by Tracy Wolff
She cackles. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I totally would,” I call over my shoulder as I start toward the big round booth in the back with my loaded tray. It makes my back ache as I lift it onto my shoulder, but that can’t be helped so I don’t bother dwelling on it. Life’s too short to worry about shit that can’t be changed. It’s a lesson I learned a long, long time ago.
The rest of the morning goes pretty smoothly, or at least as smoothly as can be expected. It’s Sunday and this place is always packed on Sundays—we’re small and a little bit greasy but we’re known for having the best waffles and breakfast tacos in this part of San Diego. Which means mornings are a particularly busy time around here. Not that I’m complaining. I need all the tips I can get to help pay for my new upholstery. And to rebuild my meager savings since I just blew a huge chunk of it on my new used car.
At eleven, once the rush has eased off a little bit, Doreen makes me breakfast and sends me out the door for my “lunch break” with instructions to eat both tacos. “Men like women with a little meat on their bones,” she calls after me as I walk out the kitchen’s back door.
“Good thing I’m not looking for a man then,” I fire back.
“I think most women like their women with a little meat on their bones, too.”
I laugh. “Good thing I’m not looking for anyone, then. See you later, Doreen.”
She sighs. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, girl.”
The door slams behind me before I can answer, which is a good thing because honestly? At the moment I’m not sure what to do with myself, either.
I only got an hour of sleep last night and that one hour was filled with nightmares, with images so grotesque and distorted it felt like I was being chased through a carnival funhouse by a ravenous monster—or a man. It was hard to tell which while I was asleep.
Then again, I’ve often found it hard to tell the difference when I’m awake, too. God knows—
I cut the thought off before it gets any deeper, before it heads where I don’t want it to go. I’ve spent the last three years refusing to think about that time in my life, refusing to let it have any hold or bearing on the life I have now. On who I am now. Oh, I’m sure shrinks the world over would have a field day with that knowledge, but I’ve tried it their way and all it got me was so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. This may not be the healthiest way to deal—it may not be dealing at all—but I’ve got a life now. I go to school, have a job, even have a couple of friends. And that’s way more than I’ve had in a long time. And, for now, that is more than good enough for me.
Figuring I’ll eat and then either study or sleep for the remainder of my break, I make a beeline toward my car. Except as I round the corner to the side of the diner where I parked it, a man in a black hoodie is already there. He’s got my door open and is sliding behind the wheel of my car.
For a second I draw a blank, like maybe that isn’t my car. Maybe being this tired has made me delusional. Maybe—fuck, no! That is my car!
“Hey!” I yell, dropping my breakfast as I take off running. “That’s my car! What are you doing? That’s my car!”
The man looks up for a quick second and our eyes meet for the first time. His are a sizzling hot electric green and as I stare at him, it registers that I’ve seen those eyes before. That I’ve seen him before. I know who he is.
Nic Medina.
But that doesn’t make sense. How is it possible that Nic Medina, mechanic and drag racer extraordinaire, is stealing my car?
Nic Medina, who owns a car worth ten times what mine is worth.
Nic Medina, who just won a hundred thousand dollars last night on one race—and who could have won a lot more if he’d bothered to stick around.
Nic Medina, whose eyes haunted me all through my hour of weird and desperate dreams this morning.
Nic freaking Medina. It doesn’t make sense.
But there he is, sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, his hands fumbling with something under the dash.
It sinks in all at once and I start running faster. I can’t lose that car—not when most of my savings are tied up in it. And not when my backpack full of expensive textbooks is in the trunk.
“Hey!” I yell again, laying on the speed as the engine roars to life. “Stop!”
He doesn’t, obviously. Just reaches out to close the door.
“Nic Medina!” I scream his name. I’m not sure what makes me do it—I guess I’m figuring it will stop him if he knows I recognize him, knows I can report him to the police.
It doesn’t, though. Instead, he throws the car into reverse.
He’s out of the parking spot in under two seconds and speeding toward me like he’s aiming straight at me.
I freak out, then, start to jump out of the way. Turns out letting him know I know who he is was a colossally stupid idea.
He veers around me at the last second, slams the car to a stop right next to me. After throwing the door open, he wraps an arm around my waist and yanks me toward him.
For a split second I’m too astonished to fight—and that second is all he needs to pull me inside the car. To pull me into his lap and then over the gearshift as he thrusts me into the passenger seat.
Then he’s slamming his door again and speeding out of the parking lot like he’s trying to win another quarter mile race. He barely slows down as we get to the street, turning into traffic without any hesitation at all—or concern for oncoming traffic.
Horns blare around us, but he ignores them as he shifts into a higher gear and zooms around the red Kia directly in front of us.
It’s only been about thirty seconds since he grabbed me, and I admit shock has made me a little slow. But as he moves around that Kia, it finally hits me. Really hits me. Not only did Nic Medina just steal my car. He also just stole me.
Chapter 4
Nic
Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuck!
This is not how this was supposed to go down.
I move into the left lane to get around a Kia going about twenty miles a millennium, then swerve back into the right to miss a Dodge truck going about the same speed. Jesus Christ, what is with people today? Has everybody seriously forgotten what the fucking accelerator is for?
I move back into the left lane, casting a glance into the passenger seat at the woman whose car I just stole—at the woman I just kidnapped, for Christ’s sake—and try to figure out what the fuck is going on. The glance just reaffirms what I already know—that she is exactly who I thought she was when I first caught sight of her in the parking lot.
But that doesn’t make sense. Why the hell would Anderson want me to steal a car from Raul’s girl when Raul is already all twisted up with him? Couldn’t he just get Raul to hand the car over?
I downshift as I turn the corner onto Miramar, then hit the gas. The speedometer climbs past ninety, but I don’t let up. Until I figure things out, I’m determined to put as much distance between me and that greasy spoon as I can get.
The road opens up in front of me and I gas it even more. Then slam on my brakes as the woman next to me throws the passenger door open and starts to dive face-first out of the car.
“What the fuck!” I yell, grabbing her by the back of her shirt and yanking her back into the car as hard as I can. She doesn’t weigh much and it should be easy even though I’ve still got one hand on the wheel, but she’s fighting me. Clawing and biting, kicking and screaming as she tries desperately to fling herself out of a speeding fucking vehicle.
“Are you trying to die?” I demand as I twist my fingers into her shirt to get a better grip, then take the first right as Miramar turns into La Jolla Village Drive. I take another immediate right into the parking lot of a major corporation and speed toward the parking garage at the end of the lot. The road around us was pretty wide open, but if anyone saw her little routine, the last thing I need is to be sitting in an open parking lot when the cops come looking for a
black 370Z.
She’s still hitting and clawing at me and it’s pretty fucking impossible to control her and the car at the same damn time—especially since her door is still wide open. The second I make it to the shadows at the end of the parking garage, I slam on the brakes, spinning the car around so that I’m facing the exit in case I need to beat a hasty retreat.
“Settle down!” I tell her, angling my body toward hers as I try to get her attention. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not—”
She lands a solid blow to my balls and I see stars. My grip on her loosens for just a second, but that’s all she needs. She follows up racking me with an awkward kick to the face before she tumbles out of the car onto the garage floor.
Then she’s scrambling along the ground, pushing herself upright as she goes. “Hey!” I call to her, climbing out of the car after her. She’s got a head start and I’m still fighting nausea from the fist to my balls, but I catch her pretty easily. Looping an arm around her waist, I pull her back against me in an effort to subdue her without hurting her.
She goes crazy at the first touch of my chest to her back, though, raking her heel down my shin, slamming her elbow into my gut, jerking her head back as she tries to slam the back of her head into my nose. But she’s a short thing—only five foot three or four—and all she’s managing to hit is my—fuck!
I let her go as pain tears through me, bending over with a hand to my throat as I try to suck air through my just-abused windpipe. For long seconds, it doesn’t work and now I’m seeing stars for a reason totally unrelated to the continued ache in my balls.
In, out. In, out. I concentrate on getting air into my oxygen-deprived lungs and when I’ve finally recovered enough to function, she’s almost to the entrance of the garage. Goddamnit.
In the distance I can hear the sound of cop sirens—fuck. If someone did call the police they’ll be turning down this street any fucking minute now. The last thing I need is for them to see her running through a parking lot, desperate and hysterical.
I lay on the speed, then, slamming into her from behind. Hard.
She goes flying and I grab on to her, pulling her against me and twisting so that when we fall, I’m the one on the bottom. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even weigh a hundred pounds and the last thing I want to do is slam all six foot three, two hundred thirty pounds of me down on top of her.
We land hard, skid a little across the slick concrete. Shit. I’m going to feel that in the morning. She starts to struggle as soon as we come to a stop, so I wrap my arms around her and roll until she’s on the bottom and I have her pinned down.
She’s screaming now, loud, hysterical shouts for help that are shattering my eardrums and probably carrying a lot farther than I’d like them to. I slam a hand down on her mouth to stop the shouts, pressing hard enough to keep her head still and her jaw locked shut. I wouldn’t put it past her to bite me, too, and that’s the last thing I need right now.
“Calm down,” I tell her as she bucks against me, her slender body twisting and turning under mine. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She bucks against me again, gets one of her legs between both of mine. As she does, she starts to bring her knee up again, but I shift out of the way in time and she manages to get my inner thigh instead of my balls. Small fucking favors.
“Goddamnit, will you please fucking listen to me!” It’s a near shout but I’ve had enough with this run-struggle-kick-run-capture routine. At this rate, we’re both going to be black and blue before it’s over. And that’s the last thing I want to happen.
I can shut her down easily—it’s not like she could really put up much of a fight if I decided to stop her—but I don’t want to take a chance on hurting her. I just want her to settle down so we can talk.
With that thought in mind, I grab both her hands, stretch them above her head. Then I shift a little so I can use my body weight to cover hers and press her into the ground. Within seconds, she’s immobilized except for the harsh rise and fall of her chest beneath mine.
She can’t move now, can’t scream, can’t do anything but rock against me.
There’s a part of me that knows what this looks like—that knows what it feels like to have her fragile, slender body under mine, her breasts pressed flush against my chest. But I’ve never been one to get off on a woman being scared of me and for all her bravado, all her fight, this girl is terrified.
“Listen to me,” I tell her softly, shifting my hands a little so I can stroke my fingers through her long fiery hair. “I swear, I’m not going to hurt you. I know it sucks that I took your car, and I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do that, either.”
She tries to talk but my hand is still over her mouth and I can’t understand whatever she wants to tell me.
“Look. I’ll take my hand away from your mouth so you can talk. But if I do that, you have to promise not to scream. Can you do that for me?”
She’s trembling now, her whole body shaking so hard that her teeth are chattering. It freaks me out enough that I lift my hand before she promises me anything. She stares at me as she takes deep breaths, gulping in huge draws of air that make me feel guilty as fuck. I didn’t think I was covering her nose, but obviously she’d felt like she wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again, because it’s true and because I feel like shit about this whole situation. She might be Raul’s girl, but there’s something about her that makes me think she’s not part of the life he leads. Maybe I’m being stupid—I’m probably being stupid—but she just doesn’t seem the type to be involved in the chop shop business.
I wait, tense and on guard, for her to get her breath back. And pray that she doesn’t start screaming again once she does.
“Get off me!” she says suddenly, her feet digging into the cement as she arches her back and does her best to throw me off her. All she succeeds in doing is pressing her pelvis flush against mine. She’s still too freaked out to notice, but I’m not. And neither is my dick.
Shit. A hard-on is the last fucking thing I need to add to this situation. I scoot down a little so that my hips are no longer resting on hers. It’s less threatening that way—or at least, I hope it is.
My attempt to relax her doesn’t seem to do any good because she’s still fighting me. She’s got her legs on either side of mine now and is slamming her foot against the outside of my calf again and again. At the same time, she’s twisting her wrists in my grips, bending her fingers so that she can claw at whatever part of my hand she can reach.
I’ll say this for her—she’s determined. Which makes my job a whole hell of a lot harder, considering I’m supposed to get the car to Anderson by three and I still have to run it by my garage, have my crew look it over first.
“Ouch—damn it! You need to settle the fuck down!” I growl at her as she manages to scratch the back of my hand hard enough to draw blood. “I already told you I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Like I’m going to believe you?” she shrieks before turning her head and sinking her teeth into the side of my biceps.
“Fuck! Stop it!” I tell her, but she doesn’t listen. She just keeps biting down until I’m convinced I’m not getting out of this disaster without a fucking tetanus shot. “Turn loose!”
She still doesn’t let go, and short of plowing my fist into her face, I can’t make her. So I decide to go a different route, releasing her wrists so she’ll feel a little more in control. I know it’s a bad idea even as I’m doing it, but sure enough, the first thing she does is stop biting me. The second thing she does is punch me full-on in the nose.
She’s at an awkward angle so she doesn’t pack much of a punch, but it’s still enough to have my eyes watering and my nose throbbing. She hits me again, this time in the cheek and as I try to dodge a third blow, she manages to wiggle out from under me. And then she’s half-crawling, half-scrabbling away from me as she once again shoves herself to her feet and takes off running.
&n
bsp; She’s determined, I’ll give her that.
I tackle her once again, and once again I twist so that my shoulder takes the brunt of the fall. The fact that it hurts a lot more this time would worry me if I wasn’t so busy trying to keep her from killing me. To that end, this time I roll her over right away, so that she’s stomach down against the concrete and I’m on top of her. I pull her wrists behind her back and hold them there with one hand while I settle back on my haunches, straddling her hips and upper thighs.
She’s still struggling, her breathing harsh and uneven as she continues to fight.
“Stop!” I tell her again. “Just stop. You aren’t going to win this so you might as well just listen and do what I say for a minute.”
She’s too panicked to hear me, her back rising and falling rapidly as her harsh breathing turns to harsher sobs and she starts to hyperventilate.
Shit. If Anderson was here right now I’d hit him with the fucking car sooner than turn it over to him. Yesterday I was totally clean, fixing cars and minding my own business. Today isn’t even half over and I’ve already stolen a car, kidnapped a woman, and scared said woman into a hysterical frenzy. What the fuck am I going to do for my encore? Burn down this parking garage?
Pissed at Anderson, at the situation, at the whole damn world, I use my free hand to unbuckle my belt and yank it out of my belt loops. As I do, she goes completely still beneath me.
“Don’t. Please don’t.”
They’re the first real words she speaks to me and they break my heart. As does the fact that I can’t do what she so desperately needs me to.
Chapter 5
Jordan
Not again. Please, God, not again. Not again. Not again. Not again.
The words run through my head like a mantra, like a prayer.
Like a lifeline.
They’re the only things keeping me sane as he pushes himself on top of me. As he unbuckles his belt. As the past rushes up and overwhelms me.
I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think. Can’t do anything but lie here and listen to the clink of his belt. To the jagged edge of his own harsh breathing. To the whistle of the wind through the trees right outside the parking garage.