Chapter 11 #2
“Love that you’re thinking about my club,” he says sarcastically.
“But we don’t advertise our legal names, don’t even use them.
There’s no way to link Flynn Ellington with the club.
” He pauses, then heaves a sigh. “I got a place in town I was in the middle of doing up. It’s the only thing listed in my real name.
That will be the connection between us and this area. ”
“You’ve got a house?”
His eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with that?”
I gesture to his room, remembering the facilities he has to share. “But you live here?”
“Bought the place as an investment. Got the idea from Short.” His tone is brusque. His hand slashes through the air. “Getting away from the point.”
He’s right. “But why can’t I just stay here? Surely, Malachi won’t be able to find me at the compound.”
“Don’t know what we’re dealing with,” he throws out.
“Malachi has links with the Bratva, and who knows what else. Could be he’s got a friendly LEO in his pocket, and they may turn up with a search warrant as they know you worked for us.
Actually, Prez might use that, get Paint or Stalk to say I was a punter who swept you off your feet.
” He shakes his head, as though acknowledging that this time, it’s him who’s gotten distracted.
Then continues, “No, sweetheart, you’ve got to be somewhere he can’t find you.
And when he’s unsuccessful, that will make him angry. Angry men make mistakes.”
A sobering, but not totally unwelcome thought hits me. In a hushed voice, I ask, “Are you going to kill Malachi?” I don’t know how I feel about that. Only that’s what he’s trying to do to me. Why should I care when it’s him or me? Left alive, he’ll always be a threat.
“Not sure as yet. The club’s still feeling that out, and we need to know a hell of a lot more.
One thing’s for fucking sure, one way or another, they’ll get him out of the picture.
” He grabs my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
“But we’re going to keep you safe. And for that, you’re going to owe us the five million you promised. That part’s non-negotiable.”
“But you’ll have to wait six years.”
“We’ll wait six years. And marriage to me is our insurance.”
“And if I meet someone else and want a divorce?”
The dark look that covers his face frightens me, and I take a step back. “Not going to fuckin’ happen until we get our money. And that, my dear fiancée, is the price of your life.”
I take a step back. What he’s proposing sounds like a prison sentence. A harsh six-year term for doing nothing but wanting to stay alive. Then, as the implications sink in, I actually laugh, albeit I sound like I’m being strangled.
“It’s a high price for you as well.” He raises a brow. “You won’t be able to get married to anyone else or start a family.”
His bark of mirth is genuine. “I’m never getting married—well, not for real.
As for kids? There are already too many crotch spawn in the world.
” Again, I flinch at his crudeness. “It may take a moment to get the logistics sorted, but I’ll be making discreet visits into town to get my needs seen to.
” His smile can only be described as evil.
“But in that, dear wife-to-be, I’m afraid is where what’s good for the goose isn’t going to be good for the gander — I can be the roaming husband, but you’re going to need to be faithful. ”
I want to slap him around the face, but just about manage to refrain.
“You talk about this as if it’s all settled.” I suck my lip into my mouth. “I think I’m going to turn down the Kings’ generosity.”
He smirks. “It’s cute you think you’ve got a choice.”
My eyes widen.
“We’ve decided to accept your terms, which, if you remember, you offered in good faith. And if you backtrack on our agreement, well, we’ll just put a word in your dear brother’s ears.” He shrugs. “Doubt it will be a friendly reunion.”
This time I can’t restrain myself. My hand, moving of its own volition, comes up and slaps him around the face.
“I fucking hate you!” I scream.
His head jerks to the left, but he recovers quickly and chuckles. Then his insincere smile fades as he grabs my hand to stop me from hitting him again, and he tightly states, “The feeling is completely mutual.”
There’s a knock at the door. Rattler opens it, takes something from whoever’s disturbed us, and returning, throws a bag on the floor.
“Prospect has picked up your belongings from the place you stayed with Satin.” He quirks a brow. “Hope you’ve got something suitable for a wedding in there.”
My jaw drops.
Before I can speak, he goes to the door. “Oh, and it’s bad luck for the groom to spend the night before his wedding with his bride, so goodnight, dear fiancée. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He pauses, then adds, “But I won’t starve you. Someone will bring you up dinner.”
And with that as his parting shot, he’s gone.
After a few moments, where my mouth opens and shuts like a landed fish, I rush forward, twist the handle and open the door through which he’d just left. Only to find a different prospect standing outside barring my exit.
“Let me out.”
“Not happening,” the stranger replies.
“Please…”
He shakes his head. “Not risking getting my fuckin’ patch over some broad.”
I give him my best glare. “Do you know what they’re proposing to do with me?”
“Not my business to know. I just do what I’m told. And that’s to make sure you’re going nowhere.” He pauses a moment, then adds, his head tilted to one side. “Unless you need a piss. Do you?”
Unladylike, I respond, “I’d like to piss on your head.”
He doesn’t react.
What else can I do but re-enter Rattler’s room and take the only pleasure I can by slamming the door? And scream. You better bet, I scream.