Until Mayhem: Happily Ever Alpha World

by Layla Frost

  “About the lass,” he continued, getting us back on track, “what’s she look like?”

  Thinking of Ophelia, I spoke automatically, saying too much but not giving a damn. “Shit-ton of blond hair, big gray eyes. Tiny thing, but a big fuckin’ attitude. Like a princess who’d use her tiara to saw your dick off if you looked at her wrong.” I shrugged. “Doesn’t rule anything out since Nash has girls of every size, shape, and flavor.”

  “I don’t give a flying fook about Nash. His motives are always the same—money. But now yours are making more sense. A bonny lass will make a lad do some fookin’ fool shit.”

  Pulling out my phone, I bit out, “I’ll tell Haze to drop her back off if it’ll get everyone off my sack.”

  “Nah, you won’t,” Nox called my bluff before moving on. “Dair is flying in,” he checked his watch, “in about two hours. Give me the address, and I’ll put him on it, see if he can find what they were searching for.”

  Tossing him her keys, I gave him her address, the store name, and where she’d parked. “Have him search and move her car before it raises a red flag.”

  “Got it. I’ll start looking into her tonight.”

  If Nox is looking, he’ll find out everything down to her first-grade teacher’s name.

  “Still got a connection at the PD?” At his nod, I told him, “There’s a garbage bag of her underwear on the bed. Don’t know if there’s any DNA—”

  “Dair will drop it off.” Checking his watch again, he stood. “Shit. We got plans to visit Gus’ nan, and if we’re late, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “How’s Gus feeling?” I asked.

  I’d only met her a few times in passing since Nox—and her—insisted his work stay far, far from her. But just from the brief time, I knew I liked her. And I liked the changes she brought without even knowing it.

  “She’s good. Missing her wine, sore, and, most nights, her and her dog are asleep on the couch by eight, but she’s good.” He looked proud as hell, likely because he had his baby growing in her and because he bent over backward to make sure she was happy.

  “Glad she’s handling the pregnancy well,” I said.

  “Like a fookin’ champ.” His grin fell as his expression returned to his usual guardedly blank. “I’ll be in touch. Keep the lass with you until we know she’s not in danger—or bringing danger.”

  I lifted my chin, coming out of my skin with impatience for answers… and to get back to her.

  I started for the door before Nox called out, “Judge.” When I turned, he didn’t hesitate to lay it out like he always did. “This shit you pulled today… I’m not gonna say I don’t get it, because I sure as fook do. I’ll have your back, but if she’s just an innocent lass and it blows up in your face—”

  “I don’t know you, never seen you, you’ve got nothin’ to do with it.”

  “Hope for everyone’s sake she’s who she says she is. You’re already half off your nut for her. You’ll be a real fookin’ header if she’s Nash’s.”

  She’s no one’s.

  No one but mine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ___________________________

  TAKE ME TO CHURCH

  OPHELIA

  I WAS SORE.

  I was hungry.

  I had to pee like I’d never had to pee before.

  More than any of that, I was terrified.

  And furious.

  We’d driven for God knew how long before finally stopping. I’d hoped it was a gas station, but my increased screeching hadn’t led to a rescue.

  Wherever we’d stopped, we were still there. When it became obvious no one could hear me—or they just didn’t care—I’d quieted and crouched to the side, playing possum. No one had come to check on me, but I’d used the time to rest and prepare for whatever came next.

  The girls at work have probably already called the cops. I’ve never missed a day and a no-call, no-show sets off all sorts of warning flags and alarms. I just have to wait.

  The cops will find my car, check the camera, and then come get me.

  I’m good.

  It’s okay.

  I’ll be safe.

  Eventually.

  Close to hyperventilating, I blinked back tears and took some deep breaths. Once I had control of myself—but was dangerously close to losing control of my bladder—I stood and started banging on the door.

  “I have to go to the bathroom!” When no one answered, I increased my pounding. “If I pee in here, it’ll be you cleaning it up. I’m well-hydrated, it’ll be a lot! Let me out, you stupid assholes.” My forehead landed on the door with a loud thud. “Someone will notice I’m gone. They’ll send help. I know people and they’ll kick your ass, you jerks! They’ll—”

  The door opened suddenly, and I lost my balance and fell out.

  Fortunately, someone caught me before I faceplanted onto the concrete.

  Unfortunately, it was Psycho Tattooed Asshole.

  His hair was even more mussed than earlier. And while he was still wearing the same tee, he’d added a leather vest thingy to it.

  There were various patches on the worn leather, but the one that caught my eye was on his chest.

  President.

  “We’ve gotta work on your shit-talk, princess,” he said, but without the smirk or amusement he’d had that morning.

  Had it really only been that morning?

  Time slowed when I was locked in the back of a windowless van.

  “No,” I snapped. “I have to go to the bathroom and then I’m leaving.”

  “Is this before or after your rescue comes to kick my ass?”

  I tried to maneuver out of his grasp, but he held my hips firmly. “Before.”

  “Right. Who should I expect?”

  “People. Lots of them.”

  His expression tightened, and his eyes narrowed. “Good luck to you findin’ your way home and them findin’ their way here.”

  I was about to ask why when he shifted, giving me a view of something other than his large frame.

  But it was a view of basically nothing.

  Fields stretched as far as I could see. Slowly turning in his hold, I saw an old building that looked like it’d once been a church, but other than that, more of the same nothingness.

  “I’m persistent,” I muttered.

  “Pick correctly, nearest town is more than fifteen miles away. Pick wrong, and…” He trailed off, lifting a shoulder.

  He’s lying. I’ll just take off in a straight line and hope to reach something.

  According to my not-so-expert source—TV crime dramas—twenty-four hours was when the likelihood of rescue dropped off significantly. Add to that, the whole don’t-go-to-a-second-location rule, and things were not looking good for me.

  He’s wearing shitkickers.

  I’m in comfortable slip-ons with good traction.

  He’s in crazy-good shape—emphasis on the crazy—but that doesn’t mean he’s fast.

  I have one year of JV track under my belt.

  Maybe I can outrun him…

  His grip tightened on my hips, his fingertips digging in. “Go ahead and run. I’ll have fun chasin’ and sure as fuck have fun catchin’.”

  Helplessness.

  The feeling sank heavy in my belly as my brain frantically tried to come up with an idea that wouldn’t get me lost, murdered, or worse.

  “Didn’t you say you needed the bathroom?” he prodded. At my hesitation, he shrugged. “Piss in the field and climb back in the van if you want. Or there’s a clean bathroom, a shit-ton of food, and a soft bed. Choice is yours.” I opened my mouth, but he cut me off and added, “The choice between the van and inside—nothing else.”

  I was tempted to go with the field-van combo. I’d been camping before—including an unfortunate case of poison ivy on my butt after a poorly chosen emergency bathroom location—so it wouldn’t be the first time I’d peed outdoors.

  But I couldn’t deal with the enclosed space of
the van. Just the thought of it tightened my chest and even the vast expanse of nothing felt suffocating. If I tried to go back in, I’d likely pass out from claustrophobia.

  Damned if I do, damned if I pass out and am left vulnerable.

  Not trusting myself to speak without screaming ineffective and counterintuitive insults, I reluctantly nodded.

  Psycho eyed me for a minute, his lips pulled down in an unexpected scowl, leaving me feeling as though I’d picked the wrong option.

  It’s not too late to make a run for it.

  His expression smoothed out and he used his hold to lift me.

  “I already said I’d go inside. Let me down!” I shouted, wiggling around.

  “Just so you don’t get any ideas about runnin’.” His long strides ate up the distance until we were up the stairs and inside the old building. The sound of the heavy door closing echoed ominously around us.

  When he set me on my feet, he again kept hold of my hips. That time, though, he released me as soon as I was steady and turned away.

  My eyes went to the giant patch on his back.

  A skull in a motorcycle helmet stared back. Gavels formed crossbones behind it, which made sense when I read the words that surrounded it.

  Court of Mayhem.

  Committing that to memory, I looked around the small foyer, but there wasn’t much to see. A wide set of double doors were opposite the entrance and a hallway was at the side.

  Hitting numbers in the sophisticated alarm panel, he said, “Bathroom’s down the hall to the right.” The thing gave a beep before he punched in more numbers I couldn’t see, making it triple beep. “Lift the window even a crack, it’ll set off an alarm so loud, the neighbors forty miles over will hear.”

  “Got it,” I mumbled, speed walking away.

  After using a surprisingly spotless—though barren—bathroom, I washed my hands and eyed the window.

  Doesn’t hurt to try.

  I unlatched the lock and didn’t even get it open far enough to smell freedom or feel a breeze when the alarm blared, making me yelp and drop it to slam closed while I covered my ears.

  I jumped and yelped again when large hands spanned my waist and I was up, tossed over a shoulder like a sack of flour.

  He carried me back to the door and disarmed the alarm before dropping me. I’d expected to see fury on his face, but his lips were quirked, making the skin near his eyes crinkle.

  “Told you,” he said.

  “It didn’t hurt to try in case you were lying.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “Ever?” I asked, fighting an eye roll at his B.S.

  “You ask me if your ass looks fat in a dress, I’ll tell you no even if it looks like you’ve got the Goodyear Blimp back there.” He leaned to the side, his eyes dropping to check out my butt. “But, princess, I’m speakin’ the whole truth when I say I see nothin’ but perfection.” I shifted my butt out of view, but he didn’t look fazed as he smiled and continued. “Shit like that—white lies—that’s one thing. But big ones? What’s the fuckin’ point? They’re messy and help no one.”

  Putting my hands on my hips, I called his bluff. “Why am I here?”

  “‘Cause you’re in danger or you are the danger.”

  I wasn’t sure if I called the bluff or not because I didn’t know what the hell that meant. Which was why I asked, “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We’ll talk later.”

  “A vague answer is a half-truth.”

  He smirked. “Still not a lie.”

  I found myself fighting a smile and wanted to kick my own ass. Psycho wasn’t a charming guy I’d had a meet-cute with in front of the cupcake mixes.

  He was a kidnapper, at best.

  And at worst?

  The thought hit me like a bucket of ice water, reminding me how dire my situation could be.

  Fear skittered down my spine, making my voice shake when I asked, “Are you going to… touch me?”

  His head jerked back, and his lip curled in disgust. “Never had to force a woman, not gonna start now. When I touch you,” he bit out, “it’ll be ‘cause you beg me to.” Turning suddenly, he walked away, clearly assuming I’d follow. My growling stomach and I were tempted when he said, “Let’s get some food into you.”

  But not tempted enough.

  Moving fast, I threw open the door, ignoring the deafening blare of the alarm. I booked it, jumping over the stairs and landing in a full run. Like my life depended on it—because for all I knew, it did—I ran.

  My chest burned, my legs ached, and my heart pounded from my chest up to my head. But I pushed. I cleared the van and was into the field when arms wrapped around my waist. My legs kept moving, first flying outward and then kicking around, hoping to connect with a tender part of Psycho.

  The force took us both down to the cold ground, with him landing on me hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

  “Fuckin’ hell, princess,” he cursed, rolling us until I was on my back and he was on me, though he didn’t give me his weight.

  “Let me go!” I screamed.

  “Listen—”

  “Get off.” I tried pushing and, when that got me nowhere, hitting. His hands encircled my wrists, pinning them down, and I leaned up to screech in his face.

  “Listen to me. I’m tryin’ to protect you!”

  “By kidnapping and holding me hostage?” Tears of anger, frustration, and fear burned in my eyes before sliding down my temples. “I won’t tell anyone what happened, I promise. I’ll even get back into the van. Just take me home.” My voice broke as I whispered, “Please, I just wanna go home.”

  He studied me for a moment, and I thought he might give in, but he shook his head. “Your place has been hit, Ophelia. It’s not safe.”

  “What does that mean—” I started, my words cutting off when I realized he’d called me Ophelia. “How do you know my name?”

  “Your license.”

  My purse.

  Dejection formed a black pit in my chest, and I closed my eyes against the onslaught of worthless tears.

  His rough hands skimmed softly—almost tenderly—down my forearms. When they reached a painful spot, my eyes snapped open, and I hissed in pain.

  He muttered a harsh curse, his expression tight with anger that, crazily, didn’t seem directed at me—not if his soft touch and regret-filled eyes were any indication.

  Neither of us spoke as he stood and lifted me.

  I didn’t bother to argue as he carried me back to the old church.

  I didn’t look around.

  I didn’t even think.

  My mind shut down at the bleakness of my reality.

  Psycho set me on a counter and reached up to open a cupboard over my head. He pulled down a large plastic case and opened it to reveal a surprisingly well-stocked first-aid kit.

  He got to work on my scraped elbows, first with antibacterial towelettes and then large bandages. Once they were covered, he lowered me back to the floor and turned me around. I snapped out of my daze when he began lifting my shirt, but he just cleaned a small raw spot on my side with the antibacterial wipe, increasing the burn.

  Remaining silent, he grabbed my hand and pulled me. I started to yank it back, but since the alternative was likely him picking me up, I went with the lesser of the two evils.

  With detached indifference, I scanned the room as we moved, taking in everything as though I were viewing the set of a TV show.

  The counter I’d been on was located in a massive, industrial-sized kitchen of intricate heavy wood and contradictorily modern appliances. A familiar smell filled the air, though I couldn’t place it. He shoved us through a swinging door with all his badass grace, leading us into a big room.

  My view was blocked by his broad back, but that didn’t stop me from searching for an exit. A weakness.

  A weapon.

  My original guess of the building being an old church had been correct. The high stained-glass windows were dull and
coated from age, only letting in dim sunlight, but it gave the room a mystical quality. The interior wasn’t dilapidated like the exterior. From what I could see to the side, there was still the beautiful architecture of a church, but the layout and décor had been updated to casual and masculine.

  Looking to the other side, I belatedly noticed a huge rectangular table.

  And the men sitting at it.

  And the spread of fried chicken and sides that had my mouth watering and my stomach growling.

  Psycho stopped, and with my attention elsewhere, I nearly ran into him. I put my hands out on instinct, and, unfortunately, they landed on his jean-covered—and noticeably muscular—ass.

  I snatched them away just as fast, but he looked over his shoulder and smirked. “You gotta buy me dinner before I let you get to first base.”

  Stupidly, I asked, “Touching your butt is first? What’s a homerun?”

  His smirk turned wicked. “You’ll see.” Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “Right after you beg, remember?”

  “You wish,” I muttered under my breath, just not quietly enough.

  He turned to face me, and though he gave a low chuckle, his eyes were intense and hooded. “Wish and will fuckin’ fantasize about.” His gaze dropped to my scowl, but before I had the chance to tell him where he could shove any fantasy, he grinned. “‘You wish’? We’ll work on the shit-talk and maybe get you up to an ‘I know you are, but what am I?’ before you know it.”

  I scowled deeper, even though part of me—the stupid part—wanted to smile.

  Unfazed, Psycho moved and pulled out a chair. I didn’t take the hint, so he put his hand on my shoulder and gently urged me to sit. When I did, he gestured to the man across from me—the handsome one from the store—and continued around the table. “This is Jury, Scythe, Lash, Swedish, Glitch, Hollywood, and Haze.”

  Overwhelmed, I joked, “Ahh, nice traditional, biblical names. Hebrew?”

  Most of the men chuckled or laughed, except the one across from me.

  The handsome one—Jury.

  His gaze dropped from the man who was still positioned at my back to study me, his lips tipped down.

  Psycho’s hand grazed my shoulder as he moved to sit at the head of the table with me to his right and Jury to the left. He didn’t bother to introduce me, which made sense because, going by the curious side eyes and looks of apprehension, the men had already been brought up to speed.