Forty-five minutes later, she used wax to spike up his newly washed hair and watched his expression in the mirror. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not, but she wasn’t counting on a fat tip from her surly customer. “All done,” she said and swept away the cape. “Since you’re the last customer of the day, I’ll cut you a break. It’s just sixty-five dollars.”
He laughed as he pushed up from his seat.
She drew a deep breath and stepped back, once again wary of the menace in his demeanor. “I can take cash, check, or credit card. I have the Square…”
Only, he was already moving toward the door.
“If you’re not happy, I’ll knock the price down to fifty,” she called after him.
He never glanced back, and she chewed on her lip, trying to tamp down a sudden flare of anger. She’d spent an hour and a half on the bastard and used her expensive products. She deserved to be paid.
At the stand beside the door, he picked up the telephone. Her land line—the only phone that worked in the bunker because the thick metal ceiling prevented cellphone signals from coming through.
She held her breath as he drew back his arm and pulled the cord out of the wall. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath, but she didn’t move toward him. Her gaze cut to the small bathroom door in the corner. If she had to, she’d barricade herself inside.
Apparently, he wasn’t planning to attack her. He paused and glanced down at the cinderblock doorstop she’d placed to keep the door open…because the door latch locked from the outside…
He kicked it away, and she heard his low, cruel laughter as he slammed the door closed.
Quincy James drove slowly past the small single-story house, his gaze flicking over the home and the neat yard, and then zeroing in on the gold Buick parked in the driveway with a license plate number that matched his target’s to a T. He passed the house and parked in front of one farther down with an empty driveway, hoping there’d be no one home to make any noise about him leaving his truck in front of their yard.
He grabbed his cellphone from the cupholder and hit the auto-dial for the office.
“Montana Bounty Hunt—wait, that you, Quincy?” Brian Cobb, the agency’s office manager said.
“Yeah, Bri. Guess his cousin wasn’t lying about his intentions. I found Clay Horner’s Buick. Took your advice and hit the beauty shops in Amity, though I’m not sure the address was right for this one… But it’s his car. Plate matches.”
“Okay, you hold tight. Reaper and Hook are still in Whitefish.”
Quincy’s eyes narrowed. He might be new to the Montana Bounty Hunters, but he’d been working this gig for seven years. Solo. He wasn’t waiting a damn hour for reinforcements to arrive. For the hundredth time, he wondered why the hell he’d agreed to sign on with the agency. He liked working alone and liked even better keeping all the money he earned—not splitting it with team members.
Horner’s bounty would bring in a cool ten grand. To his mind, a three-way split was only a good thing when it had something to do with gymnastic twins.
Still, he’d seen the big ticket takedowns the agency had been making lately, so when he’d been approached by Reaper, he’d said he’d give it six months to see how things worked out.
“You’re not much of a team player, are you?” Reaper had asked over their third round of beers.
Quincy grunted. “I quit being a team player when I left the Army.”
Reaper’s mouth stretched into a grin. “My wife’s ex-Army. The man who owns the agency is ex-Army. You might find it easier than you think being a part of this team.”
Well, he’d only been an MBH hunter for a couple of weeks, and he’d been surprised when Reaper had sent him on his own to Amity to look for leads. He’d been riding along with Hook since he’d hired on. Maybe they’d finally realized he knew his shit when they’d beat the bushes for Roddy Wainright last weekend out in Glacier. Quincy had been the one to find him. When the rest of the team arrived after he’d radioed, he’d been drinking coffee from the metal coffee can Roddy had rigged over his fire, casually shooting the breeze with the grizzly poacher, who was cuffed, but otherwise appeared none the worse for wear.
Quincy let himself out of out of his truck. He passed the mailbox. It matched the address he’d pulled off the internet when he’d Googled “beauty and barber shops in Amity.” However, it wasn’t until he snuck around the house, peering into windows without seeing a soul, that he happened upon a small sign with an arrow pointing toward “Curl Up & Dye.” The scissors that substituted for the ampersand looked as though a child had drawn them.
Around the back of the house, he found a flagstone pathway leading to a metal staircase that descended into the ground. He drew his weapon and slowly crept down to the closed metal door, stepping over a cinder block before reaching out to pull on the door handle.
The door creaked open, and he peered inside. The interior of the shop was darker than outside, so he moved even slower, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness inside. Behind him, he heard the door creak as it slowly swung closed.
It was then he heard a click and fire shot toward him. He stumbled backward, tripping over something beside the door and landing on his ass.
Blinded, he raised his gun. “What the fuck?”
“Drop the gun or I’ll fry your ass!” came a garbled voice. Another click sounded, and more flame shot toward him.
This time, heat curled the hairs on his forearm. “All right,” he said, cussing under his breath. He slowly laid his gun on the cool concrete floor.
“Now, get up,” the voice said, this time more clearly. And definitely a woman’s voice. “Head toward the lighted mirror.”
He raised his hands and strode toward the bright lights. “Lady, I’m not looking for trouble.”
“And all the other asshole wanted was a haircut,” she said, bitterness in her tone. “You can take a seat.”
He sat and glanced into the glass to find a very pretty woman wielding a can of hairspray. He almost smiled, but he was intrigued. “I’m a bounty hunter. Was that other asshole a big guy with a beard?”
Her eyebrows lowered. “You’re a big guy with a beard. Show me your badge. For all I know, he sent you to get a cut and bleach, too. He owes me sixty-five bucks.”
He began to lower his hands, but she quickly raised her spray can higher. “Badge is on my belt, ma’am,” he ground out.
“Just no funny moves. Better yet…” she said, reaching sideways and pulling what looked like clothesline cord from a shelf. “Put your hands behind you.”
Quincy conceded it might have been smarter to wait for that backup. “You don’t have to tie my hands. I swear I’m a bounty hunter. Just call Montana Bounty Hunters in Bear Lodge—”
“Can’t call. The asshole tore out my land line.”
“Don’t you have a cellphone?”
“Yeah, smart ass, but you can’t get a signal through a metal roof and six feet of dirt.”
He put his hands behind him and let her wind the cord around and around his wrists. When she’d finished tying him, he surreptitiously pulled against his retraints and realized the woman knew her knots. “Okay, now will you go outside and make that call? I’m not going anywhere.”
In the mirror, he watched as her lower lip began to tremble.
She spun away. “Can’t call. We’re stuck here. The door locks from the outside.”
Quincy blinked. No fucking way. Reaper and Hook would bust their guts laughing when they arrived.
“We’ll be here until tomorrow morning when Miss Gracie comes to work.”
He opened his mouth to reassure her they’d be rescued soon, but instead, pursed his lips. He didn’t know her. Maybe she was involved with Clay Horner. “The asshole you mentioned before…”
She sniffed and raised her free hand, likely to wipe away a tear or two, then turned to meet his gaze in the glass. “He came in just before closing. Said he wanted a shave and cut. Then he asked me to
bleach his hair.”
Quincy nodded. “He give you a name?”
She shook her head. “I was too nervous to ask for one.” She sniffed, and her mouth settled into a straight line. “He was big, with a scraggly beard nearly to his chest and shoulder-length hair. And he had small beady eyes, like a pig’s.”
Quincy let out a deep breath and settled back in his chair. “That’s Horner, all right. You’re lucky all he wanted was a cut. He’s wanted for armed robbery.”
“Probably knew I hardly have a dime,” she said, the corners of her mouth drooping. “He stiffed me for the bill then locked me inside.”
“Look,” he said, “I have a badge. It’s on my belt.”
Her gaze narrowed, but she moved closer.
Once she was within reach of the bright lights from the multitude of bulbs surrounding the mirror, Quincy’s eyes widened before he blinked and recovered himself. He’d thought her pretty before, but her soft-looking wavy hair with its cotton-candy pink streak made him wish his hands were free to touch it. Her skin was pale, her eyes an unusual blue-gray, framed by dark lashes. Her brows were dark, but they only heightened the appeal of her pretty eyes. Her mouth was a soft, pale pink, with a very full lower lip.
When she bent nearer and reached for his belt, he kept his expression neutral although he fought a smile, spread his legs, and raised his hips so he could lean back a bit to help her out. Her fingers fumbled with the clip-on, but eventually she freed it—after tugging enough to get something a little farther south excited over her small jerking motions.
She didn’t say a word as her gaze lowered to the bulge in his pants, but her breath caught.
Quincy wished he had a glib tongue, but he never said the right things to women. He didn’t have a clue what he ought to say to ease this awkward moment, but he tried anyway. “It’s your mouth,” he muttered. “And…your hair. And…you know, you have really pretty eyes.” He nearly groaned at how ridiculous he sounded, but he had a great excuse. All the blood had rushed south to fill his cock, leaving his brain defenseless.
“You think I’m pretty?” she asked, and her face crumpled again.
“Look, don’t cry. It’s going to be okay. You can even keep me tied up. I’m no threat. And yeah, you’re…pretty.” Although pretty didn’t begin to cover it. Everything about her blew him away. She looked like an extra-curvy Barbie doll with lush tits, a nice inward curve at her waist, and an ass that would more than fill his big palms. He winced because now his cock pushed harder against stiff denim.
“Did I tie the rope too tight?”
“No,” he said, grimacing. “But I can’t, um, adjust myself.”
“Adjust…?” She glanced down at the front of his pants. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s just been a while. And being like this, with you…well…”
“I see.” She chewed her lower lip. “I can’t untie you. I don’t really know you…”
He closed his eyes. “Maybe if I don’t look at you…things…will ease.”
She made a little noise, and he peeked up at her. After setting down the hairspray can and lighter, she moved in front of him, and her hands reached out…
His breath hitched as she reached for his belt and unbuckled it. He sucked in a deeper breath when she unbuttoned his jeans. The easing of the constriction made him groan. He slowly opened his eyes. “Thanks.”
“That help?”
“A little.” Would she be moved to do more if she thought he was still in pain? At that moment, he hoped like hell Reaper and Hook took their sweet time getting there.
Again, her teeth worried her bottom lip.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice going deeper.
“Tamara. Tamara Adams.”
“I’m Quincy James. You can check that out. Wallet’s in my right front pocket.” For once, his non-glib tongue worked.
Pink rose in her cheeks, but she nodded and moved to his side before sliding her slim hand inside his pocket. Her fingers spread wide, wider than necessary. Fingers pushed against the side of his dick.
His chest rose. “Easy now,” he whispered.
“Got it,” she said, and slid his wallet free.
“No, you didn’t,” he muttered.
In the mirror, he saw the way her lips curved at the corners as she flipped open the wallet. “Quincy James. And you live in Bear Lodge. You’re a couple of months younger than I am.” Her gaze went to his profile. “Picture doesn’t do you justice.”
His mouth twitched, but he held back a smile.
She freed his driver’s license and moved in front of him again. Then she held it up. “Hmmm. Hazel eyes.” She leaned toward him. “They look pretty green to me. Brown hair…” Her gaze went from his hair, which was in need of a trim, to his beard. She thrust her fingers into his beard and cupped his jaw. “Not hiding a weak chin…”
He narrowed his eyes, which elicited a grin from her. When her mouth stretched, he drew a shaky breath. “Damn, I thought you were pretty before.”
The blonde in front of him tilted her head. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Don’t know how.” Which had been the truth until she’d tied him to the chair.
Her gaze flickered downward.
His followed. “I’m feeling a little desperate now.” The truth. “I’m a little twisted in there.” A lie. “If I get any harder, blood flow might be restricted.” A definite possibility if she kept chewing on her lip the way she was now.
“Well, I don’t want to maim you for life,” she muttered, sounding a little breathless.
His heartbeat kicked up a notch. Was she considering doing something about his predicament? Sweet Jesus, he hoped so.
“You married?” she said, aiming a sharp glance at his face.
“Nope. Never.”
“Because you don’t like commitment?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“No. Because I’m not good at chatting up women. You all make me nervous.”
“Seriously?” She huffed a breath. “You’re not a bad-looking man.”
He arched an eyebrow.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, so you’re…attractive—if a girl was into a rugged kind of guy.”
“You know anyone like that? Maybe you can give me her number,” he growled.
“No girlfriend?”
He met her gaze and held still. “I don’t have anyone—not a wife, not a girlfriend, not a friendly hookup. And I haven’t fucked anyone in months.”
Her blush deepened. “Really? Me, too!” And then she seemed to catch herself and whirled away.
“Now, I have a hard time believing that,” he said softly. “Girl as pretty as you are, with a body any man would be grateful to pin to a bed…” So, maybe he’d taken that a little too far.
Only, she was peeking at him over her shoulder, and she didn’t look mad or disgusted. No, her gaze was steady as it swept his face then moved down to his crotch again.
Quincy began to think that, just maybe, he’d managed to say the right thing for once. “It’s okay if you want to slap my face.”
When she turned and walked back to him, her hips swayed like a pendulum, entrancing him. “Something needs slapped,” she said, her voice huskier than before.
“I’m at your mercy, ma’am.”
She raised a finger and touched his nose then traced a path downward to his lips. “Mercy…mercy…me,” she whispered, leaning closer so that her sweet breath gusted against his face. “I should free him, so he isn’t damaged. That would be a cryin’ shame.”
Quincy didn’t mind that she was more worried about his cock than him. He’d never seen or heard anything sexier in all his days as her pouty mouth talking about his dick that way. “I’m not cryin’, but I might howl,” he whispered back.
A grin spread across her mouth.
“That a little cheesy?” he asked, wrinkling his nose but not worried because she was moving her hands over his shirt, slowly shaping his shoulders with them, then mov
ing lower.
“Have to make sure you’re not packing anything under your clothes…”
He held back a quip, not wanting to halt her pat down. The way she smoothed her palms over his ribs and belly made his muscles jump.
When she reached his hips, he blurted, “Do you need me to rise up?”
“Would kind of defeat the purpose if you didn’t,” she drawled.
His gaze locked with hers. She didn’t break eye contact to glance down as he lifted and she gripped his waistband. With a couple of hard shoves, she pushed his pants, along with his briefs, to the tops of his thighs.
His cock thrust up from his groin, jerking with his heartbeats.
“That better?” she asked then licked her lips.
He gave a muffled moan. “Better? Jesus, girl.”
She laughed, and the sound did things to his skin—causing goosebumps to rise because he liked it so much.
“Oh my,” she said, her gaze locked on his dick. “Don’t think I’ve seen one so…”
“Big?”
She blinked and raised her face. Her blush intensified. “Yeah. And the shape…”
He frowned.
Again, she blinked. “What I mean… It’s not bad…” She drew a deep breath and reached out a fingertip to trace the cap. “The top…it’s shaped like a doorknob. Kind of.”
He pressed his lips together to hold back a bark of laughter. Or maybe a groan, because she had just touched his dick. “Does it worry you?”
“Why should I be worried?” she asked, lifting her chin. “All I did was free it…from constriction.”
“Uh huh.”
She cleared her throat, and her glance slid away. “A girl might be a little…concerned.”
“It’ll fit, Tamara,” he said softly, holding his breath, because he didn’t want her to skitter away and leave him like this.
The fit wasn’t her worry. Being stretched so deliciously, that any other man would fall short—or rather, thin—in comparison, was a very real concern. She could already imagine how he’d feel inside her. The stretch, the burn. The bliss.
Stranded (Boys Behaving Badly Book 4) Page 10