4. Mac
4
Mac
I know she’s going to like me.
What a fucking debacle.
Actually, debacle doesn’t cover it. Clusterfuck is something closer to the truth.
If anyone else in the building had come, or if she’d come even an hour earlier or later, none of this would have happened. It’s like everything aligned to work out as terribly as possible. I don’t know what to make of that. But I am from the Southeast, and everyone knows a Baptist loves a sign.
I grind my jaw as I watch through the scope. Rossi’s men are running around the exterior of the warehouse, searching for threats, but I know Dimitri has slipped into the shadows by now. After it’s clear Rossi’s big, black SUV isn’t coming back, I turn to her.
“Why did you come back, Eleanor? You weren’t supposed to be here.” She presses her lips together and turns her head away from me, so I bark, “Answer me.”
“I forgot my medication,” she says in a soft, sad voice. It wavers, betraying her fear.
“What kind?” She winces and I try to soften my voice, even though it’s hard when my heart is still pounding from the adrenaline rush of being caught. “Are you sick?”
She closes her eyes and lets her head hang a little. “Nothing more life threatening than this.”
Something stirs and it’s almost like relief. That she isn’t sick? Yeah, I’m not letting myself go there… I refocus on the scene at the warehouse.
It takes a little while for the excitement to die down. A cleaning crew is sent in so quickly, I honestly have to marvel at Rossi’s team’s coordination. I can track their movement through the windows, catching flashes of their white plastic suits. In fact, they’re so efficient there’s no way they’re not professional cleaners—likely contracted by Rossi. Which is just as well, because they’re cleaning up the bodies that have my holes in their skulls, too.
It’s always nice not to have to deal with local law enforcement. I’m so far away, and resources in most cities are so limited, there’s no way they’d pinpoint where I shot from. But if they did find the bodies, and if their coroner is good, it will be obvious the bullet came from a long-distance rifle from the damage. Luckily for us, coroner is an elected position here and the mayor’s nephew needed a job after graduating last in his class at med school. No one even ran against the guy with the mayor’s last name and full endorsement.
But they’re long gone—bodies cleared, bleach poured, weapons hidden—before the cops do their drive-by. I’d heard a few shots go off while I’d been wrestling with Eleanor, so it’s no surprise someone called it in. It’s why Dimitri uses knives and I’ve got a suppressor on my rifle.
When it’s clear they’re not coming back tonight, I face my intriguing little problem.
I move and sit down on the coffee table across from her, boxing her in with the cage of my body, elbows resting on knees, letting my size intimidate her. It creaks underneath me, protesting my weight. She shrinks back, an instinctual physical reaction to my bulk and perceived threat, but she meets my eye and—holy hell—there is plenty of fire burning. My little temptress is spittin’ mad.
This oughtta be fun.
“How did you get in? I’ve had eyes on the street and I checked all entry points.”
She straightens and fixes me with a look, transparently deciding whether or not to lie. I know this reaction—she’s calculating the odds of someone else coming along so she can call for help. After a second, the intention drains from her face, either because others are unlikely to get in the same way she did, or she’s realized any potential rescuer would just be in danger, too.
She wiggles a little, moving her arms as if checking the integrity of the zip ties, and winces. “The back door sticks. It feels locked from the inside, but you just have to jiggle the handle up and down. ”
Option two, then. Interesting. It usually goes the other way. Most people, tied up and backed into a corner, will happily drag others into the same shit if it means they might get out of it.
I stand and walk into the kitchen and start opening drawers. I tap the bud in my left ear. “Yo, Wes, you free for a walkabout?”
The crisp, clear baritone rings back immediately. “All quiet on my end. What’s up?”
“I need you to barricade the back door of my 20.” I open and close another drawer, causing silverware to clang together noisily.
“Erm… you can’t?”
“I’ve got a…” I throw Eleanor a look over my shoulder and take a hard swallow, “situation. I can’t leave.”
“A situation?” he repeats slowly, as if hearing the word for the first time. “You want to expand on that a bit, mate?”
“Not really. It’s locked down for the moment; I’ll debrief when I get back.” I get to the last drawer and finally find what I need.
There’s a pause and I can practically hear the gears in his mind turning. He’s too smart for his own good, sometimes. “This have anything to do with you going MIA back there? Dimitri got shot. He’s pissed.”
I know from the way Wes said it that D’s not too badly hurt, so I huff a sigh. “He’s always pissed when he gets shot. Look, I’ll explain later,” I growl. “Just get the door.”
“Roger that.”
I tap the bud again, cutting the line, and reach into the drawer.
“Someone you know was shot? Is that who you shot?” her question cuts off quickly as she sees the knife in my hand. A little noise of terror escapes her lips and she starts trying to back away. “P-please, don’t—”
I make a pit stop at my bag and grab the lengths of rope I always carry. As I sit back down on the coffee table, I lay the coils across my knee for easy access. “Lean forward.”
She sucks in air on a wet sob. “Please,” she whispers.
My heart jerks in my chest and I want to be able to tell her that she doesn’t need to be afraid of me. But I know I can’t. I need her to be a little afraid of me because I can’t leave yet and I can’t have her trying to escape. “You’re uncomfortable. Lean forward, I’m going to cut off the zip ties.”
Her teary eyes narrow in suspicion. There’s the sound of a double buzz, a text notification most likely, that I know isn’t from my always-on-silent phone. But it came from somewhere behind me, so I know she doesn’t have it, which means it’s not really a priority.
“The rope is softer; it won’t bite into your skin as much.”
As if the confirmation that I’m not just letting her go is enough to convince her to trust me, she does as I ask. She twists her torso to bring her arms around so I can easily reach her hands. The skin at her wrists is all red and I kick myself for cinching the ties so tight. I place my hand around her throat as I reach around her with the knife.
She goes rigid against me, but takes the threat for what it is, and doesn’t try to fight. My hand cools against her soft skin, feeling the fluttering pulse and labored breathing. Giving in to my baser urges, I give her a small squeeze that has her sucking in a breath before I release.
Her cheeks are pink when she turns back to face me and I lift a brow. Very interesting. Is it possible she’s feeling me right now, in spite of all that healthy, logical fear response? Now that gives me some hope. Maybe my frightened little temptress is a bit of a freak.
“You want to take off your coat so you’re not too hot?”
“I, ah—yeah… okay.”
I keep a careful eye on her as she shucks the sleeves down and lays the coat next to her on the couch.
“Hands in front.”
I tie her hands, then wrap another around her arms and chest, then I just have to sit back and admire it for a second. Because the way that rope looks on her is too fucking good. As she tests out the tightness, it shifts over her skin and digs into that soft, creamy flesh… I wasn’t just being nice when I offered to let her take off her coat. I can see down the v of her tee-shirt now, and those breasts are just begging to be let out. I haven’t done much rope play before, but I’m suddenly more interested in picking up the technique than ever .
Her next question is something of a surprise. Normally a hostage blurts out ‘are you going to kill me’ like they’ll believe the answer. It’s usually a little while before it occurs to them to ask questions about their captor instead of about their situation. Not Eleanor.
“Your name isn’t really Mac, is it?”
I wonder if she wants to know so she can give a name to the police or if she’s curious about me. “Yes, and no.”
She huffs out a breath. “I’m not really sure why I thought you’d answer that,” she admits aloud, her tone rueful.
I grin. “What else you got?”
“You don’t wear glasses, do you?”
I chuckle. No reason to pretend now, I tossed those useless things into my bag as soon as I was alone. They just get in the way of the scope. You can’t get through advanced sniper training without 20-20 vision. “Nope.”
There’s another loud double buzz from the other side of the room, and my eyes flick over to the purse lying on the floor that she’d lost in our struggle.
“Did you…” she trails off, then her eyes lock onto something behind me. Her tone shifts, becoming almost accusatory, “Did you eat my salmon?”
I spin a little, seeing the last container still sitting out on the counter. I’d decided around lunchtime that I was in deep enough at this point that it didn’t matter if I ate the last serving. I grin again, and then, because she’s getting a little too comfortable, lift the knife and stab downwards into the coffee table in a swift, powerful motion.
“Sure did. And it was delicious.”
She gasps, eyes wide as she stares at the handle, now sticking out at a sharp, upright angle from the wood. “I can’t believe you just did that,” she mumbles after she recovers from the shock.
“This table is falling apart—”
“The knife, not the table!” she cries, forgetting herself again. “You probably ruined the tip!”
I really try not to smile, because I think it’s giving her the wrong impression, but I can’t help it. “I’m going to keep you,” I decide.
The indignant expression wipes from her face. “W-what? ”
The buzzing of her phone is more persistent now, as well as evenly spaced. A phone call. I let her question hang in the air as I walk over and pick up the bag, dig out the phone, and read the screen. “Harrison? Who’s that?”
Her face twists back up with fear and concern. “N-no one.”
“Passcode?” Defeatedly, she recites her PIN and I slide my finger across the screen to answer it. “Hello?”
“El—wait, whoa, who’s this? Why are you answering Ellie’s phone?”
I scowl at her as I mute the call. “You have five seconds to tell me who he is and why he’s calling you or I’ll just find out who he is myself and take care of him.”
“Is she okay?” drifts out the grating male voice from the speaker. “What’s going on?”
She winces. “Harrison is my neighbor. We’re staying together at the motel while—” she looks around, and decides not to bring it up, “I told him I was going to get us something to eat, but I came here first. He doesn’t know I’m here. Please don’t hurt him!”
I put a finger to my lips, to which she jerks a nod in understanding, and unmute the call. “Eleanor changed her mind about the motel, she’s going to stay with me until they’re done fumigating.”
“Who are you?” the guy asks, not quite suspicious. More curious.
“I’m her boyfriend.”
Eleanor makes a choked noise and the guy has the audacity to laugh. I let my silence hang in the air as a warning to both of them. She clams up instantly, looking away, and after a few seconds, the laughter in his voice drops. “Wait, seriously? She… ah, she never mentioned.”
“I’m hurt,” I intone, more to her. She scowls at the cushion next to her, not turning my way.
“Uh, sorry man,” the guy says awkwardly. “Well, tell her I said have fun, I guess. And since she was supposed to bring food back with her and instead just abandoned me here, tell her she owes me dinner.”
“I’m not going to do that, and she doesn’t,” I say, my voice lowering in anger.
I can practically hear the fucker’s heart start to race in fear. “Oh… o-okay. Uh, bye. ”
“Harrison says have fun,” I say after I end the call and pocket the device. “Some friend. He doesn’t seem too concerned that you’re not the one who picked up your phone.”
“In this case, that’s probably a good thing for him,” she mumbles, staring with resignation at the pocket where her phone disappeared. It looks like she’s staring at my package and my cock nearly twitches at the thought.
“Probably true. That happen a lot? Lots of guys picking up your phone for you?”
I know I sound jealous, but I can’t fucking help myself. I’ve been watching as her chest expands with each breath, pressing the rope into her upper arms and breasts and pressure is starting to pound in my head and in my dick. The thought that she’s got other guys is… aggravating. At least this Harrison character doesn’t seem like he’s one of them.
“Do I really have to answer that?” she asks.
I close my eyes and exhale loudly as I bring up a hand and try to rub the tension out of the back of my neck. I know I’m being crazy—too possessive, too much—so I need to back off. “No.” But then I see her eyes follow the movement of my arm, locking in on the triceps bulging through my shirt, and I change my mind. “Yes.”
Her eyes cut to the ceiling and she shakes her head a little, like she doesn’t want to say it. “You’re the first.”
Satisfaction swells in my veins, and because I know I should be more concerned about that reaction than I am, I decide to give her some space. I move back over to my setup, and crouch around the other side so I can keep both the viewfinder and her in my line of sight.
“Tell me something,” I say conversationally. I just want to keep talking to her. I know she’s going to like me. She already sort of does—I can tell—but the situation doesn’t really lend itself to romance. “Why aren’t you in any of those photos, darlin’?”
She turns her head in the direction of my gesture, fixing on the row of frames standing on the couch table. “Um, I don’t know. I guess I’m usually the one taking them,” she says, looking down.
I don’t like that, for some reason. It strikes me as a bit sad, that she’s always the one behind the camera. Even sadder if the reason is that she doesn’t like photos of herself, the way I know some people don’t. She’s a woman who should be photographed, and those photos should be framed and put on a shelf to look at often.
Movement catches in the corner of my eye. She shifts on the couch, moving closer to the arm. I keep half an eye on her—if she thinks she’s being sneaky in her attempt to break free, she’s adorably wrong—but it soon becomes obvious that escape isn’t her goal. She starts rubbing her knee against the arm of the couch.
“You got an itch?”
“No,” she replies too fast for it to be honest.
“Should I repeat the question?” I ask pointedly.
Her shoulders sag a little. “It’s… I have psoriasis. I had a flare up at work… that’s why I came back tonight, I was coming for the cream they prescribed me. I should have just picked up some cortisone.”
“That would have been much smarter,” I admonish, though I can’t bring myself to regret her bad decision.
“I know,” she says miserably. “It’s just that sometimes it itches so bad that it hurts and I can’t get any relief and I can’t sleep—”
I smile, amused that the overexplaining tic has returned. “Where is it?”
“What? You’re going to—you… uh,” she stops at my pointed look. “It’s in the cabinet in the bathroom. It’s the only thing in there.”
I find it easily enough, grabbing the twisted metal tube and then pausing on my way out to rectify the fact that I left the toilet seat up. I’m uncapping the cream when I stride back in, heading for the couch this time. “Where do you need it? Your knee?”
“I… you don’t have to do that.”
I sit next to her and she immediately slides away. I pat my thigh. “Legs.”
“What’s happening right now?”
She’s going to let me take this opportunity to get my hands on her, that’s what’s happening. “That wasn’t a request, Eleanor.” When she still doesn’t do as I instructed, I grab underneath her ankles and pull her legs as one restrained unit up into my lap .
“Please don’t,” she says as I start working the left foot hole underneath the zip tie I’d left there.
I’m satisfied when I don’t see the same rawness around her ankles that circled her wrists. Her legs are winter-bleached and stubbly, but the skin is just as silky and smooth as I remember it looking when she was wearing those tiny shorts.
Now that we’re closer, the air between us fills with her scent. She smells exactly like I knew she would. Her fragrance is a mix of a background of conflicting florals from her lotions and hair products, tangy sweat, various food smells, and something uniquely her own. It’s round, feminine, and mouthwatering. Just like her.
And then I realize I’m smelling her.
I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
I let my fingertips brush against her as I hike up the fabric of her sweatpants, going maybe a little too slowly for her comfort. But then she shivers a little, and presses her thighs together. I watch her work down a swallow and her eyes half-close as she zeroes in on my touch. Her lips part.
She’s getting fucking turned on.
And blood rushes to my cock. Jesus Christ. Knowing she wants me, too… I’m on the verge of making my own very bad decision. Well, another one, anyway.
“This is too weird,” she whispers.
I don’t think it was really for me, but I have to agree with her assessment. I’m a fucking sniper—calm and collected is in the job description—but she’s getting under my skin.
As I get the pant leg up over her knee, she squirms a little and the friction really doesn’t help my resolve. “Stop,” I grind out, gripping both her legs tighter. “You’re going to be a good girl and let me do this.”
Her eyes meet mine and the rawness I see there makes me want to dive right into her. I want to drown myself in those clear blue pools, lose myself in those pillowy lips, suffocate in the softness of her until I forget how hard I have to be.
“Why?” she rasps.
It’s not ‘why should I do what you say?’ but it’s a lot of other things. A ‘why me,’ a ‘why is this happening,’ definitely a ‘why are you doing this,’ and maybe even a ‘why do I feel this way.’
“Because,” I say, mentally finishing with you’re mine.
It’s an odd thought, not one I’ve ever really had before, and I’m not so far gone that I can objectively recognize it as one I shouldn’t say out loud. She doesn’t know me. I don’t know her, even though I feel like I do. But that’s only because I’ve been in her apartment for two days, going through her stuff.
That has to be it.
I can easily see the flare up she was talking about. The skin is angry, inflamed, patchy red with little white bumps. It’s probably killing her right now. She shrinks away when I get the pants up high enough. I reach out to run my fingertips over it, hoping the cool touch will soothe her.
“No, don’t—don’t touch it,” she says.
I jerk my hand back, like I’ve been burned. “Does it hurt?”
“No, I…” her face flushes. “People just usually think it’s gross. Never mind.”
To prove I’m not like those fucking people , I squirt out a fair amount of the thick white cream, wanting to leave enough that it provides the relief so she doesn’t need to scratch. When I start rubbing it in, she inhales sharply and makes a little noise of relief.
It’s a nice moment, even though she’s tied and not on my lap willingly, I briefly allow myself to forget that my position is home invader and not guest.
“Are you going to let me go? I won’t say anything,” she says softly.
I glance at her. She’s not lying, not really, but she will forget this promise. I’ll have to make sure she keeps it. “I know.”
She starts to tremble as my hand slides up the outside of her thigh. She’s got great legs. Powerful. Strong. I reach her hip and curse softly as it fills my hand. Her stomach tightens. I squeeze, and her body gives way to me immediately, bending under my grip. Just how I fucking like.
“Mac,” she whispers. Her blue eyes are round and her brows are slashed up in apprehension. I can see the conflict on her face. She may want it, but not like this. “You didn’t hurt me. You cut off the zip ties; you put on my medicine for me. You… you’re not going to hurt me.”
Hurting her is not what I had in mind. But I understand what she’s saying. It’s not the right time. I won’t make her admit that she wants me. Yet. She can have that small dignity for now .
“I’m not,” I agree, and place her feet back on the floor.
“Thank you.”
I just huff a laugh in response—imagine someone thanking you for not touching them against their will after you break into their house, tie them up and kill three people right in front of them. I check my watch and see that it’s well after midnight. “You should go to sleep. It’ll be better that way.”
“Can you… loosen the rope? I know you won’t take it off, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep with it digging in like this. I can’t really feel my hands.”
I look down and they’re not discolored in the least so I know she’s trying to play me. But I do remove the rope around her torso because I was always going to. I leave her hands and feet tied.
She leans against the arm of the couch and closes her eyes. She starts pretending to be asleep around 2 AM and really falls asleep an hour later. For a second, her trust makes me mad. She shouldn’t trust me. She shouldn’t let her guard down enough to fall asleep around me. I’m a killer.
I watch her for a while after her breathing evens out, her sooty lashes brushing against her cheeks lightly as her eyes move rapidly behind the closed lids. Her chest expands and contracts, her face smooths out and she looks so… peaceful. She looks delicate and innocent, like something to be protected.
And I intend to.
While she sleeps, I move stealthily through the apartment. I make a mental note to thank Wes for insisting we all carry a few basic pieces of tech with us on every mission, and leave a few listening devices in places no one would think to look. I want to leave a camera, but I’m not that kind of monster. Well… not so far, anyway.
At least I don’t have to wipe away the evidence of myself the way I normally would. Saves me some time on my way out. As my last move, I scrawl out a note on the back of one of the paper bills sitting in a pile on the kitchen table and place it next to the knife. I leave that stuck in the table so she can easily cut herself free when she wakes up.