4
1042 Words
3
Sloane
I
t comes back to me as I’m sitting on the toilet: I jumped out of a moving vehicle.
No wonder my shoulder is killing me.
I try to piece together the memory, but the images are dark and shifting. There’s a vague recollection of running down a rainy street with Declan in pursuit, another of adopting a fighting stance in the middle of a circle of him and his thug buddies.
Then nothing.
My stomach is still unsettled, but it’s my throbbing skull that really worries me. I hit my head on the cement when Declan dragged me out of the car in the parking garage. I think I might have already lost consciousness before the drug knocked me out.
A head injury, even a small one, can be big trouble.
Bigger trouble even than being kidnapped and taken to see the leader of the Irish mafia.
I finish up, wash my hands, and head back to where Declan’s waiting at the front of the plane. He watches me approach, wearing an expression like he’s suffering from hemorrhoids.
I sit on the sofa I woke up on and fold my legs comfortably underneath me. “Question: why did I jump out of the car?”
Frowning, Declan looks at my folded legs. “You got one look at the handcuffs Kieran was going to put on you and took a flying leap.”
Yes, that would’ve done it. I’m the one who puts the handcuffs on men, not vice versa. “Was that before or after I broke his nose?”
His lashes lift, and now I’m being roasted by a pair of burning blue eyes. His voice is low and tight. “It must be that brain damage that’s making you forget rule number two.”
I think for a moment. “Which was number two?”
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m not so good with rules.”
“Or with following orders.”
“I’m not trying to aggravate you on purpose.” I pause. “Okay, maybe I am a little. But you did kidnap me.”
He glances at my legs again. His expression is one of distaste. Offended by his look, I say, “What?”
“Don’t sit like that.”
“Like what?”
He makes a dismissive motion with his hand to indicate my posture. “Like you’re on the ground in kindergarten class waiting for your teacher to start story time.”
“Floor.”
“Excuse me?”
“You mean floor, not ground. Ground is outside. Floor is in.”
His glare is withering, but I don’t wilt. I smile instead.
He says, “Whoever gave you the idea you’re charming was an idiot.”
“Oh, c’mon. Admit it. You’re already a big fan.”
His expression indicates he might throw up. Then he gets mad and snaps, “What kind of woman isn’t afraid of her kidnappers?”
“One who’s spent a lot of time around men in your line of work and knows how you operate.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the mafia is more anal than the military when it comes to hierarchy and commands. You already told me you weren’t going to hurt me. Which means when your boss ordered you to nab me and bring me to him for a chat, he also said to make sure I wasn’t harmed on the way. Which means you’ll go to extreme measures to make sure I don’t have anything negative to tell him about the way you treated me during my trip. May I please have a glass of water? My mouth is as dry as bone.”
We stare at each other for what feels like an hour. He seems to enjoy trying to intimidate me and failing.
Finally, he speaks. Working at the knot in his tie, he says darkly, “That mouth is going to get you into trouble one day, Tinker Bell.”
He whips off his tie and lunges at me.
A startled yelp is all I can manage before he’s on me, pushing me flat to my back and wedging his knee between my legs. We grapple for a moment as I try to get him off me—it’s impossible, this fucker is strong—until he manages to get both my arms over my head. Then there’s a flash of metal and a click, and I’m handcuffed.
And furious.
I shout, “You son of a—”
Declan wraps his tie over my mouth and around my jaw and knots it against the back of my head.
Now I’m gagged.
Breathing hard through my nose, I glare up at him in outrage. It’s of little satisfaction that he’s breathing hard, too.
“That’s better.” Now he’s smiling, the psychopath.
I try to yell Pig! but it comes out muffled. He gets the gist of it, anyway.
Clucking in mock dismay, he says, “Now, now, what kind of language is that for a charming young lady? Didn’t they teach you in finishing school that swearing is unbecoming?”
One more rhetorical question, and I’ll slice off your balls.
He’s sickeningly pleased with himself, the ass. Meanwhile, I’m so mad, I’m almost vibrating.
And he still hasn’t gotten off me.
His forearms are propped on either side of my head. Pelvis to chest, his body rests against mine. He’s warm and heavy, smells faintly of peppermint and something spicy, and I hope that’s a gun in his pants’ pocket, because holy…
Our eyes lock. His smile dies. A flicker of something other than disdain appears in his cold blue eyes.
In one swift motion, he rolls off me and stands.
His shoulders stiff and his back to me, he drags a hand through his thick dark hair and snaps, “I wasn’t ordered not to harm you, so don’t f*****g test me.”
His voice is so rough and raspy, it sounds like he’s been swallowing rocks. I’m not sure which one of us is more disoriented.
I sit up. He turns and scowls down at me like he’s Lord Voldemort and I’m Harry Potter.
- Writer
