by S. E. Lund
I searched page after page for some reference to a sex life, but was sorely disappointed. The closest I came to finding evidence that she was an actual woman was a disturbing account of her dealings with a fellow pre-law student, Steve, whom she called simply "The Creep." Seems the guy wouldn’t take no for an answer, and pursued her despite her repeated rejections.
“The Creep's been pestering me again to go out with him. He’s such a slimebucket,” she wrote on one page. “He walks around with this air of superiority, as if he’s God’s gift to women. I can barely stand to even look at him. He’s so slick, he’s so suave. Flattering, complimenting. He's a snake. The other female students giggle when he pays them attention because he’s so good looking, and even Nan and Dana eat it up. Dana said she thought he probably had a big dick by the way his pants fit.
“I told her he was a big dickhead."
That made me laugh out loud.
"God—are they potential law students or high school cheerleaders? Don’t they recognize him for what he is? He’s always breathing down my neck like a vampire waiting to bite. He’s an empty bag of wind. Full of himself. I wouldn’t go out with him on a date if he was the last man on Earth.”
I turned the pages to see if the saga of Steve the Narcissist Creep Dickhead continued. For pages, she wrote about her application to Harvard law, her advisor, problems with the process of getting accepted. She even had a list of to-dos for the next week and month.
Finally, another entry about The Creep.
“The Creep's been at it again. I finally got so fed up, I told him I was a lesbian. He thought I was lying and asked me who my girlfriend was. I told him her name was Amy and that she had green eyes and that we slept together every night and that I was more than satisfied with my private life. Of all the nerve, he suggested that he liked to watch women together and he wouldn’t mind if we didn’t. But he’s stopped pestering me, even though now, when he sees me coming, he sticks his tongue out and makes a rude gesture with it. Creep. I was afraid I was going to have a stalker situation going on. Jesus, even if I was desperate for it, I’d rather use a dildo over him any day.”
Celia used a dildo?
I almost laughed at her little lie about her best friend, but then she had to mention a dildo and my mirth evaporated.
Did this mean she had a dildo or had used one or would think of using one? The idea of her playing with herself, inserting a dildo, making herself come with it . . . the heat of lust spread through me until I thought my fucking head might explode. Images filled my mind, causing an immediate ache in my groin, my semi-erect dick now thickening as I contemplated all the possibilities.
Oh, God, that was it.
I closed the diary and leaned back on my bed, my erection straining against my pants. I glanced at my watch. It was now just after five o’clock. I took out my cell phone and texted her number.
HUNTER: I want you at the apartment at 10 sharp. I have something for you.
Then, I went downstairs to the gym and tried to keep my mind busy so I wouldn't think too much about Celia.
I left the gym at nine and flopped in front of the flat screen, eager for Celia to arrive. At quarter to ten, I checked my watch once more and then my cell, wondering why James hadn't texted me to let me know he was on his way.
Finally, my cell dinged, indicating an incoming message.
JAMES: Sorry, we were in an accident downtown on our way over. The car was totaled, but we're okay. Chris was following us and offered to take her to your place. She should be there in about ten.
Chris? Who the fuck was Chris?
HUNTER: I don't know any Chris.
There was a pregnant pause.
JAMES: He said you told him to follow me, to make sure she got there okay. He showed me his ID and it looked legit.
I didn't respond, sitting back, alarmed now that someone had picked up Celia and I had no idea who he was.
I called John and asked him if he knew anyone named Chris.
"Chris?" he said and I could hear the confusion in his voice. "I don't know anyone named Chris. Certainly not anyone on our staff."
"I thought as much." I hung up and closed my eyes as I considered what to do.
Then, my cell dinged. It was a text from, of all people, Victor Romanov.
VICTOR: My driver Christian ran into your little sister friend downtown after her car was in an accident. She's here with us right now, having a cup of tea. Maybe you want to drop by and have a drink with us.
Victor had her. He'd figured out that she mattered to me. He was showing me how easy it would be to pick her up and take her anywhere he wanted.
HUNTER: Thanks for that. I'll be right down to pick her up. I appreciate your help.
Then I left the apartment and made my way through the streets of Boston to Victor Romanov's restaurant.
Fucking hell… Victor Romanov had already outflanked me and the war had only just begun.
Chapter 7: Celia
I put on my coat and scarf and rushed down the stairs to the street where Hunter's driver waited. I'd received his text less than ten minutes earlier and had been wondering whether he'd call me that night or ignore me.
The streets around my dorm were empty, the streetlights casting shadows along the roads. I got into the SUV and said hello to James. He nodded his head and touched the brim of his cap, but said nothing else as we drove off.
The late October air was crisp and I pulled my scarf more closely around my face to keep the chill off my neck. We drove through mostly deserted streets and I imagined James was taking back streets to avoid the heavier traffic on the main roads.
Out of nowhere, a car sped through a red light and hit us, knocking the car sideways and forcing it into the middle of the intersection. Seconds later, another car skidded to a stop. The car hit us at a funny angle and I hit my head on the side window, pain searing through my head.
In a few seconds, both James and I came to our senses. The impact had knocked his hat off but he seemed unscathed, although the front of the car had received considerable damage. Steam hissed from under the hood, and the right turn signal clicked in a steady rhythm.
"You okay?" James asked, craning his head to see me.
"I think so," I said but felt my forehead. "I think I hit my head."
He nodded and worked away at his seatbelt. "Let's get out of the vehicle."
I unfastened my own belt and struggled to open the door. James got out and pulled on it. A tall man got out of the car beside us, helping James open the door.
"Are you okay?" the man asked when I got out. "You have a scrape on your forehead."
I reached up and felt. There was no cut, but it was sore. "It's a scratch."
"You should come with me," he said. "I'll take you to Mr. Saint's apartment."
James frowned at the man. "Who are you?"
"Chris," the man said. "Mr. Saint asked me to follow. I'm a tail." He shrugged guiltily. "He wanted extra protection for her."
"Do you have ID?"
He pulled out an ID from his jacket pocket. "Saints Gym" was printed on the front with the gym's logo.
"Okay, but maybe she should go to the hospital and be checked out."
"Sure," Chris said. "I can take her to Mass General once I talk to Mr. Saint."
"Okay," James said and turned to me. "Maybe you should go with him. I have to wait for the police."
I didn’t know what to think. In truth, I didn’t want to wait around for the police and ambulance to arrive. I felt fine other than the bump on my head.
"Whatever you think," I said.
I followed Chris to his vehicle, which looked identical to the vehicle James was driving. I got in the passenger side and Chris got in the driver's seat and we drove off.
"Are we going to Hunter's—I mean, Mr. Saint's apartment first?" I asked, watching the streets fly by.
"I'll take you," he said and that was it. Nothing more.
We finally arrived at a building in downtown Boston,
not the apartment where Hunter lived. I thought maybe Hunter wasn’t yet at the apartment. I checked my watch, but it said it was already ten.
"Why are we here?" I asked. "Aren't we going to the apartment?"
"We're going here," he said and opened my door. "I'll take you."
I followed him, wondering at the sudden change in venue.
"Hunter's here?"
Chris said nothing, just opened the door for me. I went through and he led the way from the front entrance past a row of doors which I assumed led to offices. Finally, we arrived at a room at the back. He opened the door and waved me inside.
I entered to find an elegant office with dark wood paneling and a huge desk in front of the large picture window. Behind it sat a man with short dark hair combed back, a well-trimmed goatee, and an impeccable suit. He had a laptop open in front of him and glanced up when I walked inside. Behind him, the lights of the harbor sparkled against a black sky.
"Ms. Parker, please to come in," the man said, his accent thick, Slavic-sounding. Russian?
Oh, God…
I immediately thought of Stepan and entered the room with hesitation. Chris came in behind me and closed the door. He stood there, his hands folded, and glanced up at the ceiling.
"Have a seat," the man said and pointed to the chair across from him.
I sat across from him and glanced around. "Where's Hunter?"
The man shrugged. "I expect he'll be here in a few moments. Excuse me. I didn't introduce myself. I'm Ivan. A business associate of Stepan, whom I understand you already know."
That sent a shock through me. The man who called himself Chris was not a tail approved by Hunter. He was a tail for the Russians.
I swallowed hard, my heart rate increasing. Ivan leaned across the desk and held out his hand. I took it with reluctance and we shook.
"I don't know him," I said, my voice wavering with fear, "but my brother had some business with him, I understand. I'm Celia."
"Yes, I know," Ivan said and sat back. "We had financial dealings with your brother—Graham is his name."
"Yes, that's right." I felt heat rise in my cheeks. "You work with Stepan? You invest with my brother's company?"
"He invested with us," Ivan said. "We just completed a business contract with Mr. Saint's help."
I nodded. I knew what he was referring to. "Why am I here?"
"My driver saw that your car was in an accident and wanted to help. He saw you and called me, and I suggested that he pick you up, bring you here. I've contacted Mr. Saint. He'll be by to collect you."
"Thank you," I said and smiled, but smiling was the very last thing I felt like doing. There wasn't enough time between the accident and his offer of help for Chris to have called Ivan and for Ivan to have called Hunter. That could only mean he'd been following us. Or perhaps, they had caused the crash, hoping to pick me up in the process. Knowing what I did about the Russian mafia, I wouldn't put it past them. "You could have taken me directly to Mr. Saint's apartment," I said, wanting to argue with him despite my predicament.
"I could have, but this way, I get to meet the reason why Mr. Saint—Hunter—would pay off your brother's debt."
"He paid it off because he and Graham were friends all their lives. Not because of me. I'm nothing to him."
Ivan smiled like he found what I said amusing. "When I see you, I think otherwise. But come," he said and stood, walking around the desk to where I sat. "You need a drink after that accident. Luckily, my club is next door."
He went to the door. Chris opened it and I followed him down another hallway, out the back of the building, into the dark alley with only a single light shining over the loading dock, and into yet another door. I felt nervous, but what could I do? Run for it? If Hunter was really on his way to pick me up, I wanted to be there when he came for me.
We entered a long hallway and then a large kitchen area, with sinks and counters where several young men stood chopping vegetables. There was a dishwasher and a young man in white pushing dishes through, the room filled with steam. We went through the kitchen area where the cooks were busy frying and sautéing and steaming food of various kinds. It smelled wonderful and my stomach growled a bit in response.
Ivan stopped and we watched while the prep guys chopped and the chefs cooked.
"Good Russian food," Ivan said. He picked up a knife and examined it, running his finger briefly along the end. He grimaced and looked at his finger.
"Sharp knives," he said and smiled at me.
Was he threatening me?
Was he trying to scare me?
If so, it was working. He was a Russian—and a friend of Stepan. Maybe a brother or cousin. Or even just another hood in Stepan's little sphere of influence.
Whoever he was, he was sending me a clear message.
He put the knife down and led me into a large dining room with opulent décor and a long elegant bar appointed in brass and crystal. In the back was a room that could see the rest of the dining room but was partially hidden for added privacy. The table was huge, with probably twenty or more chairs, and was set with silverware and glasses, bowls of flowers every couple of place settings. Overhead was a huge crystal chandelier with twinkling lights that resembled flames.
"Have a seat. We wait for your boyfriend to come."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"My little birds tell me otherwise."
"We've known each other half our lives," I protested, shrugging it off. "He was worried about me. That's all. I'm not his girlfriend."
"We shall see," Ivan said, nodding his head slowly, his eyes narrow.
We sat and Ivan took out his phone after it chimed. He spoke into it in Russian, his voice soft. He didn't raise his voice the entire time, but I could tell he was giving orders. His brow was furrowed at some of the answers he received. Finally, he ended the call and slipped the cell back into his pocket.
"So," he said and folded his hands on the table. "Tell me about Celia Parker. I understand you are first-year law student at Harvard. Very impressive."
Before I could answer, Ivan's cell chimed again. He took it out and examined a text.
"Ah," he said and slipped his phone back in his jacket. "As I thought. Hunter is here already. He didn't waste any time getting down to collect his possession."
"I'm not his possession—"
Ivan held up his hand. "His speed in getting here tells me that you are a very prized possession." He smiled like he'd won a bet. "If you meant nothing to him, he would simply let me take you home. Instead, he comes right away, dropping everything." He shook his head slowly, side to side, like he was surprised. "Hunter must be in love."
"He's not in love. We're just old friends. Actually, more like old enemies. If you knew anything about my family, you'd know that."
"Yes, your family," Ivan said and leaned forward, his eyes bright. "Your stepfather, Spencer Grant, has quite the history with Hunter's family. He was the one who helped get a RICO warrant against Hunter's uncle. Poor Sean Saint. Sick in the brain. Lost control."
Then, Ivan mimed getting shot in the head with a gun, his finger pointing at his temple.
"Shame. How mad must Hunter be at your family? And yet, he comes to get you as soon as he finds out you're with me? I think maybe, just maybe, he likes you in spite of everything. No?"
I turned my head away from his too-piercing gaze, those ice blue eyes cold and amused at my predicament.
"You're wrong. Hunter hates me."
"I don't think so."
At that moment, there was a commotion from the back of the restaurant and the door burst open. There stood Hunter, dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, a black turtleneck sweater underneath. He had a gun in his hand. Two other men followed him. I recognized them from the restaurant the other night—his bodyguards. I'd never seen him so angry.
Chapter 8: Hunter
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Where the fuck was backup?”
“You didn't assign
backup," Celia's bodyguard James replied.
I kept my voice calm, but I could feel my muscles tighten. “There's no way this was an accident. Whoever he is, he must have been trailing her. He may have even caused the accident just to get hold of her.” I rubbed my forehead. “They probably took her into their territory."
"He said he'd take her to you."
"Yeah, but I have no one on staff with that name."
I threw my burner cell phone across the room. It hit the brick wall and shattered with a satisfying crack, the battery and pieces of the plastic body flying across the polished hardwood.
I grabbed my personal cell phone from my office and took the elevator to the underground parking. I hopped into one of the SUVs and squealed out the exit, driving to Stepan's neighbourhood.
I drove along the streets of one of Boston's older neighbourhoods where Stepan's brother's restaurant was located. I pulled over and sat for a moment, rubbing my head, trying to think ahead, plan my attack.
I dialled George. “Stepan's older brother's got her.”
“Oh, no,” George said, his voice low. "That was quick. What do you want me to do? Is there someone I can call?"
“No, let me call. I want action.”
I entered the number of a contact I had in Stepan's family as I drove back to the warehouse, my blood cold in my veins, the fury at bay for now, but it was just under my skin, ready to burst out.
After a few moments of negotiation with him and promises of an ample reward, I said goodbye and called George back.
"They have her at the family restaurant on the waterfront. I need a full assault team organized in fifteen minutes. At least five men, with everything we’ll need to take the location. I’m going there now and will set up a couple of blocks away. Meet me there.”
I sped through the back streets, not needing to attract the attention of Boston's finest on my way. As I drove, fury bubbled up inside me, and I slammed my hand against the steering wheel.