Bad Boy Criminal: The Novel

by Olivia Hawthorne

  I couldn’t remember the walk to the old abandoned house after the convenience store—or seeing Ash again—or anything. I couldn’t even remember walking across the convenience store parking lot, really. Someone must have picked me up then. Jesus. And so close to the border with a foreign country. What if—what if I was already across the border now? What if I was going to be sold into white slavery? That was a thing, wasn’t it? Hadn’t I heard that that was a thing now?

  I tried to move, but found that I could not. My body felt like lead, and I couldn’t bear to sit up and look down, but something seemed to be restraining my wrists and ankles, at the least.

  Maybe it was Agent Harrison. Maybe he was the vengeful type, and I couldn’t imagine he’d have taken too kindly to being choked out and hog-tied in the men’s room of some rest stop in Las Cruces, by a lowly con and his little nothing girlfriend.

  Not that I was Ash’s girlfriend—or his hostage, either. Maybe “sidekick” was the right word for it. I grimaced.

  Sidekick.

  And I was probably going to end up dying for that son of a bitch.

  The sound of an opening door—opening, and then swinging shut—caused my body to stiffen in terror. My eyes snapped closed again. I felt safer playing dead.

  I heard footsteps shuffle along the floor—a hard floor: concrete? wood?—and my heart fluttered in my chest. I wanted so badly to open my eyes, but I knew that I couldn’t. Not yet. I had to see if my captor would give me any clues, any exits.

  At least I hadn’t lost all sense of my body. I wasn’t numb. Whatever drugs this person had forced on me had worked their way out of my system pretty quickly. I could wiggle my fingers and toes, and I could feel the hard plastic of the burner phone digging into my pelvis, wedged between my butt and this cot. Even more important, I could feel the steely reassurance of the Glock Ash had fortuitously purchased today. How could he have known that this would happen…?

  But there Beyonce was, making her presence known with a painful but inspiring dig into the small of my back.

  Now…if I could just get these restraints off my arms and legs…

  I felt a draft of air as the captor, a likely male, passed on my right, followed by the sound of drawers opening and closing, clutter shifting as hands sifted through it.

  I betrayed myself, cracking one eyelid open, and saw a well-muscled back with an olive complexion. The youthful cut of the physique led me to deduce immediately that this man was somewhere in his twenties or thirties. He took impeccable care of his body, although his clothing left some sense of care to be desired. Even though Ash had never dressed in a particularly cutting edge manner, there had been a classical appeal to his masculinity there. Whereas this guy, in his desperately fashionable, distressed gray t-shirt featuring shiny angel wings—

  Angel wings. Where had I seen those before?

  Moab.

  The man on the bike. The man at the head of an entire crew of men; he was recognizable because he had been the only one without his helmet on. But the patch on his jacket had been angel wings. And the helmet he had wedged beneath one arm had been painted with white and gold angel wings. Angel wings…

  Ash’s voice came back to me like an unexpected gift.

  “Those random guys in the street weren’t so random as you might think. They’re members of this motorcycle crew called The Valiant. That fucker—the one I was accused of killing, Jared Wayne—he was their leader, before he met with the business end of a Gat.”

  Shit. That meant this was personal. It was revenge. They thought he’d killed their leader. And this…this guy had already aimed a loaded gun at my head once before. I couldn’t forget that.

  The dark-haired man shot a look over his shoulder at me, cocking one eyebrow. I closed my eyes again, but it was too slow.

  “That’s all right, mi perra,” he informed me, strangely brusque and casual. “You don’t have to pretend to be asleep. In fact.” I heard the distinct sound of duct tape ripping from its roll. “I’d rather you didn’t. I think that’ll make more of an impact with Ash, don’t you?”

  I told myself not to be afraid, that it would be okay, but I wasn’t listening to me. Glancing down, I saw that my hands were bound with thin twine, and began tugging my wrists and ankles upward, attempting to break its hold. Whilst I had been in the twilight of drugged half-sleep, they’d felt like chains, but now I realized that I could get out of this—I could get my gun, get my phone, get to Ash—

  “No, no, no, no,” the dark-haired man tsked at me, darting down with a fresh swath of silvery duct tape. He wrapped my right wrist first. “Can’t have that.” He ripped off another piece and attacked the left wrist, pinning it to the frame of the cot and enwrapping it there. “You know, I can see why our Ash likes you so much,” he went on conversationally, straddling my hips. I kicked furiously at the twine—if I could free my legs before— “You’ve got some fire in you,” he murmured, ripping another piece of tape and wrapping it around my knee, pinning that knee to the frame of the cot. The man leaned into me, his eyes plunging deep into mine. “I’d love to extinguish it, you know,” he cooed. “Not to mention those eyes. And that hair. Ooh, ooh, ooh.”

  I vaulted upward and slammed my forehead into his, causing him to reel backward and pin the ball of his hand over one eye, gritting his teeth.

  “Dammit, bitch!” he seethed. His fist lashed out at me, swiping my jaw and sending my head rocking back against the pillow. “You and that little prick are going to learn about Alex Cantrell,” he promised bitingly. All the while, even as my own head throbbed, my left leg thrashed wildly to free itself from the twine. I could feel it giving…

  But Alex easily enwrapped my other kneecap in duct tape, trapping my legs to either side of the cot’s frame. I winced.

  God dammit…

  Alex climbed off me, smiling coyly. He reached into the waistband of his jeans and extracted a black, metallic hilt with no blade.

  There was a tiny flicking sound, and then a razorblade came flashing at me, with a threatening little schick…

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Ashton

  Holding the scrap of paper in my hand—Jade’s phone number—I wondered if Izzy had chosen not to invest the time into learning her number, or Dom’s, or Xander’s, or even mine, because she’d known how temporary any assistance they could provide would be. Had Isabelle Turner known for a while now that she wasn’t going to accompany me across that border? Or was this a new development?

  I grimaced and crumbled the scrap in my fist. I’d never considered before that being good in bed might be a bad thing. Had I been fooled by our sex, to believe that this was something more than just—a country girl getting out of her backyard? A fling? An exciting story to tell the man with whom she’d really settle down one day?

  Shit, that was nearly impossible to believe. Could she have really faked everything? Her jealous little comments about Jade? The quiet moments, the strangely domestic moments here and there, which had consisted of little more than eye contact, a smile, or a peck on the cheek? Had she been just ghosting through all of it?

  A taste of my own medicine, I guessed. I’d certainly been guilty of semi-consciousness in most of my relationships up until now. It would serve me right to be introduced to the female equivalent of myself: selfish, and short-sighted, and dammit, full of shit.

  I had my burner phone in my hand and I was punching Jade’s number across the pad before I even thought about what I was doing. My mind had gone onto autopilot, and my body trusted itself completely to the task of taking over.

  The phone rang seven times before being answered. Each ring was excruciating to bear, and as I endured them, I found my feet turning of their own volition back toward the convenience store, as if maybe it would be different this time. Maybe, this time, she would be there.

  “Hello, hello,” Jade chirped. “Hackney and Haxby, how can I help you?”

  “Jade,” I said, eager to skip past any small talk.


  But she sensed the tone immediately. “What happened?”

  “It’s my girl,” I informed her. Best to keep it brief. She’d understand the nuances. “She’s gone. We’re still in Las Cruces. I sent her for a fucking bag of burritos, man, and now…she’s just gone.”

  “Oh, my God.” I could almost hear her fingers diving into her mouth, her teeth sawing away at her stubby nails compulsively. “I’m so sorry, Ash.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sorry!” I commanded her, feet still moving toward the convenience store in the decreasing distance. “Just tell me you can fix it! She had her phone on her when she left! She had her phone on her,” I repeated desperately. “Tell me you can track it, Jade. Jade Rodriguez, I know you can fucking do anything. Tell me you can track it.”

  “The phone,” she said. Her voice was grim and flat. Not encouraging. “Was it one of those burner phones Arlo gave you?”

  “Yes,” I snapped. And I understood before she even said anything.

  “Honey,” she cooed. “You know—”

  “I know!” I spat onto the sidewalk as I stormed toward the gas pumps. The island of greenish fluorescent light was bright and looming now. It hadn’t taken long at all to make the walk—less than five minutes when swiftly traveled—but she’d been gone for forty-five…

  Where was she now?

  Where was she?

  “Even I can’t trace a burner,” Jade said.

  “I know,” I repeated. “I know.”

  My shoulders sagged as the gravity of the situation settled onto me.

  Where had she gone?

  Had she ran back to Boulder, back to Turner Dairyfarm, after all? Or had something happened to her?

  Chapter Forty

  Isabelle

  Alex Cantrell hovered overhead, the wicked switchblade from his waistband gleaming in the fluorescent light. My eyes tracked his movements helplessly.

  I had been hoping for a window of opportunity in which to wriggle free of the duct tape and bring Beyonce, my new Gat, into the fray. Somehow, Ash had known that I might need a gun of my very own…and I could now feel her digging into my back, insinuating herself into the action—but there would be no way for me to reach her with my ankles, knees, and wrists pinned to the iron ledges of this shitty cot.

  Alex, the dark and surly Valiant biker who had pointed a gun at my head in the main street intersection of Moab, Utah, must have attacked me at some point between the convenience store and the abandoned house in Las Cruces…though I couldn’t remember. I’d just woken up here, surrounded by crates, no windows. A warehouse? A basement? It was spacious, cement floor, chilly, even though it was early summer in New Mexico right now.

  A miniature television rambled on in a corner of the room.

  Alex’s gleaming eyes surveyed my body greedily.

  “You know,” he leered, “it was sheer luck that I happened to find you when I did, pussycat. The radio is hot with leads on you and your boy right now…not that any of them know just what they’re dealing with.” He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “They seem to think you’re an innocent in all this. Anyway, though…someone called in a tip to the cops at Las Cruces with a sighting… You two hit up La Casa de Pistolas to squeeze off a few rounds, eh?” Alex winked, and I cringed. He was so slimy and vapid, it was like talking to my worst nightmare from the shady scenes I inhabited during my teen years, all grown up but none the wiser for it. “Yeah, one of the Valiant boys here in New Mexico heard about it on his CB. He knew we were looking for you guys—chased you all through Utah.” Alex ran his tongue over his dry bottom lip. “Gave us a call. Let us know. So, I headed this way…cued up my CB…sure enough, heard a new tip. Buying burritos down at some station on the corner, not five blocks from where I was shooting pool with my brothers, just waiting…waiting for another tip. A homey hooked me up with this place, and here we are. It was like fate, mi amore.”

  Unsure of what to do or where to go in this situation, I decided mindlessly agreeing with him might be the best path toward freedom. “Yeah,” I said, breathless, eyes still glassy with shock. “It was like fate.”

  “Now there’s just two things left to do.”

  Alex suddenly swung one leg over the cot and straddled it, still holding the switchblade. My mouth went dry in anticipation. What was he going to do to me? “What two things?” I wondered meekly.

  “First, a practice with which I am sure you are familiar.” Alex pawed up one leg…thoroughly. “The frisk.” His fumbling fingers then slid up the other. Hm. His touch was clumsy. I wondered if I could take him in a fight…if I weren’t duct-taped to the ledges of this cot.

  Then his switchblade swiped up the center of my shirt, bringing both panels of fabric to fall, shorn, to either side of my torso, exposing my belly and breasts.

  “Ooh, la la,” Alex murmured, hands sliding over my trunk. At first, I felt a steely stab in my chest: the fear of being taken against my will. But that fear quickly ebbed in light of another: the fear of having my gun confiscated from me. His thick and lightly trembling fingers crept along the small of my back and brushed Beyonce’s butt. “What have we here?” he purred, yanking the gun out of my pants.

  I winced. Dammit. That had been it. My only card to play.

  “You know, I’ve never pistol-whipped anyone before,” he murmured contemplatively. “And I’d love to pistol-whip you, with those soft, soft cheeks.” Alex’s fingers fumbled across my jaw and clutched my face in his palm like some doting relative whose old age had caused them to begin to lose sensation in their extremities. “But,” he continued, to my relief, “I need to be able to tell Ash I haven’t hurt ya…yet. If I go wailing on you, bruising up his little peach, well, he’ll be too mad to do what I say. And he’ll lose sight of the objective here: getting you safely out of this basement.”

  A basement. We were in a fucking basement.

  “What do you mean, to do what you say?” I asked him. “What did you say? What will you say?”

  “Are you stupid, girl?” Alex spat, climbing off the cot and leaving me, incredibly vulnerable, spread eagle and partially nude, no weapon, no clue. “I want the same thing I wanted the last time, now, don’t I? I didn’t get it then, did I? And shit, I still want it now.”

  “Ash…to turn himself in?” I whispered uncertainly. It just seemed so—unlikely.

  But Alex didn’t seem to feel that way. His eyes gleamed and his lips split into a grin at the mere words. “You got it, baby girl,” he cooed. “Turn himself over to Agent Harrison ‘n Carson. Save your life. Just like before. I’m gonna want you to call him now. I’m gonna need him to hear your voice…all shaky, and so, so sweet.” He ran his thumb over my lips and I snapped at him, but he withdrew the appendage too quickly to be caught between my teeth.

  Before…

  But Ash and I hadn’t slept together yet, before. (I couldn’t help but think that such a thing had bearing on whether or not a man cared if a woman lived or died. It certainly would have factored into the thoughts of the men I’d known before Ash.) And I’d been right in front of him, in front of everyone, before. We’d been in the middle of the street, and in front of a swath of Valiant thugs. Things were different now. Ash could just walk away, and no one would ever know. For the rest of his life, he could run, and be a free man, and just tell anyone who ever asked that he never got the call.

  I swallowed.

  “I don’t think he’ll do it,” I informed Alex weakly. “But if you can get my phone out of my pocket…I’ll give it a try.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ashton

  I’d been stalking outside of the convenience store, accosting every son of a bitch who crossed my path (“Are you sure? Are you sure you haven’t seen her? She’s got long, brown hair, a little short on one side. She’s got real soft eyes, a kind of blend of brown and green. And a body…and a body, we’ll just say that. You haven’t seen anyone like that? You haven’t seen anyone like that anywhere?”) to no avail, and then my phone rang.r />
  I recognized the number immediately—I supposed I was better with those things than Isabelle was. A heady cocktail of relief and panic flooded my chest, and I answered the call in the middle of the first ring.

  “Jesus Christ,” I extolled, breathless, “Izzy. Are you all right?”

  There was a pause, and the entire world hung in the balance, and then a tiny, choked sob struggled out across the line, and the world shattered and collapsed into pieces. She wasn’t all right. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Someone had picked her up. And not just anyone. Not just a local cop, or even Harrison himself. It was one of those Valiant fucks. Only they would snatch up an innocent girl like Izz, and make her cry.

  “Izz!” I pled. “Talk to me, Izz. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Alex,” she explained.

  It was all that I needed. Alex fucking Cantrell, the bitter little Valiant piss ant. The shit heel had such destitute intellect that even The Valiant itself, even his own brothers, looked down on him, mocked him, and didn’t trust him. He had been a thread or two from losing his patches on more than one occasion, which showed what psychopaths and Neanderthals The Valiant truly were. That kind of bull would never have flown long-term, even short-term, with Hell’s Ransom.

  And he was such a fool—such a liability—that he might have done anything. Hell, he’d already assaulted her in front of a few dozen witnesses in broad daylight, the imbecile.

  “What did he do?” I seethed, ready.