Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games)

by Slater, Danielle

  “Right now,” Tucker continues, “I can assure you of one thing: this situation in which you find yourself is no joke. While I appreciate your concern for you sister’s well-being, it is misplaced.”

  I shake my head, confused.

  “I promise she’ll be taken care of,” he insists. Which means he’s not going to let me take her home.

  Fear bubbles up in my stomach like acid, threatening to burn holes in my body. I look over at Nathan. Whatever emotion I thought I’d glimpsed there a moment ago has vanished, replaced by the stone-faced predator I recognize. Only this time, his gaze is fixed on Tucker Voss.

  “Let her go,” Nathan growls.

  Tucker raises a brow. “The weapon has an opinion? What did I tell you earlier? Has it slipped your mind?”

  An invisible battle plays out between them. I can’t tell who wins, only that it’s Nathan who speaks next, and his tone is more respectful. “She’s just a kid. M. de Hainault can find another.”

  “This is an outrage,” the Frenchman bellows. “I will not stand for it.”

  “You?” I round on the old man. “You’re going to. . .” I can’t bring myself to say what I suspect this old bastard wants to do to my sister. “You’re sick.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” The blond man emerges from the shadows—Ferrara. When he speaks, his voice is deep and soothing and all the while, his gaze never leaves Samantha. “But I must disagree, he’s not sick. M. de Hainault is massively rich, and because of that fact, he can have anyone and anything he wants. Tonight, he wants your sister. Tomorrow, it will be another girl or perhaps, a boy, I confess I don’t know that much about his predilections. Nothing you say and nothing you do will change matters.”

  A long and virulent rush of French erupts from M. de Hainault.

  “Even if you take your sister home, he will prey on another young thing,” Ferrara continues. “Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Even if I did, I can’t save the whole world. I just want to save my sister, so get out of my way. I’m taking her home.”

  “No, you’re not.” Tucker Voss folds his arms over his chest and stands with his legs spread-eagled. “You sister signed a contract with Harley & Sweet, and we will enforce that contract.”

  “Go ahead,” I shoot back. “It’s probably not even legal. I’d love to hear what a judge thinks of your so-called contracts.” I inject as much disdain as I possess into the last word.

  “You’re thinking of the local circuit court? Maybe the nearest Federal court?” Tucker shrugs. “They’re of no concern. Because you may not be aware of this fact, I’ll give you the following advice for free: there are other courts in this world; courts that function much more efficiently than the ones you know; courts that operate on a somewhat different system but deliver justice all the same.” While Tucker has been speaking, his voice has lowered and become more intimate, as if we’re alone in the room. The image of the pudgy salesman vanishes and is replaced by a predator. It’s unlike the one I saw in Nathan, and in some ways, more deadly. This hunter wears the round face and hard, all-seeing eyes of an owl that swoops upon his prey without warning from an utterly black sky. For a silent moment, I feel like a mouse cowering in the grass.

  Then Nathan clears his throat. Our gazes meet. That’s all it takes, and I’m back with my anger intact.

  “This is insane! You can’t give eighteen-year-olds fake contracts and pimp them out to dirty old men.”

  “My dear,” Tucker says, “that’s exactly what we’ve done. It’s exactly what we will continue to do as long as a market remains.” His voice drops to an insolent whisper. “I suspect that market is going to be with us for a very long time.”

  Spreading my hands wide, I appeal to Alexander Ferrara. “How can you support this?”

  Ferrara reveals a set of white teeth. “The very rich can do what they want.”

  “We’re leaving.” I take Samantha by the arm, daring them to stop us.

  I should have known better.

  Tucker Voss says one word that sends ice through my veins. “Nathan?”

  The man whose hands were all over me not very long ago gives me a look that’s equal parts pain and anger. I’m not sure which of those emotions are directed at me, but I know for certain I don’t want to find out. He turns to Tucker and speaks in a voice so quiet I can barely make out his words. “Let me escort them downstairs, please.”

  Relief floods through me, but it doesn’t last long.

  “Now who is being ridiculous?” M. de Hainault pushes to his feet. Once he’s stable, he swings his cane back and forth in front of him, taking in Ferrara, Nathan, and Tucker Voss. “Killing a girl simply because we cannot come to an agreement? Now that is what I call barbaric, not to mention completely unnecessary. Even I wouldn’t stoop so low.”

  Stunned shock stills me. I can’t move. My brain shuts down while one phrase echoes: killing a girl. . .

  What the actual fuck? Are they talking about killing Samantha because I want to take her home? Who are these people?

  “What do you propose then?” Tucker asks mildly. For all the emotion he shows, he could be discussing the going rate for hiring chauffeurs or sous chefs.

  M. de Hainault whips his cane my direction. “Her. I’ll take her instead. I like her tits.”

  Nathan’s face darkens, but he remains silent. Tucker Voss rubs his chin thoughtfully. “That would be a solution. It’s something we’ve never done before, but why not? What do you say, Miss Lopez? Will you take your sister’s place?”

  “No, Brooke, no,” Samantha pleads. “Let me go. I can do this. I know I can. After all, I’m the one who got us into this mess.”

  I ignore Samantha. I know if I even look at her right now I’ll fall apart. The adrenalin and mix of sheer terror and fury that carried me from the moment I found my mother’s old clutch until I entered this room has finally dissipated. I’m left feeling shaky and lost. I know I’m in way over my head, and only one thing is clear: I’m not a kid. I can deal with whatever the old man wants, in the bedroom or out. I’m guessing it won’t be a dream date, but I won’t be scarred for life, which is the fate awaiting Samantha if I let her go off with this jerk.

  I take a deep breath and let my gaze sweep around the room, taking in each man from the Frenchman’s haughty, but ruined face to the blond perfection of Ferrara and the pudgy calculation of Tucker, and finally, Nathan. He’s the enforcer. He practically told me this when we were downstairs. I didn’t get it at the time, or maybe I didn’t want to believe it because my hormones were on overdrive. Whatever arrangement Tucker and Ferrara and the Frenchman come to, it will be Nathan’s job to carry out.

  One thing I can’t figure: something is holding Nathan back. Tucker seems to have him on leash. I don’t know enough of the situation or the people involved, but that fact is crystal. He would help me if he could. Of course, this is the voice of my stubborn intuition insisting I pay attention to its wild whispers. Not that it makes sense considering Tucker’s order for him to kill Samantha.

  I’m so far out of my depth I’m not sure which way is up. Because of that truth, I have to stick with what I know for sure, no matter what. That’s what I did when Health & Human Services wanted to split us up, putting Samantha in one foster home and me in another. To this day, I don’t know if the social workers finally caved and allowed us to remain together because it was the right thing to do or because they simply wanted me to shut up and leave them alone. Maybe a little of both. All I know is that I refused to give up and, in the end, everything worked out.

  This is what I know right now: Nathan will help us, one way or another.

  “Just to clarify,” I begin, speaking slowly. “I go with him,” I gesture at the Frenchman, “in place of Samantha?”

  Tucker says, “Exactly.”

  “And Samantha is free? She can go home?”

  Nathan rushes into the silence. “There’s something you should know firs
t.” Tucker glowers at him, but Nathan continues. “It’s not just a date. It’s a game.”

  “Game? What do you mean?”

  “It means,” M. de Hainault offers in an off-hand tone, “that I’m easily bored.”

  Which means he likes it kinky? Or what?

  “Are you talking about a game like soccer or a game like Monopoly or something else altogether?” I shake my head. “How does it work? What are the rules?”

  “The house makes the rules,” Ferrara interjects. “Your job is to survive.”

  “And most importantly, you must please me.” M. de Hainault’s lips curve into a leer. My stomach clenches. I would give anything for the scene before me, and the powerful men gathered here, to simply vanish. But Samantha is depending on me.

  “How often do the. . . players. . . not survive?” I ask in a small voice.

  Tucker shrugs. The Frenchman laughs. Ferrara says, “You want the stats?”

  “No,” I snap. “I want the truth.”

  Silence.

  Nathan stands between Ferrara and Tucker Voss, right there, and I can’t stop believing he will help me. Somehow. He opens his mouth to speak, but Tucker raises a hand, cutting off whatever Nathan might have offered. His small, raisin-dark eyes glitter with excitement. The fear growing in my gut makes my throat tighten. I want to vomit.

  “What do you want to do, Miss Lopez?” Tucker asks.

  Samantha’s cool fingers creep into my hand and squeeze. Tears well in my eyes. I glance at Nathan one last time. His blank mask is back in place, but with the added tension of rage.

  “I will take my sister’s place.”

  “Excellent.” The Frenchman turns around and stomps the floor with his cane. “Most excellent.”

  I look at Nathan. “I’d like you to take my sister home, please.”

  Tucker coughs. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “What do you mean? I’ve agreed to everything.”

  Ferrara crooks his finger at Samantha and, amazingly, she crosses to him. I feel like I’m in a chess game where I can’t see the board and don’t understand how the pieces move. What else hasn’t she told me?

  “Well? Is someone going to fill me in or are there more arcane rules I need to learn?”

  It’s Samantha who answers. “It was in the contract.” She shoots Nathan a looks-could-kill glance. “I read every word of it. It states that if the player—that would be me—withdraws from the game for any reason, she must remain on the bench of another player until the game is complete.” She twists her fingers while her head tennis-matches between Ferrara and Tucker Voss. “Actually, none of the players are permitted to leave the field until the game ends.”

  “Where’s the field? Whose bench?”

  “All will be explained in due time, my dear.” M. de Hainault pats my arm possessively. I throw up a little in my mouth.

  “So change the rules, change the contract, change the sun coming up in the east for all I care, but let my sister go home!” I’m so angry now I know I’m probably making things worse, but I don’t care. I jerk my arm away from de Hainault. “If you’re so damn powerful, make it happen. It’s just a stupid game, so what does it matter?”

  M. de Hainault flicks his tongue over his lips. “Since when are pawns allowed to dictate terms? This debate is over.”

  Nathan’s fingers curl into fists. He’s poised on the balls of his feet, ready to spring into action. What’s he going to do? Bash a few heads together and take us home? I seriously doubt that would help, but if he did, I’d be cheering him the whole way.

  “This isn’t a debate. It’s about our lives.”

  Tucker runs his palm over his shiny head. “Miss Lopez, calm down.”

  They let me stand there for a moment, breathing as heavily as if I’ve been running. I close my eyes and struggle to find a shred of calm. When I feel like I’m going to fly apart into a million pieces, I feel Nathan’s hand on my shoulder. Even without opening my eyes, I know it’s him.

  Nathan’s fingers tighten on my shoulder, and his lips press against my ear. “Your sister will be safe with Ferrara. I promise. I’ll make sure of it.” When I open my eyes, his dark gaze cuts through me.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  He doesn’t speak, but the stillness of his body tells me more than words, and there it is again: that damned feeling—the one that insists I can trust him despite knowing who and what he is; despite the fact he works for a man who could order our deaths without a second thought or, apparently, any fear of the consequences.

  The warring impulses threaten to tear me apart. I look up at Nathan and see his promise in the dark pools that are his eyes. I hope I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life. . .

  At length, I say, “Okay, you have a deal. Is there something I need to sign?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Tucker waves a hand at Davis, who has remained lurking near the elevator doors. “Please take Miss Lopez to the. . .” He falls silent as Alexander Ferrara leaves Samantha’s side and moves across the room until he stands between Tucker and M. de Hainault.

  Tucker sighs wearily. “Is there something you’d like to add?”

  “Yes, there is,” Ferrara says. “Since my worthy opponent has been allowed to alter the makeup of his team, I’d like to make some changes of my own. It’s only fair.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Ferrara’s eyes narrow as he speaks, directing his words to the Frenchman. “Our game was supposed to begin two hours ago.”

  M. de Hainault waves a hand airily “Comme ci, comme ça.”

  “Then you will concede the first round?”

  “I concede nothing!”

  They’re like two boys on the playground fighting to see who’ll give in first. Except the stakes are so much higher than schoolyard bragging rights.

  “What about a tie?” Tucker offers brightly. “Both of you will start Round 2 even with the board.”

  “I suppose that would be fair.” The old man sinks into the chair and eyes me with undisguised lust. “I was looking forward to Round 1, but there’s no harm in jumping straight to Round 2.” He turns to Ferrara. “Is that agreeable?”

  “We could do that, or you might consider another option.”

  “Your options only favor yourself,” M. de Hainault drawls.

  “With the Round 1 tie, you’ve lost any advantage you might have gained at the start. We’ve been delayed and the hour is late. As a younger player, I’m favored in Round 2. If you don’t believe me, check the boards yourself. I’m up five to one.” Ferrara clasps his fingers behind his back. “Since those odds aren’t particularly sporting, I propose that you allow the house to sponsor a player to take your place, M. de Hainault. If he wins, you win.”

  “And if he loses?”

  Ferrara shrugs. “I win.”

  “Nothing else changes?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You have a point. I am weary.” M. de Hainault leans heavily on his cane and chews his lower lip. “What does the house say?”

  “The house has no objection.” Tucker’s voice is neutral. A fine sheen of sweat covers his forehead. “Who is the player you’d like to take your place?”

  The Frenchman’s rheumy eyes land on Nathan. “Him. I want him.”

  Ferrara protests, Tucker argues, and the Frenchman sticks to his demand. They keep going like they could fight all night long. I watch them, feeling even more out of my depth and not understanding the dynamics. Through all of this, Nathan hasn’t left my side. His fingers reach for mine. When they’re entwined, the warmth of his skin unwinds some of the tension that’s been tying me in knots. Since that tension is all that has been holding me up, my legs tremble, and I want to collapse into his arms.

  Tucker wipes his forehead with a white handkerchief. “You’re both agreed, then?” M. de Hainault and Alexander Ferrara both nod and shake hands. “Good, it’s done.”

  “What does this mean fo
r Samantha?” I ask.

  Nathan’s gaze lingers on Ferrara. “That part hasn’t changed. She’ll stay with Mr. Ferrara until the game ends.”

  My throat is dry and voice sounds harsh when I speak. “If anything happens to Samantha—anything—you’re going to answer to me.” I look a mess with my ripped dress, wild hair, and smeared mascara, so my threat probably won’t make Alexander Ferrara lose any sleep. The other men, all but Nathan, stare at me like I’m a crazy lady. I don’t care. Samantha is all I’ve got left in the world.

  Alexander Ferrara gives me what I guess is supposed to be a meaningful look. Whatever. Since I only understand about half of what I’ve heard tonight, the look is lost on me. Then he says, “Worry about yourself and the game. I’ll take care of your sister.”

  That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

  The minute Tucker Voss and the two players hammer out their agreement; I’m hustled into the elevator. It’s Davis who marches me down the hallway on a new floor and into a room that belongs in a luxury hotel. Smart guy, Davis doesn’t hang around long enough for me to ask questions. I hear the snick of the lock as the door closes behind him.

  Once I’m alone, I wander the room like a gray poodle we had when I was little, and Samantha was only an infant. I named the dog Maggs. Maggs was afraid of everything. She would never stray more than a few inches away from a wall and preferred to lurk in safe corners. My mom said the dog had been neglected in her crate too long before we rescued her. She was afraid of new spaces and anywhere that was larger than what she’d always known.

  I feel like Maggs, ripped out of a cramped-but-safe life and dropped into a new place that appears nice on the outside when, in reality, danger lurks on every floor. This place is home to handsome men who are killers; old men who think their wealth and privilege puts them beyond the law; younger men who play games within games, and young women desperate to better their circumstances no matter the cost or the risks.

  I still don’t know how things have worked out for Caylee.