5
1034 Words
Without a farewell, he turns and heads to the door.
“Malek.”
His hand on the door handle, he pauses to look back at me.
“Don’t harm any other women while you’re at it, either.”
He gazes at me in that silent, annoying way he has that makes me want to grab the nearest machete and start hacking away at his neck, if only to get a reaction.
“Just don’t kill any f*****g females that might be around when you’re taking care of your business, all right?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’ll be able to sleep better at night.”
Contempt in his tone, he says, “This is why men in our line of work should be alone, Kazimir. Women make you soft.”
Before I can shoot him, he walks out the door and is gone.
On the desktop, my cell rings. The screen tells me it’s Sergey, a trusted member of my crew. I answer the call and wait for him to speak. When he does, his voice is tense.
“We have a situation.”
“Which is?”
“There’s a fire.” He pauses meaningfully. “At the warehouse.”
The warehouse I’m keeping Diego captive in, he means. “How bad is it?”
“I don’t know. I just got the call from the alarm company. I’m on my way now. Fire department’s already been dispatched.”
“Get there first and get him out. I want him alive, understood?”
“Da.”
“Call me when you’ve got him.”
Sergey murmurs an acknowledgement and disconnects, leaving me to ponder the thousand ways this could go wrong.
And if perhaps Malek was onto something when he said women make men like us soft.
The old me would’ve put a bullet in Diego’s head weeks ago.
The old me also wouldn’t feel a twinge of regret if one of his enemies died in a fire. The old me, the person I was before I met Natalie, would find the thought of Diego screaming in agony as he burned alive highly amusing.
The new me?
Not so much.
I mutter, “f**k. Next thing you know, I’ll be running off to try to save Diego myself.”
I chuckle at that idea.
I pour myself more vodka.
Then I grab my keys and head to the warehouse, cursing this horrible new conscience I’ve grown since falling in love.
3
Riley
W
hen the cabin door opens, I blink against the bright light.
We’re at another airport, this one teeny-tiny compared to the one in San Francisco. There are a few outbuildings and a smattering of other private jets, but there’s only one main runway, and no commercial planes.
Wherever we are, it’s small and exclusive.
It’s also humid as hell. My hair’s up in a ponytail, but I can already feel it curling.
A sleek black Range Rover with tinted windows and shiny rims awaits on the runway. The driver steps out when he sees me at the top of the airstairs.
He’s wearing a black suit so tight around the crotch area, it’s almost pornographic.
Though, I suppose, if I were packing that much heat between my legs, I’d get my suits tailored to show it off, too. Wowzers, this guy is hung.
Smiling, trying to maintain eye contact and not ogle his goodies, I approach this well-endowed specimen of manhood and stick out my hand.
“Hi. I’m Riley.”
The stud shakes my hand with such serious intent, it’s as if we’re two world leaders on a critical UN diplomatic meeting to save humanity.
He’s got dark blond hair, gorgeous hazel eyes, a spiderweb tattoo on the side of his neck, and a jawline so glorious it could make angels weep.
He bears a striking resemblance to the Marvel comic book character, Thor, Norse god of thunder.
“Hullo, Riley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Okay, the world is totally an unfair place, because not only is Thor an ovulation-inducing stud, he’s got a hot-as-f**k Irish accent to boot.
I bet Sloane’s marrying the O’Donnell guy for the money, but banging this Thor dude on the side.
I hate to admit it, but it’s a good plan.
“Nice to meet you, too. What’s your name?”
“Spider.”
I make a face. “Spider? No. Your mother didn’t name you that. What’s your real name?”
There’s a beat of silence where it looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Homer.”
“Really? That’s cool! I’ve never met anyone named after an ancient Greek poet.”
He lowers his head and examines my expression with such intensity, I’m taken aback.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Your sister said exactly the same thing to me about my name when we met. Verbatim.”
“Oh. Huh. Weird.”
“Aye.”
Oh my god, people from Ireland actually say “aye.” That’s so hot. Stop looking at his crotch.
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer if you called me Spider, though. Most of the lads don’t know my real name.”
My ears prick at the mention of “lads.”
If there are more Spiders wherever we’re headed, I’m extending this vacation indefinitely.
“Sure. You can count on me not to spill the beans. I’m good at keeping secrets.”
I grin at him. He gives me an indecipherable look, then turns to take my bag from a worker carrying it over from the plane.
Spider throws the bag into the back of the SUV, opens the rear door for me, and waits for me to climb in. Then he slams the door shut behind me and slides behind the wheel.
We peel out with such force, I’m thrown back against the seat.
“Are we in a car chase I don’t know about?”
“No. Why?”
The SUV careens around a corner, tires squealing. Now I’m thrown sideways, nearly banging my head on the window.
- Writer
