In a cold voice, she said “okay” and walked out the door.
I glared at the spot where she’d been sitting. No point in getting sentimental over some sneaky bitch who was just being nice to me so she could escape or catch me off guard.
A few minutes later when I went downstairs, she and Pip were back on the couch, the bag of cheese balls tucked between them. She was feeding one to Pip one with orange-dyed fingers, although her delighted smile fell at the sight of me.
I snatched the bag away.
“Sorry,” she said.
Handing it back to her, I waved my hand.
“Don’t sweat it, princess.” I sat beside her. “Just didn’t peg you for…”
Alice grinned.
“Someone who eats cheese balls?”
Grabbing one, I poked her nose with it and then tossed it into my mouth.
“Well, yeah. Someone who eats anything that has more than 5 calories, actually.”
To this, Alice grabbed a handful of the bright orange poofs and threw them into her mouth. As her chipmunk cheeks struggled to chew their giant load, she mumbled, “I’ll have you know that the Pizza Palace guys down the street from my apartment know me by name by now.”
We laughed, and after a prodigious amount of chewing and a big swallow, Alice reached into the bag. As she did, however, her wrist brushed the edge of the bag, and she jerked back, wincing.
I glanced at the still-red welts on her wrists.
“I don’t have any Tylenol, but I’ve got bourbon.” To her suspicious glance, I added, “For the pain.”
Her forehead crinkled with irritation. Then she flopped her whole body back into the couch, almost making herself disappear into the cushions.
“Oh, all right,” she said, casting me a weary look. “After the day I’ve just had, I could sure use a drink.”
I went over to the cupboard and got out two tall glasses and my newly replenished bottle, a store brand knockoff that I loved.
I plopped on the floor in front of the couch, and at the sight of the name on the bottle, Alice started giggling.
“Jake Daniels—seriously?”
“What? What’s wrong with a knockoff whiskey when it’s so well named?”
We grinned at each other, and I poured her a drink.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she said with a devilish grin. Then she drank half the glass in one gulp.
“Wow. Looks like you really needed that thing,” I said approvingly before taking a deep drink of my own.
Drinking the rest of hers in another long gulp, Alice nodded.
“You have no idea.”
“Yeah. I guess having my perfect wedding ruined would be a tad upsetting,” I said, and Alice’s face darkened.
“To be honest, being kidnapped isn’t turning out to be much worse than if the wedding had gone through.”
I stared at her, her lowered lids already shifting back to the bourbon and her lower lip stuck out in a pout. She was being serious.
“Why marry the guy then?”
Staring into the emptiness of her glass, she spoke to it. “It’s stupid.”
I poured her more bourbon.
“We’re not exactly short on time here.”
Another big gulp, then: “He was the first really good catch I went out with. I don’t know, I just kept hearing about how lucky I was, how happy I must have been to be with him, and I started believing it myself.”
As I poured myself another glass, I nodded.
“You’re right. That is stupid.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. God, they were so blue, they almost looked like they were contacts. A mesmerizing blue—that was what it was.
After gulping down the rest of the bourbon, she said, “Well, that’s not all. It’s about my inheritance. When I wanted to postpone the wedding, Papa threatened me, said he’d take it away.”
Now I laughed outright.
“So it’s about money. Typical. I should’ve known. With you people, it’s always about money.”
Alice rose.
“Fuck you,” she said, her eyes so blue now that they didn’t look real.
“You know it’s true.”
She shook her head so hard that a piece of hair fell out of her bun.
“Did you ask me what the money was for?”
I gaped at her, at her narrowed cyan-blue eyes, her trembling lips, her beet-red cheeks. It was strange seeing her like this. Rich people didn’t have feelings like the rest of us. Or at least that was what I’d always figured. They only got riled up if their money was being taken.
“Did you ask me what the money was for?” she repeated, her voice a quiet hiss.
Taking a swig of the bourbon straight from the bottle, I patted her face and asked, “What was the money for?”
She shoved my hand away, stood back, and proclaimed, “Setting up a non-profit.”
Now it was my turn to stand up.
“Bullshit.”
She was shaking her head, looking up at me as furiously as ever. She was a little fireball of blue eyes and bared teeth.
“It’s been my dream since I was a kid—helping people. I went to Africa, to Sierra Leone, to help with local projects. And that’s what I’m going to do with it: build my own foundation. Help people.”
As I scrutinized her face, her haughtily irate expression didn’t shift. Shit, the girl was actually telling the truth.
“Sorry,” I said, sitting down.
Alice didn’t move.
“Looks like us rich people aren’t the only ones who have a problem making unfounded assumptions.”
I took another swig of the bourbon and then extended it to her.
“Maybe.”
She grabbed it, took a big swig herself, and then settled back beside me. Our legs were touching from top to bottom, and if her rosy face and sudden anger were any indication, she was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, turning to her.
She was staring at me with strange eyes. They looked angry and defiant, and yet sad and understanding. As if, somehow, right then she was thinking the exact same thing I was: how tragic and useless it was to feel this connected to someone so different, someone I could never see after this.
As I stared into those deep, sea-blue eyes and tucked a mahogany strand of hair behind her ear, I started to wonder if I could really be starting to care about this girl.
When Alice handed me the bourbon bottle, her arm brushed against my chest. Our eyes locked, and then hers flicked to my lips.
Yes, we were definitely thinking the same thing, for better or for worse.
I got up and grumbled “bathroom” as I headed upstairs to escape.
Goddam, I had to be careful, or I was going to ruin everything.
Chapter Seven
Alice
When Jake came back from the bathroom, he looked distant and sat at the far end of the couch. I slid to the opposite end. Two could play this game.
“So, princess, what do you think—time for bed?” he asked me.
But it was funny. As he said it, he extended the bottle to me, as if he were asking me to stay instead.
I took the bottle, drank deeply, and then handed it back.
“Soon.”
So we sat there not saying anything, drinking and passing the bottle back and forth, inching closer on the couch each time. It was as if we were daring the other to talk first, to break the silence.
Finally, as I offered him the bottle, I spoke.
“So, you heard my story. What’s yours?”
“What d’you mean?”
His hand closed around the neck of the bottle, but mine didn’t budge.
“You know what I mean.”
He let go of the bottle and sat back. By now, our legs were touching once more. I could smell him, some deep musk that made me drowsy and yet attracted me.
“Got kicked out of the army for fighting and going AWOL a few times. Some buddy got me into bodyguarding and th
en doing odd jobs—beating up guys, transporting things.”
“That’s it?” I asked, and he nodded.
“What? Saw a tiny little pinprick of good in me?”
I turned away.
“No. I…well, yeah. Yeah, I guess I thought somehow you ended up here by accident, that you’d had a tough life.”
“Sorry, princess.” He patted my face. “Though I reckon you wouldn’t know a tough life if it hit you in the face, with your perfect life, perfect friends, perfect fiancé, and perfect family.”
I shrank away from his touch, my jaw clenching. Before I could help it, “my mother is dead” slipped out of my lips. Jake’s hand drooped, as did his ironic smirk.
“What?”
“She died, and it was my fault. I was five.”
Jake shook his head.
“No. No way. I mean, you were five. You were just a kid. How could it have been your fault?”
Tears were coming to my eyes, but I couldn’t help it. I spoke the words I’d never really admitted to anyone, the ones that had played over and over in my head.
“I distracted her while she was driving—made a mess all over the car with a milkshake. I was crying for her to clean me up since it was cold and sticky. She didn’t pay attention to the road for just one too many seconds.”
Jake’s face was stunned, a glaze of tears in his own eyes. I didn’t have to tell him the ending, but I did anyway.
“She drove into a semi-truck. I should have been the one who died.”
Now the tears were flowing freely. Released by the truth, they eagerly streamed down my cheeks to my chin before dropping onto the sweatshirt that wasn’t mine. It belonged to this uncaring, unfeeling man before me, this man who, right now, looked like he might not be so uncaring after all.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said.
I didn’t say anything because it didn’t matter. There was nothing to say to “my mother’s dead.”
“My mom’s dead, too,” he said, his voice a whisper.
Anger surged through me at his mocking assumption of my own pain, at the nerve of it. Yet when I glared into his eyes, I only found my own pain staring back at me. Jake was telling the truth.
“She died giving birth to me. She tried to have a home birth since we couldn’t afford the hospital bills. Dad hated me for it till the day he died. He beat me—hit me and yelled at me. I was thankful when I was ten and a heart attack took him.”
Those pine-green eyes were swimming with tears. Now I was the one saying I was sorry and he the one saying nothing because there was nothing to say. Our hands were clasped now, but he wasn’t done yet.
“The next few years were a merry-go-round of foster homes. Nobody wanted the angry kid who wouldn’t listen to anybody. Families didn’t want me, schools didn’t want me. Hell, I didn’t want me. Late at night under the covers with my little dinosaur flashlight, I’d switch the beam from one of my classmate’s photo to the next, wishing I were them, any of them—Brian or Corey or even Evelyn, anyone but me. Because anyone but me was loved, had a family, mattered. Not me.”
He was squeezing my hand so hard it was going white.
“Jake,” I whispered. When he didn’t respond, I touched his chest gently and repeated his name.
Coming to, he released my hand and took a deep breath.
“Shit. Sorry, Alice.”
I smiled. It was the first time he had addressed me by name.
“I’ve never told anyone that before,” he said quietly. “The big spiel.”
“Me neither,” I said.
He clasped my hand again, and I couldn’t bring myself to let go. To let down this poor, broken man. To stifle my own growing attraction. My gaze slid around the room, taking in the dismal empty box and the few furnishings that almost seemed like a joke.
“Guess you don’t often have guests here, huh?”
With a chuckle, he followed my gaze and, in a faux-interested tone, said, “What makes you say that?”
We laughed together, and then he pursed his lips and said, “Though in all seriousness, I do have guests. Although we don’t come here to talk.”
I nodded. So that explained his stash of female items. The admission wasn’t all that surprising. Jake was good looking and funny—and dangerous. I took the bourbon bottle and poured some into the two glasses. As he raised his, I did the same.
“Here’s to that,” I said as I clinked his glass—too hard, sending bourbon sloshing over the side and onto his shirt.
We froze, caught each other’s eye, and burst out laughing.
“I hate wet clothes,” Jake said nonchalantly as he pulled off his T-shirt.
Now I was face to face with the snake on his chest; it was black, thick, and poised to strike. But I was too drunk and was reminded of another snake farther down, and so when Jake lifted my chin so I was looking into his eyes, I kissed the lips that were waiting for me.
I kissed them and everything slid into everything else. What had been destined since the first second we’d laid eyes on each other. Our hands slid over each other and then under one another’s clothes, and soon we were unzipping and pulling off the in-the-way garments. His body was a collection of muscles, all tensed as his big hands slid up and down my sides and under my bra to squeeze my breasts.
“God, you’re hot,” he murmured, throwing his lips over mine and pushing his tongue inside my mouth.
I ran my hand along the band of his underwear. There was something else I wanted inside me. Needed.
As Jake fondled my breasts, my pussy throbbed for what my hands reached for. The hard thing that was all too happy to be let out of its cotton boxers. The huge shaft that was ready for me.
Now it was his hands’ turn to slide under my underwear, yank them down, and find what they had been looking for.
“So wet,” he groaned as he slipped his fingers inside me.
I grabbed his dick and started pumping.
“So hard,” I breathed into his ear.
We were moving together, his fingers and mine, his lips on my breast, my fingers up and down his back—everything was pulsing to the same rhythm, the same breathless beat, the same irresistible want that had to be sated.
Finally, as his fingers twirled inside me and my pussy let out desperate shivers of want up and down my body, the word burst out of me: “Now.”
And it was as if he’d said it, or his body anyway; his hard dick thrust into me, his own “now.” It was so hard and so good that I was sent sprawling backward on the couch as I moaned, sending the bourbon bottle clattering to the floor. Mid-thrust, Jake froze.
Staring at it, he muttered, “Shit.”
And something in me remembered a thought I’d had, an earlier me who hadn’t really known this man, who’d been less drunk and more clearheaded and less horny. It had been about being careful because this man was dangerous. And yet my pussy was trembling; too late had been ten minutes ago.
“Now,” I said again as my pussy clasped his dick eagerly.
But Jake shook his head, looking away as he said, “I’m sorry.”
He pulled himself out of me and, as I sat up, walked away.
At the foot of the steps, he still wouldn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry Alice, but this isn’t right. Not for my job, and definitely not for you. I’m sorry.”
And then he left me there, wet top to bottom, because now I was crying again, too.
Chapter Eight
Jake
I woke up to blinding light. The curtains. I had forgotten to close them last night, and now—at 6 a.m., 7 a.m., whatever—I was awake and wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep anytime soon.
I hopped out of bed and stared at myself in the dirty dresser mirror. Getting up early was good. It would give me time to think, assess, and decide. This job was turning out to be one hell of a mind-fuck.
Walking over to the top of the stairs, I looked down at her. At Alice, my little kidnapped princess. She was all curled up, her silky brow
n hair splayed every which way. The discontent on her face would have been adorable if I hadn’t known all too well what the cause of it probably was.
I needed to finish this job fast and stop myself from getting closer to her—no matter how inevitable it seemed. Not only my job, but even her life may have depended on it.
Even though I crept down the stairs as quietly and as slowly as I could, still they let out a creaking wail. Alice’s eyelashes fluttered, but her eyes didn’t open. Padding over the wooden floor was easier. My feet stuck a bit, but my progress was otherwise soundless.
I opened the fridge and sighed. Being away for two weeks had taken its toll on my food—the little that had been left, that was. My Granny Smith apple had turned into a twisted gray ball, while the blueberries resembled one white furry mass of disgustingness. The only thing that looked remotely edible was the eggs, whose expiry date was tomorrow, thank God.
So, taking out a pan and cracking the last six I had, I got to work.
I checked over my shoulder, but Alice was still fast asleep. She’d had a big day yesterday after all, in more ways than one. As I broke the yolks, stirred them into the egg whites, and watched it all cook, I thought about her: how her nose scrunched up when I said something funny or lewd; how her eyes were the deep blue color of the sky just before sunrise; how, after all of this, I was never going to be able to see her again.
The next time I checked over my shoulder, she was staring straight at me.
“Morning, princess,” I said. She rolled over to the other side of the couch so that her back was facing me.
“Want eggs?” I called.
A low murmur came as a reply.
“What’s that?”
She twisted her head around so she could deliver her “no” with a glare. Then turned back to face the couch.
“Suit yourself,” I said in the same easy tone, though I was pissed.
What was her problem? Couldn’t she see that I was doing my best, that last night I had spared her despite everything urging me to do the opposite?
When the eggs reached a pale yellow, clumpy consistency, I emptied the pan into a giant roasting dish. This I carried and set on my rickety-ass table, which tipped toward me under the weight of the dish. Sitting down, I shoved my fork in and started eating. The mild taste wasn’t much—clearly, I needed to invest in some ketchup or just some good old salt and pepper. But the food woke me up enough to remember to check my phone, which I did.
Sold to the Hottest Bidder Page 47