by Jo Raven
She carefully lifts the lid off, and I climb out of the container that felt like a coffin for a while there. A glance around shows me a distinct lack of goons, but the way she flinches and turns toward the rows of containers tells me she can hear them.
I help her put the lid back on, take her hand and hurry to the open doors. I hear something, a faint shout, as I turn and slam the doors shut, then fumble for the lock.
Turn the key.
Let out a breath.
Could it be I was wrong and things will go our way? I ponder this, trying to catch my breath just as the doors rattle. I lean back against them.
She glances up the stairs, then grips my wrist, her eyes wide. “More people,” she mouths.
Fuck. Of course there are.
Pushing off the door, I motion for her to wait, and I start up the stairs. It’s as if the air is fresher here. Maybe it is. Hard to believe I’m finally out of the fucking basement.
Don’t think I’m going into a basement ever again. Not even if it saved the world.
I’m fucking serious.
The pain from my bruises fades in the rush of adrenaline. It makes my heart race, the blood in my veins sing. Bloodlust tints my vision red. Maybe I’ll go berserk like my Viking forefathers did in battle.
Who the fuck knows?
When the guy appears on the steps above me, I barrel into him. Kinda hard to do when you’re below someone, but I manage. I punch him, he tries to punch me back, and we topple down to the landing.
The air is knocked out of my lungs, and goddammit, my body aches in new and fascinating ways, but I manage to punch him again in the jaw, hard, laying him out cold.
I stare at him for a long moment, bent over, panting like a diesel engine running on fumes.
And then the other thug is on me. Scarface himself. He actually roars as he does so.
Maybe he has Viking ancestors, too, I think vaguely as we crash down the next flight of stairs.
Layla screams, and that distracts me briefly—long enough for Scarface to get a good punch into my solar plexus.
Ah fuck. I roll on my side, gasping, and he kicks me. He prepares to kick me again—but curses and twists.
Layla is beating her fists on his back and kicking at his legs.
Even curled up around the pain, I chuckle.
That’s my girl.
I roll to my knees, and then to my feet, and draw back my fist with all the pent-up fury I’ve been bottling inside these past few days. The first punch is spectacular, breaking his nose and blood spraying everywhere, then lay one after another on him, until he topples over, groaning.
Layla bends over and throws up.
Yeah. Not the kind of things I’d want my girl to be seeing, dammit. I wipe my bloody hands down my pants and grab her arm.
“Time to haul tail, babe. Come on.” I drag her up the stairs, making a beeline for the exit. “And then we can have that date we talked about.”
Chapter Twelve
Layla
We stumble out into the yard, blinking like a pair of owls. Immediately I pull Hawk to the side, against the wall, to check if anyone else is coming.
It’s another gray day, and a cold drizzle is falling. I draw the cool, clean air in my lungs gratefully, lick water off my lips, and listen.
It’s quiet.
Still.
The coast looks clear.
If only my knees didn’t feel weak and bile didn’t still coat my throat. Flashes of the man’s bloodied face, the splash of red on Hawk’s shirt return to haunt my mind, and I swallow hard.
Dorothy’s car is just outside, but the key is my purse, and that’s in the possession of our captors.
This time Hawk is the one tugging on my hand. Then he lets go, and his arm goes around my waist, anchoring me. Sliding along the wall, we make our way toward the gate of the warehouse yard, stumbling on shaky legs.
I point at the side gate, and we hurry toward it. We just need to hit the main avenue to get a cab or an Uber. I hope they stop for us. We must look like nightmarish ghosts, pale, filthy, without jackets, shivering with cold, barely staying upright. Hawk covered in blood, his fair hair and beard turned into dirty brown. My own long hair tangled over my shoulders, stinking of vomit.
Gah. Stop thinking about vomit.
My stomach gurgles, and I swallow hard. I’m not used to going for so long without food. I want a burger, juicy and covered in melted cheese, and fries, and mayo.
My mouth watering, I follow Hawk onto the street. We sidle into the shadows of a narrow alley, and why am I thinking of food when we could get captured any moment?
Looks like I’m not cut out for suspenseful adventures. Never thought I was anyway. The most action I’d seen in the past year was the trip to New York to visit Mom, and that was mostly shopping and having coffee in chic cafés.
It feels like light years ago, not just a few days.
“All right?” Hawk rasps, and I nod, clinging to his hand. It feels strong and hard and capable, wrapped around mine, and his tall, muscular frame calms the roiling in my stomach a little. I need his strength, and it’s difficult to reconcile it with the memory of him tied to that pillar in the basement, helpless and beaten.
But we’re out of there now. He’s fine. We’re fine.
I grip his hand more tightly, and he squeezes back, reassuring. I keep an ear out for sounds of pursuit—never thought I’d ever use that phrase in real life—since Hawk can’t hear so well. He’s the eyes. I’m the ears.
Plus, he’s hunched over, clearly favoring bruised ribs, and limps a little, and I’m spaced out and my stomach is unhappy with me.
We’re a hot mess.
When we stagger like drunkards out into the first main street, I don’t expect to find a cab rolling down toward us, and when Hawk lifts his hand, I don’t expect it to stop.
After the past few days, I’m suspicious of anything that seems to be going our way.
But the cab is there, coming to a halt in front of us, and like in a dream, I let Hawk drag me closer. He opens the door and helps me inside, then slides in beside me, his thigh warm against mine.
“To the police station,” he says, “and I need to use your phone. This is urgent.” A beat passes. The cabbie stares at us through the rearview mirror, as if suddenly noticing our appearance.
“My phone? I dunno, man…”
“Look, I’m Jamie Hawk Fleming. We were robbed. You’ll get a huge tip for helping us out.”
Hawk holds the cabbie’s gaze until the man nods. “Fine. You do look familiar.” He swipes his cell phone from its holder by the steering wheel and passes it to Hawk. “You’d better be telling the truth.”
“I am,” Hawk mutters, taking the phone and punching in a number. “I fucking swear it. Christ.”
I put a hand on his arm, and he glances my way, his gray eyes stormy. “We’re out of there.”
His jaw clenches. “Yeah.” Then he brings the cell to his ear, gripping it so tightly I swear I hear the casing creak. “Hello? Storm, that you, asshole? Yeah, I’m still alive. Yeah, okay—no, listen. Need you to meet us at the police station. I got some info, and there are guys after us, probably. And we need…” He rubs his forehead, and I want to do it for him, erase the headache born of all this stress and abuse. “We need money. And someplace safe to go afterward. Can you—? All right. Fucking awesome, man.”
He throws the cell phone on the seat beside him and leans back his head, closing his eyes.
“All good?” I ask, suddenly unsure of what I’m doing here with him. I’ve never even met his friends, but I know Storm must be Troy ‘Storm’ Jordan, of Jordan Enterprises, Developers and Investors.
I forget sometimes just who Hawk really is.
“I’m as good as can be, Doll,” he mutters, squeezing my hand again, making me feel more at ease. “And it’s all thanks to you.”
***
The trip to the police station doesn’t seem any more real than escaping the warehouse. Th
e memories from our time there are both frighteningly vivid and vaguely surreal, like frames from a nightmarish reel.
When we stop at the station, I have to force myself to move. It’s warm in the cab, comfortable. Safe.
Not sure I’m ready to face any more adventures. I mean, give me a break. After everything that happened, the last thing I want is to walk into the police station and give a statement.
I want a shower, clean clothes, my bed. My friends. Guess I’m not ready to face the real world so soon, not yet.
But Hawk comes around to open the door for me and pulls me out, leaving me no option.
He hauls me out and into his arms, and okay, that feels good. Keeps the world at bay for a moment longer as he turns me around and walks us toward the station.
Toward someone who’s heading in our direction, a guy almost as tall as Hawk, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, in a gray suit. He’s flanked by two bodyguards in black suits, the handles of their guns jutting out of their back holsters.
He comes straight to us and grabs Hawk in a sideways man-hug, clapping his back before drawing back.
“Motherfucker. You look like shit.”
Hawk looks pleased at the description. “Feel like shit, too. Let me introduce to you my savior. Layla, this is Storm, my friend who vanished for two years and resurfaced recently. Storm, this is Layla.”
Storm’s eyes widen. “This is Hot Body?” he asks, and it’s like a cold shower.
He calls me that to his friends? Jeez.
Hawk seems to sense my shock because he hugs me to him more tightly. “Her name’s Layla. And without her I’d be in really deep fucking shit, Storm, so be nice to her.”
So I’m the hot body he liked to fuck, and now I’m his savior.
Good to know that’s all I am. Yeah, good to clear the cobwebs and see the picture as it is. Though, like I said, I’m not ready for reality yet, and my eyes burn like fire.
“Let’s get inside. I informed the team in charge of the investigation. You give your statement, and we get the hell out of here.”
“Where’s Raylin?” Hawk asks as we enter the building. “She okay?”
“Yeah. She’s fine.” There’s a twinkle in Storm’s gaze. “You’ll see her later.”
We’re immediately whisked to a tiny, windowless room, and I feel Hawk tense against me. Heck, I’m tense myself. The confined space reminds me too much of the basement of the warehouse and all that happened down there.
Thankfully a detective arrives ten minutes later and sits down with us, bringing surprisingly good coffee in paper cups and placing a recorder on the table.
Then Hawk starts talking, and I just listen as he recounts how he planned to be kidnapped by the Organization in order to gather information about its council and the companies it controls. Apparently Hawk’s parents have refused to disclose any details about the Organization, and Hawk thought this a good way to get some info, fast.
The look the detective gives him clearly says what he thinks of this crazy plan. “I see,” he says and motions for Hawk to go on.
He tells him how I appeared out of nowhere and helped him. He seeks my hand under the table and wraps his long fingers around mine, making me forget for a while that he’s just grateful I helped him get out.
That I’m just a hot body to him, after all, and that stupidly I went and fell for him. Hey, dangerous conditions can cause feelings to form, right? Braving the odds together, life-or-death situations. That’s all. I’ll get over it.
I have to.
The detective asks me a few questions on how I entered the warehouse and about my dad. I tell him all I know, which isn’t helpful since I had no clue my dad was involved in this business before I entered the warehouse and found Hawk.
A heaviness settles on my chest. I’d managed to forget for a moment there my dad’s involvement. God, I need to talk to my mom. Not that I think she knows anything about this, but I need to hear her voice. I’m so off-balance right now it’s not even funny.
“Look, we’re really fucking exhausted,” Hawk finally says, leaning forward, his face tight. “I think we told you what really matters. We’ll be at your disposal later, but, man, we’ve been through a couple of hellish days. We need a shower. We need food and sleep. How about we call it a day?”
I’m pretty sure nobody tells detectives what to do and when to wrap up an interrogation, if this is what this is, but it seems Jamie Fleming can, because the detective just nods and gets up.
“Right. Your friend Mr. Jordan has a car waiting for you outside. We’ll escort you there.”
A shake of hands that I avoid by pressing my face into Hawk’s chest—God he feels so good, like he’s the only thing keeping me up and going—and he steers me out of the tiny room. We walk down a dark hall, and I hate how I press myself to his side, but I can’t help it.
I don’t know when I’ll be able to relax again. Not tonight, that’s for sure. I keep expecting Sandivar and his thugs to appear around the corner, looking for us, ready to drag us away.
But we reach the end and step out the side of the building. A black limo is idling by the curb, and Storm waves us in from the back, just like the detective said. There’s a driver seated behind the wheel, in a suit with brass buttons and a cap.
This is like going to the movies, like Layla Bond and her bodyguard or something, and I can’t help gaping while Hawk tugs me toward the open door.
Look I’ve never been poor. I was quite pampered all my life, in fact. Good upper-middle class family. Both Mom and Dad made good money from their jobs and could cater to most of my whims.
But this… this is something else. Having a limo and a chauffeur. Sitting down on the plush leather seat and have a small fridge slide open with refreshment drinks.
Hawk did take me in his limo once, but it was just a quick ride to the restaurant. And maybe after this trip to hell and back it all seems so much more luxurious and soft.
Or maybe Storm’s limo is better than Hawk’s? I run my hand over the seat and reach for a drink that Storm plucks out of the mini fridge for me. It’s fizzy strawberry-flavored water, I think, and I guzzle it down, barely tasting it. Hawk does the same, splashing half of it on his beard and shirt, and I want to laugh.
But I can’t. Because his hands are shaking, because he went through some awful things. Storm doesn’t even know it as he chuckles and elbows Hawk, who chokes on the flavored water and coughs.
“Hey.” I lean over Hawk’s legs and push at this Storm guy’s arm. It’s like trying to shove off a titanium beam. “Watch it.”
He blinks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Watch what?”
“He’s hurt. They beat him up and kicked him and took away his hearing aid and you have no idea…” I swallow past a knot in my throat, the images replaying in my mind in a never-ending loop. “Just… stop.”
Storm’s eyes are round as saucers. They are an electric blue, I realize, and shock shines through them loud and clear.
Then Hawk puts a hand on my shoulder and gently pulls me back until I’m pressed to his side. His arm encircles me.
“Is it true?” Storm demands, turning to Hawk, those electric blue eyes narrowing. “Why didn’t you say something? Where are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Hawk grinds out, then he presses his mouth to my forehead, such a sweet gesture. Why is he doing this?
“They kept punching his face and kicking him in the ribs,” I whisper, and Hawk says nothing. I wonder if he heard.
Storm seems to catch on this, too, and he eyes Hawk speculatively.
“And what was that about a hearing aid?” he whispers back.
Wait, he didn’t tell them about this? Just how much has he held back from people who act like they are his family?
Hawk doesn’t lift his head, the long strands of his hair tickling my face. Because of course he hasn’t heard the question.
“Fuck,” Storm mutters fiercely and punches the partition between us and the chauf
feur. “Fuck, man. Why didn’t you tell us? How did this happen?”
Hawk lifts his head, gives a slow blink. “What?”
“Nothing. We have a lot to talk about,” Storm says through gritted teeth. “As soon as we’re in a safe place.”
Part II
SEX
Layla
It was four months ago.
Hawk parked his bike at the curb and took off his helmet, his pale hair lashing across his face. He grinned as I walked up to him and climbed up behind him. His bike intimidated me.
He intimidated me.
Strong. Handsome. Rich. Successful. Why was he sticking around? I wanted to think I was getting good at sex, after all I’d had lots of practice with him—but hey, I wasn’t delusional. There had to be lots of other pretty girls out there to satisfy his needs.
And maybe he did have more girls, I thought for the millionth time as I put on the extra helmet and curled my arms around his waist, holding on to his hard stomach. Only the tabloids seemed baffled by the lack of gossip around him lately, and we met often enough it almost felt like we were dating.
An illusion. I knew that, okay? We just fucked. This sexy thing between us could end at any moment.
I tightened my hold, but soon enough we veered into a side street and stopped in front of a hotel. He always took me to hotels. Beautiful rooms, suites that had to cost a fortune, so I don’t think it was pay by the hour, but still.
I’d never seen his car. His house. His penthouse.
Though he’s a millionaire, and he’s always picked me up on his bike and we went to private boutique hotels where he proceeded to screw my brains out regularly.
Looked like that night was going to be the same, and I couldn’t deny the excitement rushing through me as he pushed the kickstand into place and waited for me to climb off his bike.
He looked at me as I straightened my jacket, a lazy smirk on his lips, his gaze sweeping me from head to toe.
He made me feel hot all over.
I followed him inside the hotel. The man at the desk placed a key in front of Hawk with a nod, and we headed to the elevators without a word.