by Sybil Bartel
Scrambling backwards on my ass, I desperately pounded on the hold button. Bullets whizzed past me and ricocheted off the metal elevator. I curled my arms over my head but it was too late.
Fire ripped into the flesh of my back.
My body jerked and excruciating pain like I’d never imagined radiated out. I screamed and Viking turned.
Furious gray-blue eyes met mine and everything went slow motion.
A Lone Coaster behind Viking swung his rifle in a wide arc like a baseball bat.
I opened my mouth.
The LC’s gun made contact with the back of Viking’s head.
A strong hand wrapped around my ankle and yanked.
My forehead slammed into the closing elevator door.
Everything went black.
UNBEARABLE, POUNDING PAIN THROBBED THROUGH my head like the worst kind of hangover.
Oh God. Conner.
I had to get up but I couldn’t open my eyes.
“Conner.” My tongue thick, my mouth dry, I struggled with the single word.
“Ariella.”
Shit, that was loud. Too loud. I started to shake my head but pain shot through my skull. Somebody whimpered.
“Open your eyes, Ariella.”
Ariella? Ariellas were Disney princesses or girls with tiaras or some shit like that. I hated tiaras. And princesses.
Goddamn it, my head hurt. And my neck. And my back. Jesus, taking Conner to the park today was going to be a bitch.
“I know you can hear me,” the voice boomed.
I tried to reach for my ears to block the awful noise and pressure tightened around my wrists.
What the hell?
“Acknowledge me,” he demanded.
He. It was definitely a he. Only a man would be that shitty when you had a hangover. What the hell did I drink? I licked my lips with a scratchy tongue and forced some words out. “Stop… yelling.” Rough and hoarse, I didn’t sound a thing like me.
Foreign words floated across the musty-smelling air. The sound was so intoxicating, I opened my eyes, but flinched at the sudden onset of light.
Pain shot up my back and I gasped.
Then I stared.
He was huge. And chained to the ceiling. And shirtless.
Oh my God, he was so fucking huge.
Short little breaths of panic started punching out of my lungs like bursts of fire.
“Breathe,” the chained giant warned.
Breathe? Breathe? “I can’t… move.”
Emotionless gray-blue eyes cut to my hands. “You are tied down.”
He had an accent, a thick accent, but the thought disappeared the second I glanced down at my lap.
Oh my God.
My wrists bound, my ankles bound, my waist bound, my chest bound, I was duct taped to a chair. I was fucking duct taped to a chair. “Conner?” I barely managed.
“The child is safe.”
The child? No. No, no, no, not the child—my son. “Safe?” What did that mean? Safe wasn’t fine.
“Ariella. Breathe.”
Breathe? Three breaths whipped through my oxygen-deprived lungs and fury sank into my bones. “WHERE IS MY SON?”
A door burst open behind me and slammed against the wall. Unbearable noise echoed through my head and I squeezed my eyes shut.
Hot breath descended over my face a split second before a handful of my hair was grasped and yanked. My head fell back and my eyes popped open in alarm.
Blond, blue-eyed, a vicious snarl twisting his lips, a man in a leather vest with no shirt and too many tattoos barked in my face, “Where are the guns?”
I started to shake. “Guns?”
He backhanded me.
Chains rattled and the muscled guy roared, “Stop.”
I fought a whimper.
The blond ignored the chained guy and raised his hand again. I didn’t think, I reacted. The bloody spit flew from my mouth and landed on his cheek.
A sickening laugh filled the dank room and the blond tightened his grip on my hair. “Glad to see you’re awake.” He wiped my spit off his face. “This is going to be so much more fun now.” He pivoted and punched the chained guy in the stomach.
Despite the bruises darkening his ribs, chained guy didn’t even recoil.
The blond bastard grinned at me. “He’s been holding out all night. I think he was waiting for you to wake up, sweetheart.” He winked. “I’ll give you two some time to catch up, get your stories straight.” He strode out of the room and slammed the door on his way out.
“Do not tell him a thing,” chained guy warned.
His issued command like he was in control of a situation fucked five ways from Sunday momentarily took me out of my panicked state. “Who are you?”
It was as if a wall descended over his features. Every single hint of anger in his expression shut down and he went perfectly still.
If I wasn’t taped to a fucking chair, I would’ve squirmed. “What?”
He silently studied me. “Are you dizzy?” he asked matter-of-factly.
Was he kidding? “I’m sitting down.”
“Is your vision blurred?”
Fighting back panic, my head pounding, my scalp tingling, my attitude decided to kick in. “You’re shirtless, not a whole lot of blurry going on with those muscles,” I snapped.
He didn’t even twitch. “Does your head hurt?”
“You some kinda doctor?”
“No.” He switched to another language and muttered a string of foreign words.
“What language are you speaking?” Where the hell was he from and why the hell was I here?
“Danish.”
Panic swam up my throat. “We’re in Denmark?”
“No. Florida.”
Okay, ohmigod, take a breath, Ariel. Calm the fuck down. The blond didn’t have an accent. Muscle Man probably wasn’t lying. I could deal with Florida. I lived in Florida. Breathe, breathe, breathe, I silently chanted until I could pull it together to ask the most important question.
“Where’s Conner?”
Muscle Man didn’t hesitate. “With Talon.”
Talon? No. “You mean Tanner.”
“No. The boy is not with his father. He is with… my friend, Talon Talerco.” Muscle Man inhaled. “How much do you remember?”
“I don’t remember you.” But he sure as shit seemed to know me. “Why did you hesitate when you answered? Is Conner safe?”
Despite being chained with his arms stretched high above his head and a thick rope around his neck, he nodded. “No hesitation. He is safe.” The rope moved and he inhaled sharply.
I followed the length of it down his chest, down his body… Holy. Fucking shit. “Do not move your feet.” Ohmigod. “You have a—”
“I know.”
“It’s a noose.” A real noose. That was horror movie shit, not real life. Real people didn’t get trussed up like fresh kill or taped to a fucking chair in a windowless warehouse like a drug cartel movie. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Muscle Man wasn’t supposed to have a rope strung between his neck and two giant concrete blocks on either side of his feet. He shouldn’t have been standing on his very, very tiptoes on the board holding those blocks. And that board shouldn’t have been precariously perched on a section of PVC pipe like a goddamn seesaw.
The whole contraption sat on a fucking stool just high enough that if the board dropped, his feet would be suspended three feet off the ground. That was hanging height, and a man that big shouldn’t have his fate determined by a single piece of wobbly wood.
“Ohmigod, if you move at all, like at all, you’re going to tip the board.”
And if he tipped the board, the concrete blocks would fall and tighten the noose around his neck. And just to add another level of hell to the whole mess, there were zip ties around his ankles—bloodied, cutting through the flesh they were so tight, fucking zip ties. The plastic was forcing his feet together, making it even harder to balance the board. If he moved even a fraction
of an inch, he was in deep shit. Deep, deep shit and I didn’t want to be alone with Blondie if Muscle Man died. No fucking way.
“Ariella.”
“Do not tip the board.” I didn’t know what the fuck was going on but this guy was my only hope. He was bigger than Blondie in every way and if he couldn’t survive this, whatever this shit was that was happening, then what the hell kinda chance did I have? “Don’t even move your toes,” I warned in a panic. If that board tipped, those blocks were going to choke him to death.
“Ariella.”
My head popped up.
His haunting eyes stared into my soul like he knew my every thought. “I am not going to tip the board.” His gaze cut into me and demanded attention. “You are going to do that.”
The panicked stream of consciousness running through my head halted to a dead stop. “No, no way. I’m not tipping shit.”
He stared at me like he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
“I’m tied to a chair.” My hands numb, I struggled against the duct tape.
“We do not have much time.”
“Time?” Was he blind? “What the fuck else do we have?” I was so fucking close to the edge I couldn’t stop swearing.
“I am going to tell you what to do.”
My voice rose to a high pitch. “And why would I listen to you? I don’t even know you.”
“You know me, Ariella.”
I know him? “Stop calling me that.” And why the fuck couldn’t I remember how I got here?
“It’s your name.”
“No one calls me that.” Not even my mother. She knew better.
The lines in his forehead softened and his voice lowered. “I call you that.”
The way he said it, like he really knew me, or… Jesus. “How do I know you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Through André.”
Every time another name came out of his mouth, my anxiety hit a new level. Who the fuck was André? My face must’ve given away my thoughts because the hint of warmth I’d seen in him immediately disappeared.
His face, his voice, they went back to all coldness. “What year is it?”
What kind of a question was that? “What’s wrong with you?” How fucking long had we been locked up in this… this… I looked around. Dirt-stained concrete floor, no windows, concrete-block walls, ceiling with exposed beams, there wasn’t even a damn dust bunny. I didn’t know where the hell we were but it smelled like shit.
“Year, Ariella.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a child.”
“You are not a child.”
“No shit.”
“Year,” he repeated.
“I’ll tell you what year it is if you tell me how I know you and why the hell I’m here.” I couldn’t be sure because he was a couple yards away, but I thought his nostrils flared. I didn’t give a shit. I wanted answers. And maybe that would trigger me remembering what the fuck happened.
“What do you want to know first?”
“How I know you.” Maybe. I didn’t know. Everything he was saying, implying he knew me, it was starting to seriously freak me out. Snippets of my life were filtering in but it was like a faucet set to an agonizingly slow drip. Me kissing Conner good morning. Jason pissing me off but I didn’t know why. My routine at the strip club, but then I remembered dressing in slacks and lower heels and doing my makeup but not heavy makeup, not like stripper makeup. “Do I still work at a strip club? Did I hit my head or something? Why don’t I remember you?” And why didn’t I remember getting here? I struggled to think of the last thing I could remember before waking up here, but all I had was me lying in a bed, watching Conner sleep.
Muscle Man sighed and for some reason, I thought it was completely out of character for him. “You work for an acquaintance of mine, André Luna. He owns Luna and Associates, a personal security firm. You are the receptionist. We officially met for the first time when you began working for him.”
The slacks and low heels were for a receptionist job? “A day job?” Who watched Conner? “What about my son?”
“You use a daycare service.”
“I put my son in daycare?” The thought made me sick. The whole reason I stripped was so that I didn’t have to leave my boy during the day. God knew his father was a worthless shit. I had to pay rent somehow, but I didn’t want to be an absentee parent. “I don’t strip anymore?”
He hesitated. “No.”
I should’ve asked why he hesitated but I didn’t. “What’s your name?”
“Neil Christensen.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
His name meant nothing but his eyes, his stare, they gave me that kind of familiar feeling you get when you meet someone for the first time and you know you’re going to like them. It was familiar but new and all at once comfortable and disconcerting. And the twitch of his mouth, it was almost unnoticeable but it was there and I didn’t know jack shit about this he-man, but I knew it meant something. “What?”
“You do not call me Neil.”
“What do I call you?”
“Viking.”
If we were in any other situation besides the fucked-up mess we were in, I probably would’ve laughed. I scanned the length of him. There wasn’t an inch that wasn’t ripped muscle, the type of muscle earned from years of being a warrior. “You look like a Viking.”
“So you have said.”
“Why are we here?”
“The father of your son stole guns from the Lone Coaster MCs and was using your vehicle for transport when he was arrested on a traffic violation. Now they think you have the guns.”
Jesus. “Do I?” I was going to fucking kill Jason when this was over.
He shook his head once. “No. I took them.”
What? “Why?”
“You called for help. You did not want to be in possession of them. Year?”
I called him to take care of my problems? “We’re both tied up and you’re worried about the fucking year? Give them the damn guns and let’s get the fuck out of here.” What the hell was he waiting for?
“Returning the guns will not guarantee our freedom. You swear too much.”
“Too fucking bad.” He was lucky I wasn’t a hyperventilating mess, or worse, crying. “I want to get back to my son. How do we do that?”
“You are going to kick the stool over.”
“Are you crazy?” Did he have a death wish?
“I do not have the leverage. If I kick, one side of the board will tip first.”
I could see from here why that would be a big fucking problem because whichever side the board fell, it would send the opposite block slamming into his leg then it would drop and choke the life out of him. “You can’t let it tip.”
“I will not let that happen. It needs to drop flat, both blocks dropping at the same time.”
What? “No, then you’ll choke!” And die. And I didn’t want him to die.
Every muscle in his body tensed and I saw the frustration crawl across his body like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
I wanted to kick out, or break something. Or cry. “See?” I argued, even though he hadn’t said a word. “It’s frustrating as hell being helpless, isn’t it?”
“Neither of us are helpless. Twist your legs to loosen the tape. Rock the chair and move toward me.”
“And then what? Blondie will come in and see that I’m trying to get to you and he’ll hit you again.”
“I can take the hit.”
“Looks like you’ve already been taking them.” How many before it was too much?
“Move over here.”
“You’re kinda bossy for someone who’s trussed up like fresh kill.”
“I am not dead.”
Jesus, did he have an answer for everything? “Not yet.”
He dropped his voice to a sexy command. “Come here, Ariella.”
“Sure, be right there.”
; “Move the chair.”
“Bossy fuck.” But I lifted my ass and tried to jerk forward. The chair scooted a whole inch.
Viking nodded. “Again.”
I did it again and involuntarily grunted with the effort. It netted me two inches and a sharp pain in my back. “Fuck. What happened to my back?”
“Ricochet,” he stated like it wasn’t a big deal.
Ricochet of what? “What the hell does that mean?”
“Bullet.” He issued another single-word response.
Jesus fuck. I was shot? Panic like I’d never experienced crawled up my spine and stole my breath for one whole heartbeat. Then I sucked in some air, pushed my back into the chair to feel for wet blood and wiggled all my toes and fingers. Nothing dripping, all my shit moving, I couldn’t figure out what was more alarming. Being shot or Viking starting to give me single-word answers like he might be losing his strength.
“First of all, I’m coming back to the whole being shot thing because, what the fuck? So you better answer this quick because I’m about to freak the hell out. Are you normally a closed-off, silent motherfucker or are you starting to pass out or something? Because I’m not doing this shit alone. You better wake the fuck up or soldier on or do whatever badass shit a Viking does so you don’t leave me alone with this fucked-up shit and the blond asshole.” I jerked the fucking chair another inch, cursing my shitty progress and my back and Jason and every fucking thing about my life right now.
“His name is Candle and I am not going to pass out.”
My head popped up because something about that was familiar, like a word you couldn’t quite remember. “Blondie is Candle? What kinda fucked-up name is that?”
“You swear too much.”
I gritted my teeth against his bullshit. My back throbbing, my head pounding, I moved another couple inches. “Deal with it.” If I couldn’t remember shit, I was giving myself permission to swear all I fucking wanted.
“No.”
I looked up at him again. “What are you gonna do? Spank me and send me to my room?”
Nothing changed in his expression, not even a blink, so I didn’t know how the hell I saw it, but everything, and I do mean everything in his calculated gaze turned dark. If I’d been standing, I would’ve stepped back. “You sick, kinky fuck. Don’t get any ideas,” I warned.