The illicit substances are purged from my system, and I’m in the best shape of my life. I feel better than I have in ages, but that doesn’t stop the solitude from creeping in. I study my reflection in the tea kettle, stroking my beard. I look completely different than the man who first arrived here. I could go into town, and no one would recognize me.
For good measure, I find the blond hair dye still at the bottom of the shopping bag. I smear the cream on my hair and beard, then wait for it to set, just like the box says. After I wash it out, I check my reflection.
My hair isn’t golden blond like the smiling model on the box. Instead, my jet black hair has transformed into a burnt orange. It’s not so bad. It gives me a rugged, lumberjack kind of look.
An hour, tops, I tell myself as I drive the road into town. Just one cup of coffee.
There’s a diner on the edge of town with not many people inside. Most of the streets are empty. Darkness has fallen. I’m sure the citizens of White Oak are snuggled up in their homes, away from the brutal cold. On the glass exterior of the diner is a mess of flyers. Among the dinner theatre and youth basketball announcements is my picture, the one with me holding the champagne from two years ago. WANTED: JACK LARSEN. CONSIDERED DANGEROUS. It’s crinkled at the edges, and is starting to yellow. I remind myself that I’m not that guy cheesing into the camera, probably high out of his mind. The reflection in the glass staring back at me is someone else entirely, like I’ve been reborn as another person.
When I walk into the diner, I feel like a wild animal cautiously tiptoeing out of the woods. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to another person, I worry I’ve lost any sense of social norms. The handful of patrons all turn to stare as I walk through the door, like they’re expecting to see someone they know. When they see I’m not, they turn back to their plates of eggs.
Still, I feel I could be recognized at any moment. I feel the pocket knife shift in my pants as I walk to a red vinyl booth. The customer before me has left a newspaper strewn across the table. I’m so out of touch, none of the headlines make sense. I scan through it, looking for news about my father. There’s a small article in the middle of the paper about Harvey Holmes, my Uncle Harvey and Henry’s father, stepping up as interim CEO of Larsen International. I quickly close the paper and push it to the side. I don’t want anyone seeing me reading that article.
The waitress asks if she can get me something. I choke out, “coffee,” followed by a cough. It’s been awhile since I’ve used my voice. I can feel the waitress checking me out as she jots this down. I don’t look her in the face. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a woman, I might throw her on this table and fuck her if I look at her for too long.
She goes to get my coffee. Outside, the cold drizzling rain has turned to sleet. “What a mess,” my waitress comments as she pours the steaming coffee. The sleet is so thick, I don’t see the figure approaching the door until it’s thrown open. The person is covered by a thick brown coat thrown over their head. I watch, mesmerized, as she throws the coat off and shakes ice crystals from her long, light brown hair. She’s smiles radiantly, her cheeks red from the cold. Her buxom figure fits nicely in the red and white checkered waitress uniform.
I can’t stop looking at her. Something about her draws me in. She greets the waitress getting my coffee.
“Evening, Meg,” she says.
“Hey there, Amber,” Meg replies, loading a tray with cream and sugar.
Meg shoves the tray with my coffee into Amber’s hands.
“All yours,” Meg says, swatting her hands together. She grabs her coat and heads for the door.
Amber balances the tray with grace. “Have a good night.”
I focus on table in front of me as Amber walks towards me.
“Here you go,” she says, placing the coffee, cream, and sugar on the table.
I watch her name-tag balance precariously on her full tits. The desire for her sweeps over me with the same power of that snowstorm. My head is filled with visions of her in my bed, of wrapping myself in her soft curves. She smells like a fire. Her hands are red and chapped. Her smile is genuine and bright.
“Anything else?” she asks, placing her hands on her full hips. Her waist is pinched and tight above them, giving her an hourglass shape. “Something to eat?”
I straighten my back, summoning the confidence that’s lain frozen and dormant inside of me. I slip it on like a favorite pair of pants.
“What’s good?” I ask.
Amber blinks and stumbles for a bit, an immediate sign of her interest.
“The stove’s turned off, so we don’t have anything hot.” She lifts up her notepad, sneaking glances at me over it. “We have salads, which I wouldn’t recommend. We have pie.”
“Then I’ll have pie. Cherry, if you have it.”
“We do.” She scribbles this down on her pad, then her eyes flutter back up to mine.
I see the change in her face when she looks at me closely for the first time. It’s subtle, but I see it. Her lips part with a small gasp. Her eyes light up, with what? Is it recognition?
My hand drifts instinctively to the knife in my pocket. Amber clears her throat.
“I’ll be right back with that pie.” There’s a tremor in her voice now. Her gaze runs over my face, down to my chest and thighs.
Does she know who I am? Or is she attracted to me? I should pay the bill, leave now. Maybe it’s been too long since I’ve held a nice pair of tits, but something compels me to stick around and find out.
The End…
But Jack’s story doesn’t end there. Keep clicking ahead for the first chapter of WANTED: A Bad Boy Crime Romance
Chapter One
For Amber, it’s fun flirting with a killer. Not just simple fun like being tossed around on an amusement park ride, or going out for ice cream. No, it’s deeper, and darker than that. It’s a delicious fun, it’s the flavors of full bodied port and rich dark chocolate dissolving in her mouth, it’s the thrill of driving too fast down the winding backwood roads, the shoulders of which are littered with flowers and tributes to those who smashed their cars into trees doing the very same thing. It’s the intellectual mind telling the body this is wrong, dangerous, and the sensual body telling the mind to fuck off.
There are two fronts of fear and desire converging at the base of Amber’s spine, forcing her thighs to clench together of their own accord. And it’s making her shift at the diner a hell of a lot more exciting.
Jack Larsen doesn’t know Amber knows who he is, or at least, she doesn’t think he does. That only heightens the risk, and Amber’s enjoyment of the whole process. Jack’s obviously on the run, hiding out in the forgotten town of White Oak. He’s grown his hair and beard out, and has a bad, patchy dye job that’s turned his jet black hair a burnt orange. To Amber, he’s still every bit as hot as his WANTED poster, though.
Jack watches Amber linger behind the counter, chatting idly with the grill cook who’s cleaning the kitchen. It’s late, almost closing time. Jack’s the last customer left. The pie Amber served him has a filling of mushy cherries submerged in a cloyingly sweet, red, gelatin like substance. It isn’t any good, but he doesn’t care about that.
Amber caught Jack’s eye as soon as she walked in the diner. She’s just the type of woman he goes for, working class, with actual, real life, soft curves. The women in Jack’s social circle stick to a steady diet of cocaine, supplemented with champagne and caviar, that leaves them stick thin and bony. Well, that was his social circle, until everything went to shit. He’s traded his Manhattan penthouse apartment for a rustic (to put it nicely) cabin in bumfuck upstate New York, where he’s been carrying out a solitary existence for the past few weeks.
Jack takes a bite of crumbling crust in the middle of sneaking glances at Amber’s full chest. The vertical red stripes of her uniform are stretched wider over her tits. Two buttons are puckered and strained. It was Jack’s need for social interaction that rustled him out of hiding, a
nd into this very diner. Now, he knows burying his face in Amber’s curves would do wonders for his mood.
“Still working on that?” Amber asks.
Jack shakes his head, and hands her his plate of half eaten pie. Amber smiles as she takes it from him. She looks him right in the eyes, which makes Jack a little uneasy. He doesn’t want anyone looking at him for too long.
Amber holds her hand to one side of her mouth, and whispers conspiratorially. “Sorry the pie’s not any good. They get them shipped in, frozen. I told them, I can make way better for cheaper.”
“You bake?”
“Uh-huh,” Amber says, smiling with parted lips. An image of Amber, her neck and chest dusted with flour, her breasts bouncing as she rolls out dough, flashes in Jack’s mind.
Jack leans towards her. Amber, instinctively, draws closer to him. In his old life, Jack was a master of seducing women. He could charm any woman he wanted into bed with his skills, and his good looks didn’t hurt either. Amber stands so close to him, her leg is nearly touching his under the booth. Neither have to speak very loud to be heard.
“What’s your specialty?” Jack asks.
“Cupcakes with buttercream icing. I like to put a raspberry on top of each one.”
Jack licks his lips, imagining a tray of Amber’s tits, the raspberry a stiff, red nipple set atop creamy, luscious skin.
“I’d like to try that,” Jack says.
Amber’s complexion turns momentarily ashen. She blinks quickly, regaining her smile.
Jack’s paranoia flares up. Does she recognize him?
She’s calm. She hasn’t called the cops, Jack reminds himself.
But still, he’d have to be careful. It could dawn on her. They could flash his picture on the television overhead, or she could notice his WANTED poster taped up by the door. He runs his fingertips over the knife in his pocket for reassurance.
Amber balances the pie plate against her chest, her hand on her hip. “Anything else?”
“Are you closing soon? I don’t want to hold you up.” This is a test to gauge Amber’s interest.
“It’s no problem,” Amber says, passing with flying colors. “Stay as long as you like. More coffee?”
A devilish smile carves into Jack’s face. “Please.”
When Amber turns from Jack’s view, she allows the panic to dissolve her smile. She’s painfully aware of how reckless she’s being, but she can’t stop herself. She wants him. She wants anything that would distract her from the mundanity of her small town life, and a quick, dirty one night stand with an achingly hot, wanted fugitive would do just that.
In the kitchen, Amber washes Jack’s pie plate herself. She’s so lost in thought, she barely notices Victor standing near her, arms crossed, keys in his hand.
“I’d like to get home before the sun comes up,” Victor says. “Bring that guy the bill.”
“I’m bringing him more coffee,” Amber says.
Victor huffs, throwing up his hands in annoyance. Amber softly pats his arm.
“Go home, Victor. It’s okay. I can finish up here,” Amber says.
Victor lowers his head with conflicted emotion. “I don’t feel right leaving you here alone. I don’t know that guy.”
Amber rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “I’ve been chatting with him a bit. He’s harmless. Just some tourist that found himself up here in the off season.” She leans in and speaks in a lower tone. “From down south, I think. Doesn’t have a clue about our winters.”
Victor laughs, shaking his head. Like other White Oak men of his generation, Victor loved to boast about the severity of the winters here, and how in the past, they made it through with holes in their shoes and nothing but a stove to heat their homes.
“Figures,” Victor huffs. He raises his gaze to hers. “You sure?” He’s already leaning in the direction of the exit.
“I’m sure. It’s fine. I don’t have to work tomorrow, so it’s no big deal. Go home and get some rest.”
Amber doesn’t have to argue any further. Victor’s halfway to the door by the time she gets finished talking.
“You call me if you have any problem,” he tosses over his shoulder.
Amber watches the back door close behind him. She fills her lungs with air and holds it. You just convinced your boss to leave you alone with a murderer. She covers her face, laughing softly at the absurdity of this.
But Amber can’t let this pass her by. She glances sideways at Jack, taking in the chiseled profile of his face. Even dressed the way he is, and covered with hair, he carries himself like a rich person. And Amber knows he’s extremely rich.
She’s been following the case from the beginning, since Jack’s face was first splashed over every local newspaper, and on every television broadcast. The handsome billionaire playboy, heir to Larsen International, goes on the run after murdering his own father and staging it to look like a suicide. It’s more compelling than any true crime novel she’s ever read, and she’s read about a million. The cheap paperbacks litter the room she rents above her friend Meg’s garage.
The other townspeople gossiped about the news for a few days. It gave them a sense of superiority, and cemented their belief that a wholesome, simple life was the most honorable, and chasing fortune was for those who were broken in heart and soul. All that money, and he’d go kill his own father, they tsked.
Even though it’s only a three hour drive south, Manhattan is a world away from the streets of White Oak. The townspeople eventually forgot about Jack Larsen and his fratricide. But Amber didn’t. She devoured every article she could get her hands on. She searched the internet for pictures of Jack and drooled over what she found. So the man sitting in the booth just a few yards from her is more of a celebrity than murderer.
Steam rises and curls around itself as Amber fills Jack’s mug.
“Made you a fresh pot,” Amber says.
The side of Jack’s mouth turns up. The gleam in his dark eyes sends a shiver up Amber’s spine. She turns and walks towards the front door, moving slowly, enjoying the feeling of Jack’s gaze burning into her ass. She flips the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed.’ When she turns around, Jack’s staring at her openly, his eyes tracing up and down her body.
“Have a seat,” Jack offers.
Working against the urge to flee out of the door, Amber grabs a clean mug from the kitchen and joins Jack.
“What did you say your name was?” Ambers says, pouring herself another cup.
Jack grunts out the single syllable. “Pete.”
“Pete,” Amber repeats, memorizing it, letting it burn into her brain. Make sure you always call him Pete. She runs through a list of questions to ask him; Where are you from? What are you doing up here? But it feels too risky. If Jack doesn’t have his story straight, he could feel cornered. And then what? Would he lash out like an animal? Is that what a murderer is, a wild animal that acts on savage impulse? The potential depth of the darkness inside of this man leaves Amber temporarily breathless.
She’s just nervous, Jack thinks. That’s why she’s so quiet.
Jack’s already fit body is obscenely muscular now, thanks to having to chop his own wood for heat, and with his Grizzly Adams look, he realizes he could be intimidating. Amber’s not looking at him now. Her gaze darts around the empty diner. Maybe she’s realizing how vulnerable she is, all alone with a huge, strong stranger. Jacks knows he should make her feel more comfortable, but he feeds off her fear. It makes him feel powerful. He puffs his chest, holding his arms out from his sides to show her how large he is. Amber cowers back as he slides his hand across the table.
“Do you normally have coffee with strange men in empty diners?” Jack asks.
Amber blinks, and a light pink blush flushes her face and neck. “No,” she says, biting her lip.
“Didn’t your mother warn you about that type of thing?” Jack says.
My mother’s dead, Amber thinks, but doesn’t say it. That’s not flirting. That’s not sexy.
Jack cocks his head to the side, studying her. “You like to take chances? A kindred spirit.”
Not the kind of chances you take, Amber thinks. It makes her laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Jack says bluntly. His tone takes Amber off guard.
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m just nervous.”
Jack’s face melts into a smile. “No need to be nervous. I’m a trustworthy guy.”
Jack slides out of the booth, standing to his full height. At six foot three, he towers over most everyone. Amber moves over to make room for him, and Jack sits next to her. He hasn’t been this close to a woman in weeks. He breathes in her scent, soft and flowery, with a hint of grease from the grill. It takes every ounce of control he has not to rip the buttons off of her uniform, exposing the soft breasts beneath.
Amber picks up on the primal attraction Jack exudes. She feels like a trapped animal. She’s cornered in the booth behind his large frame. But she’s never felt so wanted in her life. Jack leans his head closer to her, and makes no secret of the fact he’s staring down her dress.
“I’m just a stranger, passing through,” he says through his teeth. His warm breath falls on the nape of Amber’s neck. “Once I leave, it’ll be like I was never here.”
The excitement traveling up Amber’s spine gives her a surge of confidence. She glances around the empty diner. “No witnesses.”
Jack smiles in a way that makes Amber clench her thighs tightly together. “Just you.” Tentatively, Jack reaches for her knee. Amber doesn’t swat his hand away as his fingers slide across her flesh. Goosebumps run up her thighs.
Amber’s having trouble focusing. Suddenly, the lights are too bright, the red of the vinyl booths, too loud. This is what she wanted, to be at the mercy of the billionaire fugitive. Now that the moment’s arrived, Amber’s not sure if it’s really what she wanted after all. Her legs tense, telling her to run. Jack’s broad chest stretches in front of her face. There’s nowhere to go. She hears his heart thumping, furiously pumping blood.
Assassin In My Bed Page 24