by Nicole Fox
When I finally feel the strap hook against my foot, I swell with excitement. I’m not finished yet. I still have a chance. I close my eyes and tug my foot back hard, yanking the bag closer to me. I slide it more and more in my direction, sitting up straight when it’s finally close enough for me to poke around inside with my foot.
No ... I frantically move things around inside the bag. It was right there in my purse. I know it was. I saw it!
But the phone’s not there.
I search through the bag in a flurry, tears welling in my eyes. I look up where the bag was and see that the phone has fallen out. It lies facedown, taunting me. I ease back down onto my back, repeating the same method as before, but this time, I can’t reach it. Everything hurts. My head throbs even harder, my eyes sting, and the muscles in my arms burn as I try with everything I have to make myself longer. But it’s not enough.
I’m going to die here.
***
A quick kick to my leg wakes me up this time. I must’ve passed out. My head still hurts, but the throbbing hasn’t gotten any worse, thankfully. I tilt my head back and see the stranger standing over me, a blank expression on his chiseled face.
“Wake up,” he says simply.
He’s quite the talker, I think bitterly. My eyes fall to what’s in his hands. He has bags of chips, prepackaged sandwiches, and two bottles of water.
“Eat.”
The last thing I want to do is have dinner with this nutcase. I imagine breaking free from these ropes and scratching his eyes out, shoving him out of the way so that I can make my escape. I couldn’t take him in a fight one on one, but if I had the element of surprise, I could probably outrun him. His large frame is dense, like he’s spent his whole life training, and I imagine he must move slower than me.
I sit up straight and grit my teeth. The names I could call him right now would probably land me in deeper shit than I’m already in, so instead, I bite my tongue and continue to stare at him with malice.
“Eat,” he repeats, tossing the sandwich and chips in my lap. He reaches forward and tugs the gag from my mouth, letting me speak.
“Am I supposed to eat with my feet? You need to untie my hands.”
His emotionless gaze remains on me for a long moment, and I start to wonder if my sarcasm has gotten me in trouble. I don’t know this man. I don’t know what he wants from me. He could be some kind of sex trafficker for all I know, and here I am, sassing him and mouthing off like my life isn’t literally in his hands.
Rather than lashing out or striking me for my insolence, he simply takes a seat on the toilet and grabs the food from my lap, unwrapping the plastic surrounding the sandwich. He points it in my direction, and that’s when I hear my stomach growl. The fighting spirit in me says that I’d rather starve than do what this bastard says, but the part of me that hasn’t eaten since breakfast this morning is ravenous.
Tentatively, I lean forward and take a bite from the corner of the sandwich, never once taking my eyes off his. He looks back at me with the same intensity, the same hesitant curiosity, and I have to wonder what’s going on in his mind. Is he going to rape me? Kill me? Sell me?
He brings the sandwich to my mouth again, and this time, I feel his warm finger brush against the corner of my lips. I swallow hard and look at him with wide eyes, unsure whether it was intentional or not. And even worse, I can’t help but enjoy his touch.
It’s so fucking stupid. The idea that I find a murderer attractive makes me want to recoil, but I can’t deny that when I look at him, there’s something that lights a fire between my legs. Maybe it’s the pensive look he wears, his eyebrows knit together deep in thought, or the way his lips remained pressed in a hard line and his jaw clenches. The clouds swirling in those deep brown eyes.
Whatever it is, the entire experience is unreal. I know, logically, that he could easily switch his whole motive and take me out here and now. I’m supposed to be afraid of him, to cower in the corner and pray that the police find me somehow. And yet ... I’m not.
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, my throat dry. Before answering, he uncaps a bottle of water and lets me take a drink from it. His answer doesn’t come for a long time, long enough that I grow uncomfortable.
“No.”
It’s short and sweet, and it should make me feel relieved, but it doesn’t. If he’s not going to kill me, then what? “Are ... are you going to rape me?”
There’s a flash of emotion in his eyes, like he can’t believe that I would even consider that possibility. “No,” he says, firmer. “I don’t hurt women.”
That calms me down a bit more—as calm as one can be tied to a bathroom sink. “Then what?” I insist. His dark eyes almost look black under the light of the bathroom. “If you’re not going to hurt me, then why am I here? Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I didn’t see anything. I just fell and hit my head, and some nice man brought me back to his motel so that I wasn’t lying in the rain.”
I try my hardest to make this easy for him. If he unties me, I’ll keep my mouth shut about everything and pretend like none of this happened. He said he doesn’t hurt women, and so far, he hasn’t.
“I’m not letting you go,” he says, biting into his sandwich. He slumps down against the back of the toilet and looks at the wall across from him, sighing. His chewing is methodical, slow and repetitive, and it’s irrationally frustrating to me.
“Why can’t I leave?”
“Where are you from?” he asks, changing the subject.
I debate whether I should tell him about my life. What if he’s lying about not hurting women? What if, when I tell him about my friends at Rudy’s and Nana, he makes them the next targets? I can’t do that to them. I can’t let him know that much.
So I lie. “I’m from here. My parents died a few years ago, so I’m on my own. I have a son. His name is Joey, and he’ll be six next month. Right now, he’s with his babysitter, who I’m sure is worried sick.”
The man’s hard gaze falls on me again, only this time, he’s not lost in thought. “Bullshit,” he says, shaking his head.
“I’m not bullshitting you,” I protest.
“I know a liar when I see one. I’ve met plenty of them. Worked for plenty of them. And you’re full of shit.”
I don’t know how he can tell, but being called out only makes me more irritated with him. So what if I’m lying? He’s the one kidnapping a woman and holding her hostage in a motel room. He has no room to judge me. Especially if he’s working with people that are liars.
“What are you, then? A paralegal?”
Surprisingly, the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. Was that almost a smile? He looks at me again. God, those eyes are gorgeous.
“No, not a paralegal.”
“Then what? You killed that man in the alley. Do you kill people for a living?”
The look the man gives me sends a shiver through my spine. He doesn’t have to utter a single word for me to know that I’ve hit the nail on the head. He’s a hired killer, someone that takes people out for others with a lot of money. My head spins.
This kind of thing only happens in books like the one I’m writing. I didn’t think it was real, this kind of dark, seedy world. But everything about his expression tells me that he’s not lying like I am. He’s a hit man, plain and simple.
“So that man in the alley ... Was he a target?”
He hesitates, then nods.
“How much?”
He looks at me carefully. “I don’t talk about that.”
I swallow hard. It must’ve been a lot of money then. I can’t imagine anyone putting hits out on people and not paying top dollar. “Okay,” I say, nodding slowly. “How did you get started?”
“I don’t talk about that, either.”
I feel myself growing annoyed at how tight-lipped he’s being, but it makes sense. I’m some random woman that witnessed him killing a man. He probably doesn’t want to tell me every detail about h
is life and his finances. “Can you at least tell me your name?”
This question isn’t immediately shot down. Like before, he takes a bite of his sandwich and chews thoroughly, his eyes on the wall ahead. “Roman.”
“Roman,” I repeat, leaning against the sink. “I’m Lucy.”
“Lucy.”
I know it shouldn’t affect me, but the way he says it makes me feel warm inside, like he’s stoked a fire that’s just beginning to ignite. None of this makes sense to me, rationally. He’s a killer, cold enough to shoot a man right between the eyes, yet he makes me feel hot. It shouldn’t be happening, yet I can’t deny that magnetic feeling between us.
“Are you going to make a scene if I untie you, Lucy?” he asks.
Hell fucking yes, I think. The first chance I get, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge and never looking back. “No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I promise I won’t.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to decide whether he wants to untie me or not. We both know that if I attack him, he’ll easily handle me. As it stands, I’m no threat to him physically. I could yell, but I look up at him, trying to mentally communicate that I won’t scream if he lets me go. I could’ve done that the moment he took the gag from my mouth. But I didn’t.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he says, flipping his blade out and reaching behind the sink to cut the ropes. When he’s finished, I pull my hands close to my chest, rubbing my wrists.
“Thank you,” I say softly, inspecting my hands. There are marks where the ropes once were, and I know there’ll probably be burns there in the morning. All that tugging and pulling I did is coming back to bite me in the ass.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say, and he nods. He collects the food and walks out, leaving me alone. When he’s gone, I close and lock the door, looking at myself in the mirror. I look like I’ve been dragged through hell twice. My skin is blotchy and my eyes are red from crying. It’s not a pretty sight, and I struggle not to physically turn away from my reflection. Instead, I take a moment to clean myself up. I wash my face with the soap on the counter. My skin isn’t going to like it, but it makes me feel less dirty, like I wasn’t lying unconscious, soaking wet in an alley just a few hours ago.
I use the restroom, and after I wash my hands, I start for the bathtub. The razor is no longer sitting there on the side of the tub like it was before. For a moment, I want to curse, but I have to give it to him. He’s smarter than I thought. I’d planned on using that razor to make my escape, but he’s one step ahead of me.
Trying not to look too disappointed, I leave the bathroom, stepping out into the main part of the motel room. Roman stands in the center of the room, his eyes glued to the television. The news is on, and the local anchorwoman is talking about some of the crimes that have happened in the past few days.
“You looking to see if I’m the only witness?” I ask. His silence is all the answer I need. It makes sense why he’d be hovering over the television like this. I assume that because this is his profession, he doesn’t usually make such a big mess. He doesn’t strike me as a sloppy man. He seems much more methodical; more controlled and constrained.
When the program ends, he clicks off the television and turns around to face me. Up close, he’s even taller than I thought. He has a good foot and half on me.
Without a word, Roman grabs the hem of his bloodstained T-shirt and pulls it over his head. I almost gasp. He’s absolutely shredded, thick with muscle that ripples along his arms and back. A vein wanders along his bicep and disappears into his chest, which is covered with a light sheen of dark hair. He looks like an athlete, a Greek statue. Stop it, I warn myself. He’s a killer, not an Abercrombie model. Quit fawning and focus on getting the hell out of here.
I start to avert my eyes when I notice a gash along his side. The words catch in my throat and I stare at him. It looks pretty bad.
“How deep is that?” I ask.
Roman glances at the wound and shrugs. “Half an inch, maybe. It’s not that bad.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I instinctively reach out a hand and brush my fingers over the skin just above the cut. His body is warm, tight, and lean, and I feel his muscles tense up. His eyes meet mine again. “I can fix that,” I whisper. “I take care of my grandmother.”
Roman doesn’t automatically pull away or scold me for touching him, which is a good sign. Any other man as dangerous as him might’ve done something to hurt me. I pull my hand back and start to say something, like apologizing for crossing the line, when his phone rings. He glances at the table, and almost reluctantly, he pulls away, grabbing the phone and heading out into the hall.
I watch him leave, chewing on my bottom lip. Now I have the chance. I hurry over to the table and pick up the knife he used to cut my ropes with. It’s a simple switchblade, and I flick it open, creeping towards the door. Through the peephole, I see his back to me and his phone to his ear. There aren’t many words that I’m able to pick up, but it sounds as if he’s repeating information back to whoever is on the other end of the phone.
Instantly, I start coming up with scenarios. This whole thing has been a lie, a way for him to get my defenses down and trust him; that way when he comes back in here to kill me, I won’t see it coming. No witnesses. That’s what he wants. I’m the only person that saw, and when he comes back in the room, he’ll make sure I’m the last. The secret will die with me.
I grip the handle of the knife even harder, my breathing growing shallower. I don’t care how big he is. I don’t care if he towers over me or if he could crush me with one hit. I’m not going to let him take me down without a fight. But my resolve crumbles the moment I hear him say one man’s name.
“Abram Konstantin.”
My jaw drops. For a moment, I’m sure I’ve misheard him. This can’t be happening. This is not real life. I’m gonna wake up any second, right? Safe in my bed with a crazy dream to tell Nana about.
But seconds tick by and nothing changes. This is as real as it gets. I’m the prisoner of a hit man, and I just heard him say the name of the man who killed my parents.
What does he know about Abram? Is this man a client? Or could he possibly be the next hit?
Roman is a trained killer, and I’m in the business of stopping Konstantin from hurting more people the same way he hurt my parents. At the same time, Roman could be working with the man. What if Konstantin is behind this and he wants Roman to take me out so that nobody else will stop him?
These thoughts hit me a mile a minute, so hard that I almost don’t see Roman end the call and slide the phone back into his pocket. I feel the room closing on me, demanding that I make a choice.
Do I stop Roman before he gets the chance to hurt me, or do I wait it out and see if he can help me? Kill him or question him?
I clench the knife tighter in my hand.
Then the doorknob twists and Roman walks back in.
Chapter Six
Roman
I try to make my call as short as I can. It’s a simple job, one that might take a bit longer than usual, but I don’t mind it. Mr. X is paying more than twice what he would normally for this hit. Whoever this Konstantin man is, he’s pissed X off pretty bad. It’s a warning to anyone else not to cross him, I’m sure. Not that I need a warning. I know well enough what happens when he gets upset.
But there’s another problem waiting for me to take care of before the Konstantin hit. A feisty blonde problem on the other side of the motel room door.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and twist the doorknob.
For a brief moment as the door swings open, something feels very, very wrong. There’s a sense of tension lingering in the air. I learned long ago to trust my gut, and it just isn’t right in here.
The door opens fully and I scan the room on high alert. But everything is where it should be. Lucy sits on the bed, bouncing her knees like she’s anxious about something. For a heartbeat, I stay by the door, watching her stare a
t the television. She’s switched it to something other than the news. From the censored beeps and high-pitched fighting, it must be some trashy reality show.
When she finally pulls her gaze towards me, she smiles faintly and asks, “Was that about your next job?”
It’s unsettling how easily she can read me. I don’t like it. What makes this job easy for me is that not many people get under my skin. Not many people can decipher what I’m feeling. But this girl? She’s better at it than I’d like. Part of me wants to dump her off on the side of the road. When she aims those big blue eyes in my direction, it’s like staring at a mind reader.
“Yes,” I say. There’s no point in lying. She doesn’t know who I’m talking about. No harm in admitting that much.
“Oh.”
The silence between us is too much, and I drop down on the bed, a few feet away from her. The motion causes my injured side to throb, but I clench my jaw and grimace through the pain. I’ll worry about that later. Stitches are gonna be a bitch, but I’ll manage.
Lucy’s offer comes back to me. But I’ve never liked the idea of letting someone close enough to do damage to me. My entire career, I’ve made it a point to look after myself. No hospitals. No nurses. Involving those people only made things more complicated. All those questions, trying to figure out why I ended up on the table with stab wounds and someone else’s blood on my shirt? No thanks, hard pass.
But for the first time, I almost considered it. Lucy said she took care of her grandmother, and that makes me wonder why. Is the old woman disabled? Is that what Lucy does for a living? I know that story about her having a son is bullshit, but I didn’t doubt her when she mentioned her grandmother. The conviction in her voice was pure.
To be honest, most everything about her seems pure. Sure, the girl has a fighting spirit, but anyone with an iota of courage would do the same in this situation. What makes her different is that she didn’t run. She had plenty of chances to call for help but didn’t. She could’ve screamed. Attacked me. Jumped from the balcony and taken off running. All these escape routes, yet here she is, watching trash TV in this rundown hotel with me.