by Jo Raven
Listen.
Only their conversation is boring as fuck. They’re dissing a girl who refused to put out for ugly face—is it any wonder? Just for his conversational skills, or lack thereof, she’d better steer clear—and discussing the football season, then switch to the fascinating topic of toenail fungi.
Someone kill me already.
Oh wait, I’m trying to avoid that. Kinda slipped my mind for a second. That’s how boring this is. Good thing the pain is distracting me, or I’d be asleep and missing out on all this awesome fun.
The door opens. The door closes. Dammit, I hate not being able to see who walks in behind my back. The boss, I presume? I need to know who he is. Need to know if this has to do with the Organization, the mafia, or if it’s something else completely.
Wasted enough time with these two morons already.
They move back as the steps approach me but don’t show any signs of wanting to stand at attention or anything, so now I have to assume this isn’t the boss.
Fuck.
When the guy comes into view, I give him a once-over, keeping my expression neutral. He’s about my age, handsome, with a three-day-beard and slicked-back dark hair.
He’s a douchebag, I can tell from taking one look at him. And he’s a sadist. Which is confirmed when he draws back his leg and kicks me in the stomach before he says a word.
Son of a bitch.
“Good morning to you, too,” I wheeze, trying to hunch over the pain and not able to.
Who is this guy? He sneers at me and rubs his jaw as if considering where to kick next. So not good right now. If my hands were free, I’d mop the floor with him, and the fucker knows it.
His eyes gleam, and he smiles.
That’s a bad sign. Page nineteen in the kidnapping manual: “When your kidnapper smiles, be afraid.”
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on his heels and stares me in the face—so close I consider spitting on him, but I still haven’t gotten back the hang of breathing. I’m wheezing, hoping he can tell from my ice-cold stare I would like him to choke on his own spit and die, when he grabs my hair—again, dammit—and slams my head back against the pillar.
Fuck, so dizzy. Is this enough to give me a concussion? Is it enough to make me puke on him? God, I hope so.
And then he says, “If you as much as breathe my way again, I’m gonna serve you your balls on a plate for dinner tonight.”
“’S okay,” I gasp, blinking, trying to clear my eyes. “Wasn’t hungry anyway.”
He slams my head back one more time, and everything goes black.
Chapter Two
Layla
“Layla?” The whine of an office chair swiveling around and a familiar deep voice greets me as I walk into the dim office. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hey, Dad. Nice to see you, too.” I flop into the chair across from his overloaded desk and wait until he has turned all the way around from his shelves to face me. “How is it going?”
“Didn’t I tell you not to come here?”
I sigh and cross my legs, then fiddle with my bracelet—an expensive one Hawk gave me some months ago. Can’t remember why I put it on today. “Yeah, you always tell me that. Can’t see what’s so dangerous about a shipping company, Dad, honest.”
My shoes are killing me, but I love these heels. Mom bought them for me in New York where I went to visit her this past week. They make my legs look long and shapely, and it gets the guys staring.
“It doesn’t matter. I told you not to come here. Can’t you listen to me for once?” He rubs a hand over his face. “Just like your mother.”
Angry heat rushes to my face. “That’s right. She didn’t bend to your commands. How weird, huh?”
“Layla…”
“No.” I lean forward in my chair and stab my finger on his desk. “I won’t just dance to your commands, Dad. Not without a reason, not anymore. In case you didn’t notice, I’m an adult now, and I can make up my mind about things. You said you’d explain to me why seeing him was dangerous, but you haven’t explained anything, have you?”
“Jamie Fleming, or Hawk as you call him, was never good news.” He glares at me from whiskey-colored eyes, just like mine, and runs a hand over his receding hairline. “Especially since his parents were convicted and thrown into prison.”
“He put them there. He’s not corrupt like them.” And I don’t know why I’m defending him.
Why am I defending him?
“The world is corrupt. He’s not any better.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You talk like you know something. Something more than all the news sites are saying.”
“Didn’t you ask him what they were convicted of, this guy you opened your legs for?”
I get to my feet so fast I almost fall over and have to steady myself on the desk. “Screw you.”
Should have followed Mom to New York. Except I like college here, and I love my friends.
“Layla.” He’s on his feet, too, his glare matching mine. We’re father and daughter all right. “I’m only looking out for you.”
“No, you’re controlling my life and not telling me anything!”
And Hawk has refused to tell me details about his parents’ arrest. I only know what the media reported. He’s always managed to distract me irritatingly fast with his body and mouth and the games he likes to play with me.
Or used to play, anyway, before he pulled another of his vanishing acts. Quite frankly, I can’t do this anymore, this game of hide-and-seek. I’m done with him.
The thought makes my chest tight, but what else can I do?
“Jamie Fleming is off-limits to you,” Dad says, looking away, jaw clenching. “He’s involved in illegal business with the Chinese mafia and other dangerous people.”
“The Chinese mafia?” I bite my lip. This doesn’t sound good. “Are you sure?”
“The Boss says the Fleming heir is dangerous, and I don’t like it, kiddo. I don’t like it at all, and neither should you. There are plenty of men out there. Forget about this Hawk guy. And get out of here before the Boss wanders in and sees you. He doesn’t like it when family drops by work.”
Forget Hawk is easier said than done. Still, I’m trying.
“Christ, Dad. Your boss sounds even worse than Hawk, seriously.”
Dad’s face hardens. “Enough. You think I’m joking around? Stay away, is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Sheesh. “I only came by to tell you I’m back from New York, and that Mom says hi, but honestly—”
“Don’t come back here, Layla. I mean it.” His glare is now ice cold, and it sends a shiver down my spine. Dad doesn’t normally scare me, so I stumble backward a step, wondering what’s going on here. “Get out!”
Shaking my head, confused and rattled, I grab my purse and get the hell out of there.
***
What just happened? It’s not like I’ve ever been very close to my dad, but since he and Mom got divorced, and she moved away, I’d thought we were close enough. Close as a father and daughter often are—comfortable in each other’s presence, easy enough to ask for some extra money to buy something I needed, or to tell him about my vacation plans or my studies.
My dad is not a scary man. He’s the head of a relatively small shipping company under a bigger operation umbrella. He manages trucks and warehouses and moves goods around the US. That’s my understanding of his business.
Can’t say I’ve ever been interested in what he does. I love books. Book design, covers, marketing, bookshops and everything that revolves around books and stories. It’s why I’m studying publishing.
But this Boss of his… he’s been like a ghost most of my life. I’ve been hearing about him, the guy who owns the company, but I’ve never seen him.
Now I’m sort of glad. Glad he hasn’t seen me, either.
Crap.
This is ridiculous, I tell myself as I walk out the door of the office and into the watery sunshine. I’m ove
rreacting. Dad was overreacting. He’s probably overstressed and tired and had a fight with his boss or something.
I honestly felt like I was three and told to go stand in a corner. I was just visiting my dad for chrissakes. Done it a thousand times before. He was never too happy about me hanging around his work place, but he never yelled at me to get out, either.
Dad and me, we’re going to have words. About this, and about trying to control my life.
Although… Hawk. Hawk is involved with mafia? Was Dad right? This really sucks, because the guy’s handsome like a god, and fucks like one, too—and I shouldn’t be thinking about that.
Still, my face heats as I remember the last time we were together. How he pushed me against his bike and used his fingers to make me come, then fucked me right then and there, in the shadows but still where everyone could see us if they passed by.
Where everyone could see him marking me, taking me. Owning me.
And yeah, I know it’s just sex, but he is so hot I can’t help it. I want him, even if he’s a cold-hearted, rich bastard who only uses me for his needs. Hey, I have needs, too, and he’s a sex machine.
So we’re quits, I guess. Or we were, until I decided I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t. Need to remember that, and not run back to him next time he calls. If he calls.
Damn man has spoiled me for anyone else, not that I’d ever tell him that. My best friend Dorothy would tell me—like she told me a thousand times already—that sex isn’t the most important thing in a relationship. That a boyfriend has to be foremost attentive and gentle and affectionate.
Hawk and I, we’re not in a relationship. So that doesn’t count. My last boyfriend was a dork and a jerk, and the sex sucked. In my experience, boyfriends and good sex don’t go hand-in- hand. Maybe one day I will find the guy who can do both, but for now…
For now I can’t do as my dad asks and dump Hawk, because he’s not mine to dump, first, and second and most important, he won’t return my calls.
What do I know, maybe he’s dumped me already and didn’t care enough to tell me. Maybe it’s a done deed. Or he’s super busy with his company or flying abroad on his private jet. That’s what you get when you’re addicted to a hot millionaire-slash-bad boy.
The wind is biting into my cheeks as I walk along the warehouse, and I shiver in my thin, stylish jacket. It’s a gift from Mom, and I love it, but today is particularly cold. Feels like a storm is brewing, and the morning is dark like early evening.
There’s a green staff door, and I huddle under its built-in awning, fishing inside my purse for my scarf and gloves. Jeez. You’d think it’s January instead of early May.
Voices from behind the door make me pause. Turns out the door isn’t completely shut but open a tiny crack. This is none of my business, and I finally locate my scarf, which I wind around my neck, getting ready to brave the wind and go find my car—only what the voice closest to me says stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t touch him again, not before the Boss sees him.” It’s a rumbling male voice. “Sometimes those knocks to the head can be damn lethal. I’ve seen a video about it on YouTube.”
Knocks to the head?
“He was egging us on, man. Bastard thinks he owns this city. I was itching to punch that smirk off his face.”
The voices are right behind the door now, I suddenly realize, and I stumble away, putting my back to the wall and waiting.
The two of them stroll past me, not even glancing my way, still talking, the wind whipping their words right back at me.
“Fucking rich boy,” one of them, the burly one, says. “Let’s see how he squawks when I have another go at him. He won’t know what hit him next time.”
“Save it, Johnny. Scare him all you want, but Boss-man said we need him alive.”
I blink. I misheard. That must be it. It’s quite windy, after all.
I mean, come on, these buffoons wouldn’t rough up someone, not in my dad’s warehouse, right beside his office, right?
Does Dad even know about this?
Time to hightail it. Return to Dad’s office, tell him about this, make sure it’s nothing. Misunderstanding or not, better play it safe.
Always playing it safe. That’s what my mom taught me. Taking risks leads to broken hearts—or broken bones, if this proves to be real.
And yet, when I realize the door is still not completely closed, I sidle toward it, and push it to enter.
I need to know what’s going on. Besides, going to Dad with this tale without even knowing my ears weren’t playing tricks on me would be embarrassing.
Hey, Dad, I overheard two guys say they were using a rich guy as a punching bag in your warehouse, I don’t suppose you know anything about this?
Don’t be hysterical like your mother, Layla, Dad will say. You heard what? In my warehouse? You think I’m a thug? Didn’t I tell you to get out?
Right.
Let’s just say I’m still stung. He’s never thrown me out of his office before. We’ve had our fights, but he’s never been so cold to me.
Sheesh.
Stalking in an echoing warehouse in high heels quietly is near impossible, so I slip my shoes off and shiver when the cold of the concrete seeps through my sheer tights.
I know every nook and cranny of this place. I didn’t actually grow up in here, but I’ve hung around the place since I was seven or eight, slipping through my parents’ guard to watch the workers pack up merchandise, stack the crates, load them onto forklifts and then onto truck beds driven by bearded, beer-bellied guys.
It was my own private theatre. A kind of child’s circus, full of strange hairy men and mysterious boxes. A weird world apart from mine.
Now I make my stealthy way past a row of small, empty offices and toilets. It’s quiet in here, without the howling of the wind, and I don’t see anyone.
Doesn’t mean anything, of course. The tall stacks of metal containers could hide a dozen workers going about their job, but there’s a stillness about the place.
Frowning, I push the door to the stairwell open, and voices filter up from the basement. I hesitate, glance back over my shoulder at the empty warehouse.
What am I doing? Pretending to be a spy, Layla? Is your life that boring?
But unless I know who’s down there and if anything fishy is going on, I won’t sleep tonight, so… Down the stairs it is.
***
The voices grow louder as I descend the dark staircase, running my hand down the ice-cold, metal banister. I’ve played in this stairwell so many times, I don’t need to look to know there is a door opening on the left to a small storage space and a fire extinguisher case on the wall.
The door at the bottom of the stairs whines as it opens with a breeze, letting yellow light and more voices into the stairwell, then closes again, drowning me in dark and silence.
Another wave of hesitation hits me full in the gut.
I could still go back. I probably should. This isn’t a movie, and it isn’t funny. Or intelligent. I’ll just embarrass myself in front of workers doing their job, who will crack jokes about me, tell my dad, and generally make me look like an idiot.
Shit.
I turn around to climb back up, when the door slams open and a guy stands there, turned away, talking to someone I can’t see. I barely have time to step back down and wedge myself behind the door when he steps into the stairwell, followed by two others, and they start climbing up.
I watch them, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Come on. This is getting ridiculous. So what if they saw me?
I could just step out and say something. Hi, I’m Steven Green’s daughter. Sorry, I got lost looking for the bathroom. Maybe we could you point me to the exit?
But they don’t notice me. They turn on the landing and take the second flight up, not once looking my way.
I slump back against the wall.
Then I turn and push the door of the basement open. Stepping inside, I let
the door close quietly behind me, turn around…
And stop dead in my tracks.
There’s a guy, his hands tied above his head and fastened to a hoop on the concrete pillar he’s leaning against, his ankles bound together in front of him. Powerful muscles bulge in his arms and chest, straining against the pale blue shirt he’s wearing. His long blond hair is hanging in his face, stained with rust.
Stained with blood, and although I’m not squeamish, my stomach turns. I’ve been under the weather for the past couple of weeks, and every smell turns my stomach, but the blood isn’t what’s bothering me the most.
No, it’s that, even bound like that, with his face hidden, I know who this man is, and the world tilts.
Hawk. This is Hawk. What the hell?
What are the odds?
Everything the men said outside falls into place. A rich man, a man who owns this city. My dad’s warnings to stay away from Hawk, his cold command to get out and not come back.
My dad. My dad knows about this? My dad, who’s always told me to be careful, and be kind, and follow the rules, and listen to my mom?
Oh God.
And why the hell is Hawk tied up in the basement, beaten and bloody?
This can’t be good. Not good at all, and I remember what Dad said about Hawk’s ties to the mafia.
Shit. I stare at Hawk’s still form, scared to touch him, scared to find out he’s already dead.
But he’s not, right? That guy, Johnny, said he wanted to roughen him up some more, but the other one told him not to kill him.
These people want something from him. And I should back off. Dad was right. This is dangerous. I should stay out of it.
But I can’t help stepping close to Hawk. I kneel by his side, sweep his hair back. His face is slack, a trail of blood slipping from his mouth, dying his short beard red.
His chest is rising and falling, though, and that’s the main thing. He’s alive.
A weight lifts off my chest even as fear settles deeper in my bones, ice-cold claws that won’t let go.
He’s still alive, and the Boss wants him that way. To talk to him, I guess. Why would the Boss care if Hawk deals with the mafia? How dare my dad’s boss kidnap a man like Hawk?