by Aubrey Irons
I yank the second kid up off the floor, ignoring his blubbering screaming as I sink my fist into his gut twice and then smash my forearm against his face before letting him slump to the ground. I kick him hard in the balls, relishing the way he just deflates.
“We didn’t touch her!” he screams, crying as he holds his balls, the blood pouring from his nose and lips.
“I swear, man! We didn’t-”
“She decided to take her own shirt off then?”
He pauses.
Wrong fuckin’ answer.
I haul him up again before I start to rain my fists down on him. I punch him until he stops even screaming - until he’s barely even moaning even more as my fists slam into his bloodied body.
I stop eventually, checking to make sure he’s breathing before I turn to the guy I threw into the TV.
“What’s your name.”
He shrinks away from me, his face a mask of terror.
I reach for my gun again and he shudders and throws his hands up. “Max! My name is Max!”
“And him?”
“Jayson.”
My eyes narrow.
“So who’s Jayson.”
“My boyf-” she shakes her head. “My ex-boyfriend.”
“Look, man, it was his idea, I swear!”
I drop Max to the ground and storm over to Jayson. He mumbles something as I yank him up by the neck and slam him against the living room wall.
“Drop your pants.”
He blinks through the tears and the blood, looking confused. “Wh-what?”
“I said drop your fucking pants,” I growl menacingly.
He blinks again, but when I start to raise the gun in my hand, he whimpers and flinches. He quickly undoes his belt, shoving his jeans down his legs.
“Boxers too.”
His face falls. “Dude-”
“Did I stutter?”
He swallows, eyeing the gun in my hand with a terrified look before he reached down and shucks his boxers down.
Jayson suddenly shrieks - this loud, gasping, high-pitched sound.
It’s the sound a man makes when he feels the naked steel of a knife blade against his balls.
“Jayson, I need you to listen very closely to what I’m about to say.” My voice is ice cold, my eyes burning right into the whimpering face of the fucker in front of me, shaking and sobbing with my switchblade pressed against his nuts.
“You’re done in Boston. Is that understood?”
“But- but I live he-” he screams as I pull the blade tighter against his jewels, squeezing his eyes shut and looking like he’s about to throw up.
“No, Jayson, you don’t. Not anymore. And if you’re still here in twelve hours, I will be back to cut these-” I tap the blade against him, making him sob.
“I’ll be back to cut these from you and watch you swallow them. Am I clear?”
He’s nodding his head before I can even finish the sentence. “Yes! Yes!”
“Wonderful.” I whirl on Max, watching him shirk away from me, his eyes on the blade in my hand.
“It should go without saying that the same thing goes for you, shithead. Unless, of course, you want the full treatment too?”
Max shakes his head violently side to side. “N-n-no, man, I get you. I’m gone. I swear.”
I slip the knife and the gun back into my belt and turn to Sierra, still lying there unconscious on the couch. I grab a blanket and cover her before I scoop her up into my arms and turn for the door. Jayson and Max shrink from me as I storm past them, back down the grimy hallway, and out the front door of their shitty apartment.
Chapter Fourteen
Connor
She starts to come to just as I’m getting back to my car. Her eyes blink open and shut slowly before they suddenly fly open. She jerks in my arms, clutching at my shirt with a death grip, and I quickly place a hand over her mouth before she can scream.
“Easy, easy,” I mutter, bending down to lower her into the passenger seat. “You’re okay.” I make sure the blanket is around her and covering her before I gently close the door and step around to the driver’s side.
She’s freaking out in the car ride back to my place, her breath coming in fast, jerking hitches.
“Just breathe,” I say quietly. I feel like I should put a comforting hand on her or something, but it’s probably not the right time for that, and I’m probably the last person she needs doing that right now.
“Where-” she swallows, eyes brimming with tears as she glances around, before turning to me. “Did they-?”
“No.”
I grip the steering wheel hard, pulling off the main road, driving through Dorchester and heading out through the old trucking roads to my building.
And if they had, I’d have taken their balls with me, I think to myself.
I’m telling myself the reason I went after her is for my own good. I tell myself that she might have talked, that she could lead the cops right to me, and by proxy, the Saints.
I tell myself it has to do with the Ukrainians - that they could find her, and through her, me.
But I also know all of that is bullshit.
I went out tonight for her.
I went after her tonight because I wanted her back. It’s a strangely possessive feeling I’m not actually familiar with.
She’s wordless the rest of the way back. Part of me wondered if she’d fight me, even given the circumstances I found her in. And I wonder at every damn stoplight if this is where she’s going to make a run for it.
She doesn’t.
In fact, she sits there quietly the whole way back, hands twisting in her lap and her eyes out the side window.
I glance at her as she shivers when we’re in the elevator on the way back up to my loft. And again. I want to put my arm around her for some fucking reason and tell her it’s okay, but I don’t.
For one, because of who I am to her, and for two, because I have no idea how a thought like that even comes into my head.
I run a shower for her, and where before, I’d probably have handcuffed her to the towel rack or something to make sure she didn’t make a break for it, I’m pretty sure she’s not going to run again.
“Thank you,” she mumbles. “Look, I’m sorry I, you know,” She smiles wryly and looks at the ground between us. “Sorry I tased you.”
“You also bashed me in the head.”
She looks up, wincing. “I’m sorry, I just-”
“It’s fine.”
“Thanks for coming to get me,” she says quietly. “Those guys, they-”
“They’re not going to bother you again, trust me,” I growl.
Why the fuck do I feel like this? Possessive, protective - close to her. Why the fuck do I feel like I want to destroy anything that touches her?
“That was your ex?”
“It’s complicated.”
“They always are.”
She smiles quietly looking again at the floor, shaking her head.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just- I did some stuff I probably shouldn’t because I was angry at the way he ended things.”
I grin. “What, you keyed up his car or something? Sleep with his friends?” I chuckle. “C’mon, princess, whatever someone like you does to get back at someone, I have a hard time believing it’s that ba-”
“I burned down his band’s practice space with all their gear inside.”
I blink, and I think my mouth hangs open a little because she’s got a hint of a smile on those lips as she looks up at me with a shrug. “Still think you’ve got me all figured out?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I guess I don’t. I do think I’ll be locking down the matches tonight though.”
This time, she laughs, and when I turn to go grab her a towel, I can’t help but smile.
Chapter Fifteen
Sierra
“You can put these on when you’re done.”
I’m clutching the terrycloth towel he’s just given
me in my hands as my eyes drop to the perfectly folded clothes he’s holding out to - white undershirt and a pair of boxers.
“You want me to wear your clothes?”
“You’re welcome to put your dirty ones back on.”
He grins.
“You’re also welcome to forge altogether, princess.”
I bite my lip and look away to hide the grin as I take them from him.
“Thanks.”
I place the clothes on the sink counter before I turn back, swallowing as I drag my eyes up to his.
God, he’s built.
“Um, does the door have to stay open this time?”
My voice feels small.
Connor gives me a long look. “Depends. You going to run?”
“In your bathroom?”
“It’s a five story drop out that window. How spry are you feeling?”
I smile quietly. “I think I’ll just shower and save suicidal jumps for later.”
“Then the door can stay shut.” He nods brusquely. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
He steps away from the bathroom door, and it’s not until I shut it after him that I let the breath out I’ve been holding in a thin stream.
I strip quickly, hanging my clothes on a hook on the back of a door. I quickly wrap the towel around myself and look up to catch my reflection in the mirror.
I shiver, realizing I’m standing naked and wrapped in a towel about twenty feet from the man who kidnapped me. The man who shot people in front of me, dragged me here, and tied me to his bed.
…And the man who saved me from the nightmare tonight could have been. The man who says here is the safest place I can be right now. And somehow, I believe him.
Part of me realizes I should probably be more scared of him than I am, but there’s something about him. Well, no, he does scare me, but it’s more a feeling of adrenaline that shivers down my spine. I don’t feel endangered around him, I just feel on edge - nervous anticipation, for what I’m not sure.
And he saved me.
He came for me.
It’s a weird juxtaposition of kidnapper and hero.
I glance at the door, biting my lip and weighing the chances of him walking back in. Finally, I peel my towel off and hang it on the back of the door.
I gasp at the scalding hotness of the water, shying away from it and feeling it prickle my skin at first, but then quickly adjusting to it. It’s insanely hot - hotter than I’d ever have it myself, but right now, it actually feels heavenly.
Slowly, I feel the soreness in my muscles relax as the water and the steam drapes over me, washing the madness and the fear of the past two days from my skin.
So, this is being a prisoner.
I glance around the lavish, masculine bathroom - the steaming hot water pouring from three different luxury massage-head sprayers, the silver fixtures, the gorgeous vanity counter.
Yeah, could be worse.
I could still be floundering drunk in my apartment, furious that my shitty boyfriend was obviously cheating on me and that I was too much of a pussy to do anything to confront him. I could still be ignoring the calls from my student advisor, the messages getting increasingly more frantic about the state of my grades.
I could be much worse at Jayson’s place if Connor hadn’t have come and pulled me out of there.
I shiver. No, instead, I’m quite safe, and quite oddly content here with him.
Once again, I think of him as that strange mix of kidnapper and hero.
It’s a very conflicting feeling.
I reach for the shampoo, sudsing and then rinsing under the water before reaching for the soap. I lather my skin, wincing at the bruises and the cuts from the other night, from when he took me.
I shiver thinking of that look in his eyes when he strode toward me in that back room of that bar and grabbed me. I remember how he yanked me against him, his hands tight on my skin - somehow both terrifying and electrifying.
My pulse beats beneath my skin as I remember the way he tossed me over his shoulder - the way he just manhandled me to where he needed me. The way he just took me, like I was his to take. Like some sort of Viking stealing a village girl away as a conquest.
And goddamnit if my body doesn’t respond to that thought.
Damnit if I don’t feel the illicit tingle of want creeping through my body. There’s an ache aside of me, one that comes teasing out through places it shouldn’t. I bite my lip under the spray of the water, squeezing my legs together as the forbidden temptation and desire I shouldn’t have come flooding through me.
The roughness of his touch.
The hard look in his eyes.
The way his lips felt against mine, the room spinning and my feet leaving the ground as I melted into that moment.
I think of the way he tossed me onto his bed - the way my pulse had skipped as he’d loomed above me. The way the fear and the adrenaline had pulsed through me at the thought of him just doing whatever he wanted to me.
The way the arousal tingles through my pussy, thinking of him doing exactly what he wants to me.
My breath comes heavy, and my soapy hand lingers on my belly. I pant as it slides up to the slope of my breasts, letting a finger trace over my nipple.
I squeeze my eyes shut as if trying to shove away the feeling that thinking of him like that brings up inside. I’m trying to tell myself how wrong it is to think these sort of thoughts about the man who stole me away - the man who put a gun to my head and tied me up.
But my hands ignore my head. Fingers trace over my skin, moving lower and lower, against everything I’m telling it to do. Because I’m thinking of the way his shoulder felt pressing into my belly as he slung me over his shoulder. I’m thinking of the way his hands gripped me so tightly - so possessively.
I’m thinking of the animalistic look in his eyes as he tossed me across his bed.
I moan quietly in the shower - his shower - as my fingers find my pussy slick and aching. I gasp shamefully into the shower spray as I rub a finger over my clit, teasing the little nub there and feeling the aching want shudder through my body.
My wet hair drapes down over my face and the water cascades in steamy waves over my skin as I slip a finger inside. I gasp, teeth raking over my lip as I grind my clit against the palm of my hand, the dirty feelings rippling through me.
I’m getting wetter and my pulse is beating faster, and my body wants more, before suddenly, it’s like reality hits me like a tidal wave.
Suddenly, I’m shattered from the moment.
My hand jerks away, and I suck in air as I quickly shake my head and hug myself under the spray.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I shiver despite the heat of the water, hugging myself and leaning against the warmed tile wall.
I mean honestly, what’s the matter with me? This is Stockholm syndrome is what this is. Or, something. This is the adrenaline and other brain chemicals from my traumatic experience still running havoc though my head, obviously.
I can actually be attracted to the man who kidnapped me. I can’t really be touching myself thinking of the man who tied me up, who made me pee in front of him.
And I hate that I’m still wet, thinking of him.
I shake my head angrily as I quickly whirl to turn off the water when suddenly my foot skids out from under me across some soap or something. I gasp as gravity goes topsy-turvy, and I scream as I go slamming into the shower wall, tumbling to the ground and taking the shampoo bottles and soap with me.
The bathroom door slams open, and I scream again.
“What the fuck are you doing!” I scream, covering myself and trying to shy away from Connor as he stands there looming in the doorway.
He looks away, his brow furrowing. “I heard you-” he glances back, and he grins.
“Look away!”
Connor chuckles. “You drop the soap or something?”
I’m this pathetic little ball on the floor of the shower stall, clutching an arm over my breasts an
d trying to hide myself with one leg.
“Do you mind?”
He looks right at me. “Not at all.”
I scowl at him. “Can I have a towel?”
“And the magic word is…”
“Fuck you?”
He grins. “Close enough. Here.”
“Can you look away?”
“Demanding little girl aren’t you.”
I roll my eyes as I snatch the towel from his outstretched hand. Little girl? I’m twenty-three, and there’s no way he’s past thirty. Still, I know there’s a world of difference between us. Something tells me just by looking at him that he’s older inside.
“Look away, please?”
He sighs, turning away in the open doorway as I stand. I turn my back to him, dropping my head down and squeezing my hair out, patting it dry as quickly as I can.
“Are you looking?”
“No.”
I glance over my shoulder, and immediately yelp as I yank the towel around myself. My face burns hot, and my eyes narrow at the man staring right at me - those eyes hungrily drinking me in.
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an opportunist.”
I yank the towel tighter around myself and wince at the bruise on my shoulder from my first escape attempt the previous night.
“C’mon, we’ll get some ice on that for you. Get dressed.”
He leaves the door open this time, disappearing into the kitchen. I quickly pull on his undershirt and boxers, looking at myself in the mirror.
I hate that I pull my hair back with my fingers, and I hate that I wish I had a brush. I hate that I peer closely into the mirror, pushing my hair behind one ear, and straightening my shoulders.
I hate that I care what I look like right now.
And I hate that I’m still soaking wet between my legs at the thought of his rough hands on me.
Chapter Sixteen
Connor
Sierra perches on one of my kitchen stools, holding a bag of frozen peas to her bruised shoulder.
This time, she only gives me a sour look instead of a kick when I zip-tied her ankle to the leg of the stool. Call it insurance, or whatever. We might have somehow turned a corner since I yanked her out of her ex’s place, but then, this girl did smash me over the head and taser me.