" A woman’s voice comes from beside me. "Claire, are you okay? What’s wrong?"
I turn toward the voice, expecting to see Abby. It’s a woman I don’t know. She has honey brown skin, large brown eyes, and lots of black hair that’s been ironed straight. I try to ask who she is and how she knows my name, but I feel so dizzy I can’t stand up.
"She thinks she’s been drugged."
"Oh God," the woman says again. "I’ll get her home right away."
"Maybe you should take her to the hospital. Or call the cops."
"The hospital. Yeah, that’s where I’ll take her. Right now. Thanks."
The woman grabs my arm and propels me through the crowd. I know I reach the door, because a blast of cold October air hits me in the face. I pray it’s enough to clear my brain.
I try to take another step, even though I can’t focus on where I am or what’s around me. My leg crumples underneath me. I’m falling…
Into blackness.
Chapter Seven
Something shifts underneath me. Something squishy that stinks of rancid sweat and pee—
I jerk my eyes open and discover I’m lying on a sagging mattress on the floor of a small, grim room. Gagging, I scramble off the disgusting thing and scuttle onto the hard concrete floor. But that’s as far as I can move. Something clanks and rattles. And something heavy and cold is biting into both my right wrist and my left ankle.
Grey light filters in from a tiny window near the ceiling. I blink until I get used to the faint light. A handcuff is clamped around my wrist, attached by a thick chain to the concrete block wall. Around my ankle, an iron shackle is fastened.
My head pounds and my stomach lurches and rolls inside me, like I’ve just ridden the world’s highest rollercoaster.
Where am I? How did I get—?
That I do remember. I remember the sick, woozy feeling that gripped me. My stumbling walk toward the washroom. The woman in the bar who acted like my friend and pushed me outside—
I was drugged and brought here. Kidnapped, supplies my brain.
I’m not living up to my brainiac reputation. I try to keep calm and use my head. Obviously I was kidnapped. But was it for white slavery/prostitution, or was this because of Sawyer?
He was so certain his "sponsor" Helman would attack his mother. Had Helman lied to distract Sawyer so he could get to me?
In that case, violence against me is not just a threat anymore.
Oh God.
Suddenly, I retch as my stomach clamps tight in horror. But I don’t throw up. My throat feels parched, as if all the water inside me has been sucked out. My lips are dry and cracked.
Then I see it.
A tall glass filled with a clear fluid. It has to be water. It stands on a scarred wood table, where the rays of dim light hit it. It’s out of my reach, of course.
Left there deliberately to torment me?
If I’m in the hands of Helman, what is going to happen to me? He’s going to use me to—to what? Force Sawyer into racing? Or am I going to be used as an example? This is what you get when you don’t obey: a dead girlfriend.
Then I’m sick. I barely have time to get to my knees and face away from the mattress as I throw up. I keep being sick, even when my body is heaving nothing.
With a loud creak of hinges and a grinding sound that must be metal against the concrete floor, the door to my room opens.
I turn, which is amazing since I don’t seem to be able to breathe and my heartbeat is like constant explosions in my head. Beyond the doorway, it looks dark and shadowy. I squint—my glasses are gone, I suddenly realize. That makes me panic. I’m not going to be able to even see properly. How in hell will I get—?
No, it’s not dark in the corridor. I’m looking at men who are standing in the doorway and they are all wearing black. Without my glasses, I can’t tell how many are there, watching me.
Someone makes a gagging noise. "Disgusting," says a clipped, authoritative male voice. "This room smells foul. Get it cleaned up. I will return in five minutes."
The owner of the voice leaves. I wait, breath heaving. After what seems like forever, three men walk into my room. Three huge men. Each must be over six foot-three inches. One has a mop and one of those metal janitorial buckets on wheels. The other carries two bottles with blue liquid. Cleaner, I pray, not something to dissolve my corpse.
Frantic, I pull on the chains.
The third man, who is fat and paunchy even though he’s tall, isn’t carrying anything. He looks at me with derision. His eyes are small and jet black. He smirks.
They mutter to each other. Their voices are low and I can’t understand a word. They’re not speaking English.
Two of the men completely ignore me. The one with the mop cleans up my watery vomit.
The third man keeps staring at me. When I glance at him, he makes a gross, clicking sound, as if he’s summoning an animal. Then he pursues his lips and pretends to kiss me. Finally, he does a grinding motion with his pelvis and points his finger at me.
I want to be sick again. But there isn’t anything left inside me.
Another man strides in. "Good. It’s clean. Now get the fuck out and do something." He’s the one who issued the orders before. I recognize his voice.
The other men file out.
This man that I am left with is wearing a silk suit. It’s gray and looks shiny, even in the gloomy light. He walks around me, studying me. "Not what I expected," he says.
I don’t say anything. Even if I wanted to, I’m too terrified. I remember being scared to go to high school in case I got mocked and bullied. I had some idea what real fear was—I had been really scared when my brother’s colitis flared up. But I had no idea what real torment was.
I’m really terrified—am I here because he knows I went to the cops?
"Water." I force the word out. "Could I have water?"
"Of course." He gets the glass and brings it to me. Is this a good sign?
As I drink, I squint at him. He stands close enough that I can sort of focus on him. He’s short, probably five-eight. Maybe he had tall henchman to make up for that. But he is bulky with muscle, wears an expensive suit. Very shiny black dress shoes. Underneath his flashy suit jacket, he wears a white T-shirt. Black stubble shadows his jaw and cheeks. His hair is longish and black and is coiffed to be high on his head and brushed back. It’s so full of hair gel, it looks like porcupine quills.
"You will be seeing Sawyer soon," he says, crouching to look me in the eye, but doing it far enough back that I can’t reach him. My heart beats in hope at those words.
Then he says, "Have to show him the goods to prove I’ve got them. Then the motherfucker will do what I want."
I flinch at the curse word applied to Sawyer.
"Nice boobs though." Helman gets up. "If things go south, I might treat myself to a good feel of those. And a hot, hard fuck. Before you die."
* * *
Hours go by. I know it’s not days because it hasn’t got dark yet. I’ve moved to the extent of my chains. There’s not enough slack to reach the door or any of the walls, never mind the window, which is seven feet off the floor.
I’m trapped, damn it.
The fat henchman brings me a plate of food—half of a fast food burger and a few fries. I take it he ate most of the meal before giving it to me. He walks right up to me, sets the plate in front of me. Then he reaches for my breast.
I lash out at him with my feet, and scurry back. He just laughs. "Later." He winks as he leaves.
I know what he thinks he is going to get to do later. That is not going to happen. I’d rather die.
But I’m scared I’m too much of a coward to pick death. I’m scared I might capitulate out of the pure fear of dying.
I eat, though I hate taking anything from these bastards. I’m so hungry, I have no choice. Shadows are starting to fill my cell. It’s getting close to night—
Rattling sounds at
the door. I hear the click of the lock. There’s a loud scrape as the corner of the door drags over the floor again, then a deep voice shouts, "Fuck! What have you done to her?"
Sawyer! My brain registers his tall strong body, his black leather, his blond hair. Then I see his face. Fresh bruises sit on top of the older, fading ones.
Behind him are two of Helman’s men—one of two who cleaned up my cell and the gross, lecherous one again.
"Claire, are you okay?" Sawyer gets on his knees and wraps his arms around me. His lips touch mine and I hear the two guys snicker.
Next thing I know, Sawyer has pulled away from my kiss and he jumps to his feet, a knife in his hand. He slashes at one of my captors and the blade slices the man’s side. The guy howls in pain and rage. I scream to Sawyer, but it’s too late. The other guy slams the butt of a handgun into the side of Sawyer’s head.
Sawyer stumbles forward, then falls to the floor.
"You could have killed him!" I scream. I scramble toward Sawyer, my chains rattling. I feel like I’m choking on my own heart.
As I reach him, Sawyer groans and pushes up on his arms.
He sits up, rubs his head. "Fuck," he mutters. He sees me and comes over to me. He strokes my hair and hugs me to his strong, warm chest. But I’m stiff with terror and even smelling his sensual Sawyer-scent of soap and warm skin isn’t soothing me. It’s good to be held, but I’ve got to think of a way out of this.
Behind Sawyer, I see legs in shiny black leather pants step through the door. And I see the muzzle of a long gun. It’s the last of the three henchmen. The guy has a shaved head and pale skin. He wears sunglasses, a tight black T-shirt, and black leather pants. He points a huge gun at Sawyer. It’s streamlined, gray, and must be some kind of automatic weapon.
Oh God.
I can’t believe this is really happening. I used to watch mystery and cop shows with my mom. I saw hundreds of women in this situation. It feels so surreal.
And, damn it, I can’t figure out a way to get out of this.
Helman strides in, a phone pressed to his ear. His suit shimmers in the grey light. He grins, then laughs—a high-pitched hyena-like sound. "You want your pretty little whore back? Win tonight, and I let her go."
Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart Page 47