3. Jaxcen
Chapter three
Jaxcen
M y heart thrashes wildly as I hurry forward, the glass door leading to the foyer in sight. I have to get out of here. I have to get home, lock my door, and hide.
“Hold up.” A deep voice rumbles right before a wall of man steps into my path.
“Excuse me.” I dart to the side, trying to round him, but he steps in my path again.
Huffing, my gaze travels up to lock onto the dark menacing eyes of a man so tall and wide that I feel dwarfed.
“Sorry, Miss. I can’t let you leave.”
“Please,” I rush out. “I need to get home.”
He answers with a simple and annoying shake of his head.
Dammit.
If I don’t get away, they are going to kill me.
Weighing up my options, I know that staying here isn’t one I’m willing to give in to, so I do what any smart minded woman would do.
I stomp on the man’s foot with the heel of my Tony’s.
The deep timber of the man’s voice has disappeared as a broken squeak flies from his lips, and I don’t waste another second, darting to the side and shoving through the doors.
Heavy feet pound the stone floor behind me, moving faster than these damn heels and pencil skirt will allow, but the mediaeval looking doors are in sight, so I charge forward, my arms outstretched ready to shove them open.
A moment before my hand touches the door, a strong arm snakes around me from behind and a scream lurches from my lungs as I’m lifted and I start kicking my legs wildly, trying anything to get free.
“No! Let me go!”
“Calm down, love.”
It’s him.
I only heard his deep rasp for the first time just minutes ago in the confessional, yet it has a profound effect on me.
An unhealthy effect.
You’re engaged, Jaxcen! Get your head out of the gutter.
“Please let me go,” I whimper as I continue to struggle, quickly realising my attempts to break his hold are futile.
I can’t overpower him. His strength far outmatches mine.
“Come and sit down, little mouse.”
What did he call me?
Still trapped in his arms, my back to his chest, he spins us and carries me back through the foyer doors, humiliation flaming my cheeks as all eyes turn to us. Well, more like they turn to me as I get carried like a useless doll.
“I won’t tell anyone what I saw,” I plead, my fingers trying to grip his arm to pry him loose. “Please. I just want to go home.”
He ignores me, carrying me easily to a nearby pew before lowering me to my feet and releasing his hold. I immediately spin to face him, our gazes locking. Mine pleading. His deadly.
Dark eyes. Damp hair. Wet shirt.
“Sit.”
“But—”
“SIT!”
His cold demand sends my arse to plonk on the pew and a pleased smirk tugs at his lips. Bending, he leans down, putting his face level with mine and stares into my eyes.
Can he see what I hide?
Can he see who I really am?
I gulp.
“Thanks for taking care of this for me.” He winks, slipping his phone from my grip.
Dammit. I forgot I was holding it. I could have used it to call for help.
“Bag,” he demands.
“What?”
“Give me your bag, love.”
Naturally, I squeeze my bag to my chest, unwilling to hand it over. “What do you want with my bag? I don’t have much money.”
He chuckles, although the grin that pulls at his lips doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I don’t like repeating myself, little mouse. Bag. Now.”
I don’t know why, but everything in me is screaming not to hand it over to him, so I squeeze it tighter to my chest.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, right before he grabs the strap off my shoulder and tugs. I hold firm, which makes him grunt, and before I know what’s happening, the arsehole tickles my ribs, and a second later, my bag is no longer in my possession.
“Give it back,” I demand, but all he does is shake his head, smirking as he takes a step back out into the aisle before rummaging through it.
Once again my cheeks are on fire from humiliation.
Why did I think this man was attractive? He’s insufferable.
Pulling out my wallet, his eyes light with amusement as he glances at me while shoving my bag under his arm to hold it before he opens my wallet and pulls out my driver’s licence.
Shit.
“Jaxcen Isabelle Summers. Date of birth…” he trails off, his brows shooting up before those dark eyes are on me again. “Twenty four years old. You look younger.”
“And yet you still kissed me.” I point out because I know I look young. Some might say too young, especially with so little makeup on. Like tonight.
My mum used to tell me it’s a blessing and that I’ll appreciate it when I’m older, but so far it’s been a pain in my arse.
“Given you are roaming the streets so late on a Tuesday night in heels and corporate attire, I assumed you were at least of age.” He shrugs, like the possibility of me only being eighteen is alright despite his age, clearly so much older than me, and how he pressed his thigh between my legs and…
Dammit. My cheeks heat and he notices, his lips twitching, and I just know he knows I’m remembering the few heated minutes we shared inside the confessional.
Turning his sights back onto my ID, he studies it some more. “Your apartment is only a couple of blocks from here.”
“Yes.” I straighten hopefully. “I’ll go straight home. I promise. I won’t go to the police.”
All he does is smirk. No reply. No come back. No disagreement.
I want to smack that smirk right off his face.
Tugging my bag from under his arm, he slips my wallet back inside before bringing out my phone and sliding it into his back pocket, ignoring my gasp of protest.
“Please don’t take my phone. I need that.”
“I’m sure you do, to call someone for help. To be honest, I’m surprised you haven’t already.” He grins and I shrug.
“Maybe I have.”
He chuckles. “Nice try, Miss Summers.” Then, with that infuriating shit-eating grin he wears so well, he hands me my bag, his gaze refocusing on my ID still in his hand.
“What about that?”
Again, he doesn’t say anything, but spins on his heel and walks off with my phone in his pocket and my ID in his grip before speaking to one of his men.
What is he doing?
Dread unfurls in my gut as my mind races to come to a conclusion.
There’s no way I’m getting out of this unscathed. I witnessed him kill two men with ease. Not an ounce of remorse was on his expression as he took their lives as if he’s done it a thousand times.
I bet he has.
I should have left the moment I recognised the aura of danger around him. Hell, I should never have gone back to that club. If I had just gone straight home after work and ignored the gnawing fire inside me then I wouldn’t have needed to come here and ask the Lord for forgiveness for my perverted sins.
The man that begged for his life before it was brutally taken called him Devon Marx. That detail and the part about some guy ordering those two men to come and kill him is all I heard before my heart beat so wildly that I fell deaf to anything but the rush of blood in my ears.
I’d come to church seeking absolution, but instead I found the devil.
Speaking quietly with one of the men that came rushing in after he killed the shooter, they both eye me as they converse, not trying to hide the fact their discussion is about me.
Devon hands the man my licence, before turning his gaze back to me, and I suddenly can’t swallow the lump that’s lodged in my throat.
He’s going to kill me.
A chill travels up my spine as he continues to stare, and hot tears prick the back of my eyes as I fight the need to cry.
Don’t let him see, Jaxcen. Never let them see.
If I’m going to die, then I’ll do it with dignity.
I jump with fright as the doors behind me fly open, and more men fill the space, moving to Devon like he’s their captain. It only takes a second to recognise that he is definitely the ring leader here as the men listen and take orders from him.
That’s when they start removing the dead bodies.
I squeeze my eyes shut as the lifeless eyes of one man come into view while two men lift him onto a tarp. There’s a bloody hole in the centre of his forehead that I just know I’ll never be able to unsee, along with the sound his body made earlier when it thudded to the stone floor, the life ripped from him.
My stomach churns.
Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.
My sister comes to mind. Her hair and looks similar to mine, looking closer in age to me than we actually are. She’s older, and much wiser, and has always had all her ducks in a row.
My ducks are an unsymmetrical zigzag of chaos that makes it hard to decipher, which is a never ending war inside my head.
Never quiet. Never at peace. Always disruptive.
“Are you alright Miss Summers?” My lids flash open at Father Peters’ voice, and I watch as he comes to sit by my side.
“No, Father,” I whisper, not trusting my voice to give away how close to tears I am. “That man is going to kill me.”
His smile is warm, as he shakes his head, his hand coming to rest over mine, which is trembling so obviously that I’m surprised I didn’t notice until now. “No, he won’t.”
“How do you know?” I lean in conspiratorially and he meets me halfway.
“Mr Marx may be the devil, but despite his reputation, he has morals.”
My brows hitch. “Could have fooled me.”
“There is no need to fear him, Miss Summers. All will be well.” He offers, and now I know he’s lying.
I want to point out that lying is a sin, but I suspect Father already knows.
“Do you want to continue the discussion we were having in the confessional while we wait?”
Do I want to discuss how I went back to the sex club tonight? How I was so close to giving in and participating?
“No,” I rush out, remembering how I confessed what I’d done, and the shame that washed through me knowing how disappointed Father Peters would be given I promised him just last week that I wouldn’t return to Cloud 9 .
It’s too late for him to save me now, though. Especially after what happened in the booth with that man.
The devil.
My eyes, the traitors that they are, automatically seek out the man that holds my life in his hands. A man fit to be the devil just as Father Peters suggested.
It’s like he knows when I’m looking at him, those dark pools darting to mine and flaring with something sinister.
I’m going to die.
It’s in this moment that more people arrive, bursting through the doors like they own the place, and perhaps they do with the way they wear their expensive suits. Even the female accompanying them oozes power.
Why do I feel like I’m on the movie set for the Godfather?
A couple of them eye me, one of the younger men peruses me playfully as they all walk past, clearly checking me out before the deep gravel of Devon’s voice scolds him.
“Keep your fucking eyes to yourself.”
His glare is fierce as he stares down the newcomers, who don’t seem the least bit worried.
“You call us out so close to Christmas to help your prickly arse, and yet you treat us so disrespectfully?” the peruser says with humour lacing his tone, and the others in his party laugh.
“Don’t pretend like you were busy doing important shit.” Devon rolls his eyes.
“You got that right.” The only other female here giggles, standing next to the peruser. “He was trying to work his charms on a couple of wine stupored women that stumbled into Marick’s from a Christmas party. His charm wasn’t working.”
“Hell, Liam. Fallon knows you too well.” Devon smiles, and wow… that smile.
The way his lips pull wide, his white teeth flash, and dimples sink into the dark facial hair lining his jaw and lower cheeks is a sight to behold. Even his eyes seem to smile, which is such a contradiction to the cruel mask that he’s had on most of the limited time since meeting him.
“Pfft. My sister is just jealous she wasn’t getting any action.” The peruser, whose name is apparently Liam, tries to brush it off, but the fact he leans in to whisper something in his sister's ear a moment later, gives him away.
He’s pissed.
“Conrad.” Devon nods to the oldest guy as they shake hands. “Thanks for dropping by.”
“You need some cars?” Conrad asks and Devon nods before he starts filling them in on what happened.
Well, at least that’s what I think he’s doing since they stroll out of ear shot.
A minute later, another man walks in dressed all in black like he’s some sort of Special Ops guy. Not that I’d know. I’m only jumping to that conclusion from TV shows and movies, but as I eye the gun on his hip and another in a holster on his upper thigh, it really is the only thing I can think of as to why he’s dressed like that.
“Miss Summers.” Father Peters regains my attention, and I peel my eyes from the military looking man. “The Marx family is… Let’s just say, above the law.”
As Father Peters gestures his head to the newcomers, my brows disappear into my hairline at his words.
“No one is above the law,” I whisper and he shrugs.
“Some people are.”
I scan the space again, taking in the many bodies and noting that they all seem to work seamlessly as they clean up the evidence of what happened here.
They are above the law.
Maybe the Godfather scene wasn’t that far off from what is happening here.
I clear my throat, the lump forming seeming to get bigger with every breath I take.
Turning, I study Father Peters, taking in how tired his ageing eyes seem in comparison to when I first arrived earlier.
“Are you hurt, Father?”
He waves me off, “No. No. Nothing but a small bump on the head. I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
I swallow thickly. “I thought you said I don’t need to fear him.”
“And you don’t. That is not what I’m worried about.” He leans in closer. “It’s your struggles with temptation that have me concerned.”
My cheeks heat. “I don’t think we need to worry about that right now.” I dismiss his concerns in the hope he’ll drop it.
I know it’s him I confess to in the booth, but it’s easier to do it that way so I don’t have to see his face. This, right here, being face to face is too confrontational for my liking.
“On the contrary, Miss Summers, I’ve been watching the way you and Mr Marx look at each other.”
Oh my fuckety fuck.
It’s that obvious?
Kill me now.
“Father, you remember Riggs?” Devon’s voice breaks our little bubble, and I’m actually grateful this time for his interruption.
“Of course.” Father Peters stands politely.
“I’ll get my team to install new cameras and security measures in the morning, Father,” Riggs, the black clad military man explains. “In the meantime, I’ll leave a team of four men to stay on the property tonight.” He hands Father Peters a card. “Call me if you have any concerns.”
“Bless you, Mr Riggs.” Father Peters bows his head in thanks.
“We’ll help your men get the Range Rovers back to one of our workshops to go over with a fine tooth comb.” Riggs explains as he turns his attention to Devon who nods.
“Excellent. I need to go. How likely is it that Connie will loan me one of his Corvettes across the street?”
Riggs smirks. “Well, he’s right into Christmas, so maybe use that shit as an excuse when you drop to your knees and beg.”
Devon scoffs. “I don’t fall to my knees for anyone. ”
And hell, I believe him. I can’t imagine anyone would have the power to make him do that.
The men walk off, having a discussion about cars, and Father Peters gets led away with discussions of security, leaving me alone on the pew.
Glancing around, I notice everyone is busy. No one is paying me a lick of attention. Maybe if I slip my heels off, I can discreetly disappear before anyone notices.
Devon has my licence which has my address on it, but I still have my handbag. I have enough cash to pay for a hotel for the night, and then tomorrow, maybe I can go to my sister’s until I can figure out what to do.
With a somewhat sketchy plan in my head, I subtly lean to the side, reaching down to slip off one of my heels, before doing the same with the other. Just the thought of trying to run again has my heart thundering in my chest, my pulse so loud in my ears that all noise from inside the church gets muffled.
You can do this.
I glance around again, still noticing everyone busy and preoccupied.
Just go, Jaxcen!
Slowly, I stand, my legs shaky as I glance around to see if anyone notices.
Nothing.
I take a step to the side, slipping out of the pew.
Still nothing.
This is it.
My gaze locks on the doors, and I run.