by Nicole Snow
“You can quit your crying, or second guessing, or whatever the fuck,” Trent says. When he looks at me again, his soft blue eyes are sharp as ice. “I said more than I should. Wasn't asking for sympathy. You've got every right to put walls between me and Jace. Hell, go ahead, waste your energy trying to talk me out of it, Presh. Give me one reason not to nail your brother's balls to his tongue. You won't, but you can try.”
I'm shaking my head. He can't be serious. What does he think this is – some twisted modern fairy tale? Where I can just talk my unwilling captor out of...whatever it is he plans to do?
This is a game. A sick one.
“You're insane,” I whisper. It's darker again with the sun long gone, the late night restaurants beginning to close up and turn out their lights. I think it's screwing with my body clock. Until now, I hadn't felt tired. Now, it's like lead drifting under my skin. Pulling me under.
We stare at each other across the small gap. My blood heats, even through this exhaustion, wondering how this nightmare ever ends.
I can't talk him out of anything. I won't even bother. Not with this mad man, knowing there's no point.
Only the law can put the brakes on, and it will, the second we're on flat earth again. I watch him turn his back, taking off his suit jacket, giving me a better view of what's underneath.
My hands were right, touching his chest. This Trent is more built than I remember. A mass of pent up muscle and hard angles under his subtle white oxford shirt, begging me to undress him with my eyes.
It ain't happening. Not here, not today, not ever.
“What're you staring at, Presh? See something you like? Something you loved the hell out of once upon a time, maybe?” He puts his hands together below the belt line – stretching, flexing, I'm not sure what.
I just know it can't take the edge off my anger and disgust. I can't let it. Because the second I do, just the tiniest amount, we're in uncharted territory. Wild territory full of wolves.
“Gross. Those times are so over.” I turn my nose up, releasing an exasperated sigh. “God, you're ridiculous. I'm not sure how we're ever supposed to work together to get off this stupid thing.” My hand slaps the wall. My frustration boils over.
Then I hear a sound that shouldn't be there. At first, I think I hit the wall too hard, vibrating my impact through metal.
But steel doesn't ring this sharp, this steady, this loud. My head whirls to the red phone below the control panel. It rings again, the small light under it flashing.
Holy. Freaking. Hell.
Trent's eyes turn mine to stone. The disbelief only lasts a second before we both pounce. He's fast, but I'm quicker, closer. The phone burns like a furnace against my ear.
“Hello? Hello?!” I'm slurring desperate words into the receiver.
The voice on the other end is like tin. Distorted. Small. But it's there. Maintenance or security knows there's been a mishap by now.
“Yes, please, we're stuck in here! Hello? West wing, probably between the fifteenth and twenty fifth floor. Send us help. Send it as soon as you can!” There's no indication if the person on the other end has a clue what I'm saying.
I look at Trent. He's standing there, an eerie calm written on his face, waiting for the hammer to drop.
Jesus, do I want to bring it down. I'm tempted to flat-out tell the man on the phone I'm in danger. Locked in this thing with a creepy stranger, who's bound to do something criminal. But the voice keeps coming back like static, too choppy to make out more than a few syllables.
I hear something like system outage, emergency, power, on their way.
“Did you get that? Do you hear me? Hello?!” My voice gets louder. So does the desperation.
But the distortion just gets worse, too, and then there's cold silence. “Hello? Hello? Hell-o?”
Trent comes closer, edging in behind me. I feel him against my shoulders. A rich cologne mingling with his scent encircles me. I'd try to hold my breath, but I've been doing that since this shouting match on the phone started, waiting for a clear reply.
“Keep trying. Just because you're getting nothing back doesn't mean they can't hear you,” he says, his voice a low earthquake in my ear. His hand falls against my shoulder. I barely hide the flinch. I can't hide the heat pulsing through my skin. “Tell them the truth, why don't you? I know you fucking want to turn me in. Tell them you're in here with a dangerous man. A criminal. A monster. Do it, Precious. Because if you don't hit me first for leaving you, it's gonna be Jace, right between the eyes.”
I look him dead in his bastard blue eyes. My hand trembles. The phone suddenly seems so heavy it'll tear my arm off.
Trent isn't kidding. It's a challenge.
Whatever wretched game he's playing, he wants to be done with this chapter involving us. Just as bad as I do.
“Give me one good fucking reason not to burn him down,” he growls. “Just one.”
Needles dance along my spine. This is it.
If I don't open my mouth and try to save my brother, my family, he'll destroy them. I know what he can do.
I lived it, seven horrid years ago, when I was young and stupid and actually thought I'd marry this man.
4
Bait and Hook (Trent)
Why the fuck aren't you taking the bait, Amy Kay? My face hovers over her, watching as she trembles with the phone in her hand, brain on fire.
Hell, maybe I'm the one being baited; hook, line, and sinker.
This woman smells as good as she looks. It's the same barely there beach breeze perfume she wore years ago, pheromones and all. A smell I remember like yesterday.
A flash of our first time – our only – cracks across my memory. Fuck, the way that scent mingled on her skin, especially when I spread her legs and buried my face in her sweetness. Sheer heaven.
I look her up and down, trying not to let my dick get the best of me.
She's all grown up now. The same, but different, and it's screwing with my head because I can't keep it straight in the space of a few scarce seconds. I look her over good and hard, breathe her in, wishing she'd say something to my threats.
Then I wouldn't be lost on the details. Then I wouldn't be mired in the past, recalling how good her pussy tasted on my tongue. Then my eyes wouldn't be locked, quenching themselves on her beautiful contrast.
Wouldn't be lost in the past, the present, and who the hell knows about the future. It's all blurred together in her, in one sexy silhouette of raw perfection.
Wavy brown hair. Everywhere hips. Jade green eyes. Devilishly familiar.
But she's got a woman's curves. A woman's fullness now, teasing my cock up and down.
Exactly what shouldn't be happening. What shouldn't be making this so much fucking harder.
“You hear what I said, Presh?” I whisper, running my hand up her shoulder flicking at her hair. “Might be the only chance you'll get. Tell them.”
I'm taken aback when she shrugs me off, slamming the phone back in its mount. “No. We need to get out of here alive, Trent. Not settle old scores. Or new ones. Nothing matters if we aren't safe.”
Damn. Here I thought I had the control, the calm, the command of this situation.
Instead, my hand hangs loosely at my side, already missing her. My eyes pin hers down, searching, wondering if there isn't just a little hidden regret written on those lips.
“Nothing, huh? Pity. You don't know what safe even is.” Turning my back, I suppress a growl, wishing away this reckless hard-on with all my might.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
A second ago, I was begging her for a police escort, whenever the firefighters or whoever get their asses up here to pry this thing open. Now, not only has she decided against skinning me alive while she had the chance, she's got me hot and bothered like I haven't been for years.
My gaze says I'm pissed. Trapped in the moment. Frustrated by a six year itch.
But the past stings more, leaves me drunk on our first kiss. I'm rememberin
g how good she tasted at the Wilkie's helm when I first thought I'd cast off her heart for the only time.
If only I'd known the kick in the face life had in store a few short years later.
She turns away, as if sensing the inferno in my blood. “Whatever. Let's just be done. There's no reason to say another word unless it involves getting help soon.”
She's right. Too bad the sudden chill in the pit of my gut hates the silent treatment, though.
It lasts the better part of a half hour before I'm too restless for this crap.
Pacing the crooked space, I reach for the service panel on the elevator. The lock comes apart easy and I'm able to fit my fingers in. It takes all my strength to rip the thing open with my hands, especially after the strain my arms took when this thing went sideways.
I've never seen this crap outside a movie, much less done it, but I have to try. It's our only escape.
“Um, Trent?” She breaks quiet time first.
A smile tugs at my lips. I don't answer, just grunt, continuing to push the panel open until there's almost clearance to fit through.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” She bites off each syllable. “Hey, wait! You don't know if it's stable. We shouldn't. Any movement, any tinkering...what if it brings this thing straight down? Jesus. Do you want to wind up plastered on the ground?”
I look down. An evil part of me loves the frenzy nipping at her face.
It's only fair: if I'm being sewn up in stitches, tortured by her presence, then she ought to be, too.
“No. I want to get us the hell out of here by dinner, so you can drag your pretty self home and I can wrap up what I came for.” We've still got the night. My plans won't let me leave before morning.
Not even with this massive setback. I'm hellbent on being here bright and early for my old buddy, Jace. Anything that lets me whip out the pretty surprise I've slaved over for months and shove it in his face.
“You're going to get us killed,” she hisses, shaking her head, chestnut brown hair falling everywhere over her shoulders.
“Then I guess you'd better poke your head up here before I've got blood on my hands. You're smaller than me. Need to know if there's enough space for me to squeeze out and head to the next floor. Help me out. We'll be off this death trap, and we won't even have to wait for some jackoff night crew to do their job.” Her eye twitches. If this wasn't so ridiculous, so dire, I'd laugh. “Truce, Presh? Come the fuck on. Work with me. Just like old times.”
She narrows her eyes. I'm expecting defiance when she slips past, edging me aside, but instead I see her standing on her tip-toes, head pushed into the crevice. “Can't believe I'm doing this. For you. Ugh.”
She cranes higher, straining every muscle. “Give me a hand, will you?”
I grin. Gladly.
Crouching, I secure her legs, thankfully freed from her heels. They straddle my shoulders while I hoist her up, allowing her to probe the unknown chasm opening into the shaft.
Don't know the first thing about elevators. I suspect she doesn't either. But if it's anything like the movies, then damn, there's got to be a backup exit somewhere.
“Well? How does it look?”
She reaches down, her hand flailing by my head. “Let me use your phone. Need more light. It's so dark. Funny, I swore this place had emergency lights...”
Fishing out my phone, I pass it up. The battery is half-drained and we need to make the most of it. I mull how much energy she'll use, but decide it's worth it, if this is our lucky break. “Use the camera, if you're able. A couple flash pics. We can map this out without you breaking my neck.”
She makes a sound, head too far up the panel for me to tell if it's a snort or an honest laugh.
I'm teasing. Barely.
Call it payback for the view I get every time she shifts her weight, vying for a better look. Her skirt flows around her knees. There's the faint dark outline of something black and lace between her legs.
I can just make it out in the near darkness. But the faint city lights streaming in through the glass and my own imagination do plenty to fill in what I can't see.
There's that fucking hard-on again. My dick aches.
Mentally, I'm back in bed with her, years ago. Caught on how she tasted as my tongue dive-bombed her clit, how she used to explode wrapped around every inch of me, whimpering while I pumped into her again and again. I never walked away the next morning more drained, balls sore from the many, many times we fucked.
“Hey, asshole!” Her calves pinch my head, breaking my trance. I'm annoyed, more with myself than anything, wondering how long I've missed what she's saying. “I said, 'ready to come down.' Help!”
Whatever.
My fingers have a mind of their own, sliding further than they really need to up her legs, helping her back to this mess. I'm still gripping her ass when she shoves the phone in my face.
“There's space. I think you'll fit. But it's really dark and tight. Saw a ladder, I think, somewhere off to the side. I couldn't quite make it out the door to the next floor, but I saw a lever, and it seems like it's only a few feet up.”
Nodding, I replay the shaky video she captured. It's just as she described. Darkness, messy flashes of metal, but no gaping pits threatening instant death.
She searches my eyes and then looks at the floor. I remember to let her down, eager to get it over with before I run into more distractions.
I give her a look. "All right. Going up. If I'm able to get to the next floor, I'll help you across as soon as I open the door." I drag my briefcase across the floor, using it to help me up.
"Trent?" She calls softly, and I'm halfway to the panel before I look back. What now? “Please, just...be careful.”
Shit. I didn't ask for sympathy. Definitely not her concern.
I press on, ignoring her words, trying to blot out that familiar, soft tone hanging on her lips. There's no time for the implications.
Shining my phone into the darkness, I stick my head through the opening and take a good look around.
No obvious dangers. There's a gap, but it should be a straightforward hop to the ladder.
I'm no coward. But fuck, when I look down, my balls try to crawl up my guts. Staring into what seems like a bottomless abyss gives me a second of pause. I can't slip.
I close my eyes and count. Okay, on three.
One.
Two.
Three.
I step off, panting like a cornered animal until my hands are secure in those steel bars. Then, sensing no other obstacles, I scramble up, scouring the shadows with my phone. There isn't much light to work with, but the lever reflects after a minute, the same place it was in the video.
Thank God. It needs a vigorous push, like it hasn't been manually bent for many years, but it does the trick.
The door to the next floor groans open. I push myself the rest of the way up the ladder and fall in. Safety at last. I can't tell where we are, one of the twenty-something floors.
It doesn't really matter. A second later, my jaw hangs open.
Adjusting to the darkness, I see the cable attached to the elevator. It's fucking torn.
Frayed, really. Nearly off its track. Way too fucking likely to send Presh to the next life.
"Presh! Precious, I need you to listen, grab your crap and get the hell up here. The second I say." My heart thuds so fast I think I'm about to pass out. Obviously, I can't. She's depending on me. More than she even knows.
More than she can because the worst thing I can do is panic her.
"What? Trent, what are you –"
"Hang on," I growl, turning to the floor behind me. There's no time.
There has to be something up here I can use to help her.
Easier said than done. I can race back down, try to help her up with just my hands, but there isn't much space between the elevator and the ladder. I'm also worried what having both of us on top of the elevator at once will do.
Could be a fatal, destabilizing mistake.<
br />
She yells up to me again, but I'm busy, distracted, frantic. I see a standard wall of office glass and a door, leading to some place called Shaw Financial. I pull on the door.
It's locked. Of course, it is.
It's after hours. If anybody has access, it'd be security or maintenance, the people who've done exactly jack for us.
On the wall, there's a fire extinguisher. I don't even hesitate. Ripping it out of its compartment, I grip it tightly, and then go charging at the door.
The glass panel in the middle shatters. There's an insane shriek and shower of beads.
No alarm. I'll take it. Moving on, I see a row of cubicles, typically spartan, except for the guys who like to make their office space a second home.
Bingo.
It takes no more than a few minutes to navigate the mess of trinkets, plaques, and family photos. A guy named Harold has a workspace that catches my attention. He's got horses everywhere, miniatures and photos of him riding, sandwiched between a mess of DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS kitsch.
There's cowboy boots, a freaking saddle on top of his filing cabinet, and yes – finally – a big black rope from some state rodeo tucked behind a frame. “Sorry, Harold,” I mutter, breaking the glass with my elbow. “It's my rodeo now.”
The rope falls in my hands, dragging on the floor. It's heavy. Sturdy as I hoped.
Another guy, the manager, has an old fashioned gumball machine in the corner of his office. It's solid steel, weighs the same as a small elephant.
I've found my anchor. Even though it's a bitch and a half to move.
Maybe, just maybe, we aren't as screwed as I feared.
When I get back to the elevator opening, I secure the rope to the machine with several knots. Meanwhile, Presh screams up a mess of questions laced with obscenities. Demands. I let her have at it for a second or two, hiding my smile in the darkness while she cusses like a sailor.
It takes me a minute to realize that's the part of this that's missing.
Fuck it. I let loose, laughing, making sure she hears. If she's pissed at me, she'll be too distracted to be scared. And fear is always where the worst mistakes happen.