Chapter One #2
"It is, Dad. Just with a little business mixed in." My mother's laugh sounded brittle. "Connor's going to help Mr. Harris with a project."
Project? What project?
The thought hit me like a bucket of ice water, temporarily clearing some of the fog. My parents had drugged me. The realization made my stomach heave.
"I think we should continue this somewhere more private," Harris said, his hand reaching for my arm. "The car is waiting."
My mother nodded eagerly. "Connor will be happy to go with you, won't you, dear?"
The room spun sickeningly as panic surged through me.
This couldn't be happening. Not even my parents could be this cruel, this monstrous, but the evidence was right in front of me—in the drug coursing through my system, in Harris's proprietary touch, in my mother's cold eyes calculating what she'd gain from this transaction.
"I don't... feel good," I mumbled, which was both a stalling tactic and the absolute truth.
"He'll be fine once we get him settled," Harris assured my mother, as if I wasn't sitting right there. His fingers wrapped around my bicep, strong enough to bruise.
My grandfather's face creased with worry. "Connor? Son, what's wrong?"
I tried to answer him, but my tongue felt disconnected from my brain.
Harris tugged on my arm, pulling me to my feet. The room tilted dangerously, and I stumbled against the table.
"Careful with the merchandise," my mother hissed, looking around to make sure no one was watching.
Merchandise. That's all I was to her.
Some distant part of my brain, the part that was still functioning through sheer panic, screamed at me that if I left this room with Harris, I might never be seen again. I needed to do something—anything—to get away.
In what felt like slow motion, I saw my water glass within reach. With deliberate clumsiness, I lurched forward and swept my arm across the table. The glass toppled over, sending water cascading onto Harris's pants and across my mother's expensive dress.
"You idiot!" she shrieked, jumping to her feet.
Harris's grip loosened in surprise and I seized the moment. I shoved away from the table, nearly knocking over my chair.
"Bathroom," I slurred, gesturing vaguely. "Gonna be sick."
"I'll go with him," Harris said quickly, reaching for me again.
I dodged his grasp with drunken grace I didn't know I possessed. "Private," I insisted, already staggering away.
"Let him go," my mother snapped, dabbing at her dress with a napkin. "He won't get far like this."
She was right about that. My legs felt like they were made of rubber, and the floor seemed to roll beneath my feet like the deck of a ship in a storm. But fear is a powerful motivator, and right then, I was terrified.
I lurched toward the exit, bumping into a waiter who steadied me with concerned hands.
"Sir, are you alright?"
"Fine," I mumbled, pushing past him. "Just need air."
I heard Harris saying something to my mother, his tone urgent. I didn't look back. I focused every ounce of my fading concentration on putting one foot in front of the other, making it through the banquet hall doors and into the corridor beyond.
The hallway stretched before me, elegant wallpaper and plush carpet blurring into a tunnel. I heard a sharp voice behind me—Harris—and panic gave me another burst of energy. I turned randomly down a side corridor, then another, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
"Connor!" The voice echoed off the walls. "Don't make this difficult!"
Too late for that, asshole.
I staggered on, using the wall for support as the drug pulled me deeper into its grip. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
Just like me.
I careened down the corridor like a pinball in a machine, bouncing from one wall to the other. The plush carpet muffled my stumbling steps, which was probably the only thing saving me from immediate discovery.
Each breath burned in my lungs as I fought to stay conscious. Whatever my mother had slipped me was powerful stuff, turning my blood to sludge and my thoughts to fragments that scattered like marbles on a tilted floor.
The hotel's elegant wallpaper swirled and pulsed around me, patterns morphing into faces that seemed to mock my escape attempt. I blinked hard, trying to focus.
A distant part of me recognized the hotel's opulence—the gilded sconces casting warm light, the antique tables with fresh flower arrangements, and the occasional oil painting of stern-faced rich people judging me as I staggered past.
Bet they never had to run from their own parents.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead and soaked through my shirt, making it cling uncomfortably to my back. My legs moved on autopilot, heavy and uncoordinated.
A sharp voice called my name from somewhere behind me, echoing off the walls. "Connor! This is ridiculous. Stop!"
Harris. He was gaining on me.
I forced myself to move faster, turning a corner randomly and nearly colliding with a housekeeping cart. The startled employee jumped back as I mumbled an apology and kept going, using the wall for support.
The drug was working its way deeper into my system with every passing minute, making each step more difficult than the last.
Another corner, another identical hallway. This hotel was a maze, and in my drugged state, I had no idea if I was making progress or just going in circles.
I passed a sign for the elevator, but knew I couldn't risk waiting for one. Harris would catch me for sure. I did press the call button as I stumbled past. Maybe that would confuse Harris.
I kept moving forward, hoping to find an emergency exit, a stairwell, an open window, anything that would get me out of this nightmare.
"He went this way!" A new voice joined the pursuit, probably one of Harris's goons. They were coordinating, spreading out to search for me.
I ducked down a quieter corridor, this one dimly lit and seemingly deserted. The carpet here was even thicker, a deep burgundy that swallowed the sound of my footsteps. Room numbers glowed softly on brass plates beside heavy wooden doors.
I tried the handle of the first door I reached. Locked. I moved to the next one, then the next, tugging desperately at each handle. All locked.
The voices behind me grew louder, more insistent. I was running out of time and options.
Come on, come on. Give me something.
A door at the end of the hall had a small service cart outside it. I stumbled toward it, hoping against hope that the housekeeping staff had left it unlocked. My hand wrapped around the cold metal handle and I turned it.
It gave slightly, but didn't open. Not completely locked, but not open either. In my desperation, I threw my shoulder against it, putting what little strength I had left into the effort.
The door gave way suddenly, and I pitched forward into the room, barely keeping my feet under me. I stumbled two steps inside before freezing, my drugged brain slowly processing that I wasn't alone.
The suite was elegant, but understated, all clean lines and muted colors. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall, the city lights beyond them creating a glittering backdrop.
A sitting area with plush furniture occupied the space near the door, and beyond that... a man sat propped up in a massive bed, tablet in hand, staring at me with an expression of complete surprise. Not just any man. Possibly the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen in my life.
Dark hair with hints of silver at the temples framed a face that belonged on the cover of GQ—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes that pinned me in place even through my drug haze. His broad shoulders were covered by a simple black t-shirt that did nothing to hide his muscular build.
"What the—" he began, his deep voice sending an unexpected shiver down my spine despite my dire situation.
"I'm sorry," I slurred, swaying on my feet. "So sorry. They're after me."
His eyes narrowed, taking in my disheveled appearance. "Who's after you?"
"Bad people. My mother." I tried to explain, but my tongue felt twice its normal size.
The man's expression shifted from surprise to something harder, more calculating. Before he could respond, heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed by a voice just outside the door.
"Check this one. The door's ajar."
Terror jolted through me, temporarily clearing some of the fog. I stared at the stranger, silently pleading. I had no right to drag him into my mess, but I was out of options and rapidly losing my ability to even stand upright.
The man made a swift decision, his eyes never leaving mine as he called out, "I'm busy. Come back later."
"Sir, we're looking for someone who may have entered your room," came the reply.
The footsteps paused just outside the still-open door. In seconds, they'd come in and find me. In seconds, whatever fate my mother had arranged with Harris would be inevitable.
"Please," I whispered, the word barely audible.
The stranger's jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he'd give me up. Instead, he gestured sharply toward the bed with a quick jerk of his chin.
I didn't need to be told twice. I stumbled forward, my legs finally giving out as I collapsed onto the mattress. With the last of my coordination, I managed to dive under the covers beside him just as the door swung open wider.
The man beside me stiffened at the contact, his body going rigid. I could feel the warmth of him through his clothes, could smell his expensive cologne—something woodsy and clean that even my panicked brain appreciated.
"What do you want?" he snapped at whoever stood in the doorway. His voice had changed, becoming sharper, more authoritative. "This is a private suite."