The Actor's contract

Blindfolded

Date = 1 April

Jackson turns 24. So do I.

Place = San Francisco (back of a van)

Not exactly the place we were supposed to celebrate

POV - Enrique

The stench of rotten eggs, mixed with something drastically nastier — like a sewer that caught fire — claws at my nostrils and forces tears into my eyes. The air in the van is already thick, hot, and suffocating, but this new addition is like mustard gas dropped on top.

“Ug, someone is dying from the inside out,” I murmur, furiously trying to push my nose against my shoulder to block the smell, since I can’t use my hands — cable ties digging so deep into my wrists that I can feel the plastic cut.

“Oh, come on, people … seriously, who let it rip?” little Lee whines. He sounds like he’s ready to strangle someone despite being pint-sized himself. He’s the epitome of the adage ― the smallest bottles carry the most deadly poisons — a tiny guy with an enormously arrogant and reckless attitude.

And I don’t like him.

Not even a little.

The air is filled with grunts and groans, but not one confession.

“Guys, please … that was a shocker … but we’re in tight corners here … I really don’t want to suffocate before I’m killed,” Jackson protests, removing my top suspect from my list.

“Why do men always stink like a shrimp boat that got stuck in the cheese aisle of the supermarket!” Lee gasps dramatically. I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes under his hood. I can’t quite digest him yet — too weird, too much mouth. But he does have guts, I’ll give him that.

I f*****g love how he fearlessly stands up to everybody … especially Jackson … like a tiny pigheaded midget. Yet there’s something about him that bothers me. I can’t lay my finger on it, but it’s there.

Or maybe it’s just me. Jackson seems to like him.

“Any ideas as to who kidnapped us?” D-boy’s voice cuts through the funk, low and nervous. Somewhere to my left, the sound of someone shifting makes the van creak. I also try to find a more comfortable position where the cable ties don’t sever into my flesh as much.

We’ve been driving, what seems like hours, yet I’m sure it’s more like minutes. So much for getting completely wasted tonight to forget about a certain redhead that tortures my soul. Well, that was the plan at least. But I guess if I die, I won’t have to think, and my soul will rest at least.

“Do you think they’re gonna kill us,” Jesse sucks in a deep breath, “… or worse, torture us?” His voice is tight with fear, trembling, and after the Harry fiasco, I don’t blame him.

Personally, I’m wound up myself, not shitting bricks exactly, but my stomach’s a knot.

And I also think he might have his priorities a bit mixed up.

“Oh, they could just start the torture by putting the Blackburn brothers in a room with a spider,” Noah snickers, obviously failing to contain his amusement. Guess the gossip spread.

He is, however, unaware of how startlingly close to the truth he actually is. But the spider’s not the main issue. Technically, none of us is afraid of spiders. Oh, we all have deep-rooted fears, but arachnophobia is not part of it.

Big Red jumps in with a sarcastic baby voice, “The wee tarantula — scary, wis he?” His Scottish drawl is a blunt hammer in the cramped van. I don’t even know why he’s here. No one invited him.

“Real funny! You guys are cracking me up. It’s like comedy night in the back of a van,” I snap, though the memory of that incident still makes me twitch. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t our finest moment, but this is unasked for. Again, it’s not the spider we’re afraid of, but the memories associated with it.

“Well, I’m not shy to say that I’m fockin terrified of spiders,” Lee says out of the blue. “So leave them alone.” Why is he covering for us?

“Ach, the poor beastie’s a right wee coward,” Big Red throws at the little guy.

“I can insult you, but I’ll just need to explain it to you afterward, so what’s the use?” Lee responds swiftly, leaving the big man hanging, perplexed in the air. That witty comment just shows how wrong Red is … Lee might be small, but he’s no wuss.

I smirk despite myself. Okay, point to the little guy.

“Shut the f**k up! You guys don’t know s**t!” Ilkay’s bark slams through the air like a gunshot, silencing the van in an instant. The sticky stillness stretches, the hum of the tires the only sound.

We all know each other well enough to understand that tone. Some broken shard has been uprooted. And we don’t dig into each other’s pieces. Or try to fix them. We just keep them together.

Jackson, unbothered, breaks it with a lazy, “Okay, let’s not talk about bugs in our probable last moments.” He sounds as calm as if he’s ordering coffee.

“I can’t die now … I need to reproduce first … otherwise the mighty Wilder legacy ends with me,” Axel dramatically changes the subject, an apparent attempt to lighten the mood. He’s always been the peacemaker type. Until he’s not.

“Dude, your sister already has kids,” Damion scoffs. “She literally popped one out a few days ago.” The third girl for the happy family.

“They’re Martins. And girls don’t keep the family name alive,” Axel argues. “That’s on us boys.” Fair. And to do that, we need to make more boys.

“Well, at least Logan’s not here — the Blackburn genes will survive,” I throw in, keeping the rhythm going.

“Oh yeah, flawless genes heading straight to the dumpster,” Jackson fires back instantly, not missing a beat.

“And that’s assuming that loser can even get a girl pregnant properly … through the right hole,” he snorts, and the van shakes with laughter, the whole spider fiasco now a distant memory — though the elevator incident still lives on.

“Hey, leave my friend out of it,” Damion cuts in, defending the bastard as usual. “You’re the ones who shoved him into the elevator with some crazy c**k-sucking loony.”

“True,” Ilkay chuckles, “But for a bit, The Lancet was interested in running an article — first woman to get knocked up through the throat.” And the laughter starts all over again. We all know the girl was lying through her over-whitened teeth, but it’s too good a story not to milk.

I grin, remembering the glorious mess. Washington, D.C., a few drinks too many, and —because we’re terrible people and it was his week — a prank with Viagra, an elevator, and a bunny gold digger.

Should’ve ended in a messy blowjob story. Instead, she’s still online parading her phantom bump — posting fake belly pics online like she’s a breeding cow on auction — and tagging Logan as the daddy.

And that’s why he’s in Washington right now with Dean, trying to sort this out.

“Oh, I adore my stupid little brother,” Jackson lovingly admits. I can hear the scrape of fabric on metal.

Yeah, we all do. Though we often make fun of him, he might actually be the best brother out there — youngest, biggest, somehow more mature than Jackson and me, less uptight than Ilkay, and far more emotionally available than any of us.

Which is probably why we give him so much grief. None of us fully understands emotions and sentiments. I’ve buried mine for years. Not sure Jackson ever had any to begin with.

Our dating styles say it all — Ilkay and Logan date — short-term, sure, but they try. I sleep … slept around, but didn’t mind revisiting the same bed if it was convenient. Jackson … well … Jackson has his own … system — he just doesn’t give a f**k, and never screws the same girl twice.

“Perhaps we don’t need to rely on Logan … if Mel has a boy, he’ll still be a Blackburn since she’s not married yet …” Ilkay chuckles suddenly, low and humorless — clearly just stirring the pot. When his adrenaline gets pumping, he drops his most serious layer and loosens up.

“Boy or girl, that baby is a Grimm,“ laments Damion, “at least I contributed to mankind by creating a flawless prototype to uphold my pristine genes.”

“For now, he’s a Blackburn, dude!” Jackson shuts him up.

“Hey!” Damion shouts. “Mel will do the right thing and give him my surname.”

“Mel? You will be lucky if she doesn’t murder you if you survive this,” Ilkay recalls.

“f**k! I hope the girls don’t worry too much when they don’t find us at the club … I mean … Mel being in the condition she is …” Damion’s voice carries that careful edge, the kind you use when you’re trying to hide real worry. Good. Let him stew in it.

“You mean the condition you PUT her in …” Jackson shoots back instantly, and I can’t help but smirk. Even tied up in this mess, my brother won’t miss an opportunity to needle our future brother-in-law. Him breaking the rules and knocking up our sister is still a touchy subject. It doesn’t just vanish overnight.

The van sways again, tires buzzing over gravel now. The air inside smells like sweat, old rubber mats, and gasoline. Every bump rattles the steel cage we’re in, metal chains somewhere clinking faintly with the rhythm of our drive.

“Hey, guys, do you think Garcia is the one behind all this? I swear I’ve seen one of the guards before,” Axel says flatly from the corner.

Personally, I didn’t have time to get a good look at our kidnappers. They just showed up out of nowhere, with guns and deadly attitudes. Started tying us up. Didn’t elaborate much, shot my bouncers, pulled some hoods over our heads, and jammed us into this … what must be a van.

“Yer Garcia lad … would he actually kill us?” Big Red asks. He’s a giant loose mouth, boarding temporarily with Logan. Although his tongue is a bit too sharp, getting him into trouble with the girls, he’s not the worst person out there.

“I’m sure he’s done it lots of times before.” Jesse’s voice is edged with tension and tight with fear, leaving me to ponder his words. Garcia is not that kind of a gang leader, is he?

I never contemplated it … but … considering his position … he might have killed before. Or, at least, ordered a hit. Still, I don’t believe he would harm us in any way. Neither would he shoot my bouncers. They’re guys from his streets. Guys he sent to work for me.

So, if it’s not him … who then? The Browns are dead.

“Maybe it’s the mafia?” Jesse says, his voice dead serious now, like he’s auditioning for some crime drama instead of sweating through a black hood over his head.

“What f*****g mafia?” my twin chimes in, his voice bouncing sharp against the hollow van walls. “Where do you get that from?”

“Movies,” Jesse invests, calm as a monk, like that’s a legitimate source.

“Oh, please,” Lee mumbles, sounding genuinely annoyed. “No wonder the male species is in danger. Even the gay ones have their brain cells chasing their dicks.”

If my hands were free, I’d be scratching my head in confusion. Instead, I roll my eyes.

“Movies?” Jackson repeats, incredulous, the humor in his voice tugging like he’s about to roast Jesse into the floor. “That’s your source of intel?”

I can hear Jackson chuckle. Low, smug, too knowing. It scrapes my nerves raw.

The van jolts over a pothole, the suspension screaming like it wants out too. My head smacks metal, hard enough to leave a bump.

“Fantastic,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “Kidnapped and concussed. Just what my resume was missing.”

“Stop moaning,” Lee growls. He’s sitting somewhere to my left — I can feel the heat of him, restless, breathing like he’s trying to bite through the blindfold.

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you like me to suffer in silence?” I snap back.

“Preferably,” Jackson answers instead, still half-pretending not to be invested but clearly following every jab.

It stinks of rust and gasoline, hot from the humidity pressing in like a wet cloth.

“His moaning is better than your sulking,” Lee snaps at my twin. “You’re like a discount Dracula when you brood.”

Jackson jabs, unimpressed. “Let’s hope Dracula gets laid for his birthday.” My wish too. But it makes Lee gasp.

The van takes a hard left, and all of us topple like dominoes. Elbows and knees collide, curses fill the dark, and someone’s shoe jams against my ribs.

“Who the hell’s foot is that?” I snap into the air. My body aches from being stuck here, my patience wearing paper-thin.

“Mine,” Damion grunts. “Don’t get excited.”

“Trust me, no danger there.”

Jackson chuckles suddenly, low and humorless, calm like he’s on his way to a summer vacation destination. It sends a shiver down the metal walls.

“f**k this,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve had more than my share of stress lately, and my tolerance for this kind of crap is gone. I’m done being hog-tied like a f*****g turkey in here.

Being Aria’s fake boyfriend is frying my brain. I can’t seem to get her out of my head —wanting her, needing her, fighting the constant urge to touch her. Not to mention the very inconvenient hard-on I have to deal with on a more-than-regular basis.

With my hand.

I’m losing my mind over her, feeling things I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before.

And here I am, tied up, suffocating in sweat and fart fumes.

“I still think it’s the mafia,” Jesse pipes up, stubbornly. “Like … it makes sense. You cross the wrong family, they come looking for

blood —”

“And with you, you probably mean Jackson,” I admit warmly.

“Hey, why always me?” Jackson protests, laughter lurking in his throat.

“Uh, maybe because you’ve got a goddamn talent for pissing people off,” I shoot back. “So, odds are, it’s either you … or your hotheaded roommate.”

“Oh, suck it,” Lee scuffs.

“And what family?” Damion scoffs, dry and sharp. “We’re not in Sicily, genius.”

The floor vibrates under us, the hum of the tires mixing with the faint thump of bass — someone’s playing music in the cab, just loud enough to taunt us.

“Could be Russian,” Jesse pipes up again. “Or British. Old blood. Or — what’s scarier than Russian? … Albanian. Albanians are terrifying.”

“So are tortoise n*****s,” Lee hisses, “Why would Albanians want us?”

“Because,” Jesse says, lowering his voice as if this is sacred knowledge, “they run half the underworld.”

“That’s not true,” Axel mutters, sounding exhausted.

“Oh, it’s definitely true,” Jesse insists. “I saw a documentary.”

“Yeah?” Lee snaps. “Was it sandwiched between your mafia movie and an episode of Narcos?”

Another chuckle rolls out of Jackson. This one’s sharper. More deliberate. Either he finds his little roommate funny — which he’s not. Okay, maybe a little.

Or he’s figured all this out, and he’s savoring it. He’s way too placid.

That sets me on edge.

“Seriously, though,” Jesse barrels on, undeterred, “… there’s always a mafia. Russians, Irish, Yakuza — pick a flavor. You piss off the wrong one, you end up in a trunk. With them … everything is business. I’ve seen it.”

“On what, Netflix?” That earns a roar of laughter from Noah.

Then Jesse, because Jesse is gay … or stubborn — “Still betting mafia.”

Lee groans so hard it sounds like a death rattle. “You’re why aliens won’t visit us.”

“Jesse has a point,” Damion’s voice dips low, caught somewhere between worry and fear. “Maybe not the mafia … but someone could want us for a financial or business reason. Think about it — there are some serious bargaining chips stuffed in this van. Money-bags, military weapon suppliers, celebrities, club owners … a Navy SEAL.”

The words crawl under my skin like ants. I have never thought of that — not like that. Not that we can be valuable merchandise, stacked up like prize cattle waiting for an auctioneer.

At least I’m not getting stuck with a useless brother-in-law. The man has brains.

The air inside the van feels thicker with every breath, sour with sweat and the faint stench of gasoline. My shirt clings damply to my back, and a bead of sweat slides down my temple, sneaking into the stiff collar of my shirt until it burns against my skin. My pulse hammers too fast, too hard, so loud it drowns the faint rumble of the van’s tires.

“So,” Jesse says finally, breaking the silence with way too much cheer, “maybe it’s not the mafia.”

“Maybe it’s your big mouth,” Lee snaps.

“Maybe it’s the Illuminati,” I mutter.

“Maybe it’s your birthday,” Ilkay offers from the corner — classic brooding-genius mode activated. “If they haven’t shot the bouncers … I would have believed this to be an April Fool’s birthday joke. It’s something Mel would do.”

If they haven’t shot the bouncers. I would think that too. But no one would kill people for a prank.

The silence that follows is heavier than the ties around our wrists. The kind of silence that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry.

“Oh, relax,” Jackson says smoothly. “If we die, we die. It’s gonna happen sooner or later.”

Personally, I will prefer later.

My stomach knots. Someone swears under their breath.

“You —” The van jerks to a violent stop, cutting me off and throwing me sideways. I slam into the person next to me, my head cracking against something sharp.

“Ouch! Get off me, you lump!” Lee snaps. Of course, I land on him. Probably crushed that tiny frame.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, bro, I just lost my balance,” I try to explain to the irascible little guy.

“If you hurt my roomie, I’ll hurt you,” Jackson warns in that easy tone that means he’s dead serious. He’s been weirdly protective of his pint-sized roommate — almost more than he is with Mel. It’s over-the-top and borderline infuriating.

I’m about to fire something back, but the sliding door shrieks open. Cold, salty air slams in, burning my nose with fish and sea. Boots scrape. Rough hands yank me forward.

“f**k off,” I snarl, voice edged with murder.

“Just get them on the boat!” a rough voice orders.

“Boat … great, they’re gonna dump us in the ocean!” Jesse grumbles next to me.

The hood tears off my head. Sunlight blinds me. I squint until the world sharpens and shapes start making sense.

Water slaps wood. Gulls scream overhead.

We’re on a dock in front of a yacht. Massive. Sleek, silver-white, and expensive enough to buy a small country.

Two guards stand off to the side, talking in low voices. I catch pieces of it.

“… it’s almost done,” one says.

“Yeah. Then they won’t be our problem anymore.”

Not exactly the sort of thing that makes a guy feel safe.

I glance at Damion — his jaw’s locked, muscles tight. He’s ready to explode. Alejandro is tense but calm. Axel is on guard. Ilkay looks worried.

But Jackson …

Jackson looks almost relaxed. Arms loose, expression unreadable, like he’s watching a bad movie he’s already seen.

“You good?” I whisper.

He just gives the smallest smirk. “Yeah. Don’t sweat it.”

That’s it. No explanation. Which, knowing Jackson, means one of two things — either he’s already got a plan, or we’re in deeper s**t than I thought.

“Walk!” a guard barks, shoving us toward the boarding ramp.

“Stop pushing me, Shitface!” Jesse sneers.

“Walk!”

At the top stands a man in a suit, with folded arms, wearing the fake-polished smile of a lying politician. Beside him, steel drums filled with concrete glint in the sunlight, thick chains fixed inside each.

My gut knots. I don’t need a diagram to figure out what those are for.

“Told you we’re going to go down the deep blue,” Jesse mumbles as he glares at the drums. Poor guy … he’s not one of the bravest souls out there. But this time, he might be right. This is not looking good.

But when I glance back, Jackson’s still wearing that faint smirk — like he’s counting down to something only he knows about. Walking like he’s on a stroll in a supermarket, searching for aisle 8.

“Take them to the deck,” the suited man orders, and we get pushed along the luxury vessel.