Chapter 2
ELGIN
I wake up just how I fell asleep—alone and in a ridiculously comfortable bed. The blankets are piled high, and honestly, I have no ambition to move at all.
At first, I think I’m in the hotel. That’s where I’d been heading from the bar. Just remembering the bar makes my head throb. Yep, far too much alcohol last night. My stomach feels queasy, and I need to get some food in it to absorb all the shit I drank.
That’s when things start falling into place. Why the fuck was I headed to a hotel in my own damn city? I’m in Philly. I live here, for fuck’s sake. This is what drinking does to you, folks!
While I’m internally rolling my eyes at my idiocy—not truly caring since the hotel bed might as well be heaven—the rest of the night starts blinking into view, little by little. The alley. The gunshots.
Oh, fuck.
I roll over and frantically run my hands over my body, looking for a bullet wound. Nope. Not shot. Thank fuck for that.
Sighing in relief, I recall the rest of the night. The rescue. The man whose voice stroked my fucking dick. He put me to bed.
Sitting up, I look around the room warily. Did I go home with a mobster?! I went home with a man, at any rate. One who shoots people. But also obviously rescues them from being shot. Why the fuck was I being shot at?
My bladder decides I need to pee within the next thirty seconds or risk wetting the bed. So I make my way to the bathroom to relieve myself. When I stand in front of the mirror over the sink again, I stare at the wounds. Well, they’re proof enough that I didn’t imagine this.
My skin is remarkably clean, which makes the wounds on my face stick out like Halloween makeup. The one over my eye even kinda looks fake. I lean closer to the mirror to examine them and notice my clothes.
Oh, right. That man dressed me. He fucking dressed me! I close my eyes as my body stirs at the memory. God, what is wrong with me? In all my thirty-one years, no one has turned me on quite as easily as this man has. I can’t even blame it on the alcohol.
I’m going to, but it’s certainly run its course.
My head hurts, and my legs feel heavy, but otherwise, I’m not drunk.
And yet, just remembering the tone of that man’s voice has my cock twitching.
Why? Why now, when I just lost my damn season, and in celebration, have been shot at?
I need to face a sudden evolution in my sexuality, too?
Inhaling deeply, I hold it until my lungs burn. I let it out through my mouth slowly and open my eyes. I’m going to ignore everything right now. Except… Is this how a mob boss lives?
The bathroom is luxurious and masculine. Dark tile and brushed-bronze fixtures. There’s a chandelier over the large sunken tub and big fluffy towels that call to me. I’m very tempted to take a shower. I don’t remember vomiting, but I did venture down an alley that resulted in me getting shot at.
Instead, I step back into the bedroom and find the same aesthetic there. Dark, rich wood. Dark drapes. Plush carpet under my feet. Lavish furniture.
The bed is enormous. I feel like a five-year-old staring at this massive bed stretching out before me. The pillows and the dark bedding are all plush and welcoming. Whispering for me to return. Curl up. Sleep the day away and deal with everything another time.
My stomach growls, and my hand moves to it. I need to eat something. Bed will have to wait.
Am I a prisoner here? Am I supposed to wait until someone comes for me? Taking a chance, I head for the door and pull it open when I find it’s unlocked.
I come face-to-face with a man who has a very large gun in his hands. He turns, the gun pointed at the floor, and I take several steps back. Seriously, where the hell am I?
“G’morning,” he says, smiling.
Glancing at the gun, I only manage a nod.
“This way, Mr. Bolingbrook.”
He turns and leads me down the hall. I’m not sure if I should be offended that he doesn’t consider me a threat and allows me behind him, or if I’ve watched too many movies.
It’s not a long walk down the hall before it dumps us into a luxurious dining room.
In the middle of the space, there’s a very large table covered in trays of breakfast foods.
A single man sits there, and I recognize him as if from a dream.
The man who rescued me. The man who cleaned my wounds and dressed me before tucking me into bed.
The man to whom I’m somehow stupidly attracted. What the actual fuck is this about?!
He’s staring at nothing, tapping his fingers on the table.
Each thum thum pulses in my head, reminding me just how much I drank last night.
I’m sure he hasn’t noticed me, so I study him while I’m able.
He’s no longer in a suit, but there’s still something absolutely striking about him.
And yeah, I’m still disturbingly attracted.
Maybe the alcohol is still swimming in my veins more than I thought.
He blinks and turns to look at me as if my presence was just announced. His smile makes my stomach flip, though I tell myself it’s the remnants of all that alcohol and the absence of food.
“Sit, Ellie,” he says, gesturing to a chair perpendicular to him.
“Elgin,” I say and take the seat.
His smile grows a little, but he doesn’t correct himself or apologize. I have a feeling that I’m no longer Elgin as far as he’s concerned. I’m not even mad about it, though maybe I should be. I’ve been called worse things.
“Who are you?” I ask as he pulls one of the trays over and begins piling food onto a plate in front of me. There’s a moment where I consider telling him I can get my own food, but decide against it. There’s something almost… flattering about this.
He pushes it to me and sits back. “Coffee or tea or juice…?”
“Water, please. I need to soak up the sour contents of my stomach before I try anything too adventurous.”
He smirks and pours a glass of water from a pitcher and sets it in front of me. I’m distracted by the food for a few minutes before I manage to remind myself where I am and that he’s refused to give me his name. “Who are you?” I repeat.
“Ara,” he says.
“That’s not helpful.”
“Van Doren.”
I narrow my eyes as I study him, the food in my mouth momentarily forgotten. “As in, Van Doren Technologies?”
He nods. They’re one of the Hatters’ sponsors! They’re one of those companies that have a billion fingers in a bunch of different pots.
There’s a science fiction series I read as a teenager where aliens attacked, and it was the only natural disaster to bring the world together. In the chaos after the war, a single ruler of the world emerged.
I imagine that’s going to happen in my lifetime. Not the war with aliens, but a single ruler will conquer the world. It won’t even be a hostile takeover but something that just… happens. Van Doren is going to wear a crown. That’s how far their businesses reach already.
“Do they know you play gun games?” I ask before stuffing my mouth full of food.
Ara doesn’t respond. Just smirks.
When it becomes apparent that I won't get an answer to that question, I ask a different one. “Who was shooting at me and why?”
He nods this time and takes a sip of whatever’s in his mug. It looks more like hot cocoa than coffee. Interesting.
“They’re a group calling themselves Empire. A glorified gang, if you will, trying to take control of the city’s crime in a way the mafia might. I don’t believe they were actually after you. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Just what I want to hear.”
“It gets better,” Ara says. “Despite being a happenstance victim, they’ve now put out a hit on you for being a witness.”
“So I need to hire security. Wonderful way to spend my money,” I mutter.
“No. You’ll stay here until we eliminate them.”
I stop chewing and narrow my eyes at him. “You can’t force me to stay here.”
“I can, but I won’t. They’re assholes and ruthless, believing themselves above the law.
If you’d really like to take your chances, then I’ll let you walk out my door.
I’m not sure you’d like your legacy to be the hockey player who was shot in the middle of his career by wannabe crime lords, though. ”
Huffing, I focus on my food for a few minutes.
It’s stupidly good, and I feel a little better with each bite.
Ara isn’t wrong. I sure as fuck don’t want to get shot.
As if thinking about it, one of the lacerations on my cheek burns.
Just a phantom feeling. As if I were too drunk last night to register the pain of the wounds being inflicted, and my memory needs me to understand how serious the situation is.
Yeah, got the memo. Thanks.
“How long?” I ask.
“Shouldn’t be too long. We’re very good at what we do,” Ara answers without interest.
I glance at him again. “Does your family know what you get up to?” I ask again.
His dark eyes meet mine, and I swear, his gaze grips my soul. He doesn’t answer; just looks at me. My heart gallops as I stare at this man I’m apparently attracted to until I force my attention back to my plate and refuse to look up again. Why the fuck is my cock excited right now?
I adjust in my seat and concentrate on my food until it’s gone. Then I simply stare at the empty plate.
“Are you still hungry?” Ara asks.
I take inventory of my stomach and shake my head. “No. Thanks.”
He slides me a small plate. I can’t imagine what this is used for as I examine the two liquid gel tablets on it. The plate is only two inches in diameter at most. Do they make serving plates for pills?
“Want to stay ahead of your hangover, Ellie?”
Ignoring his refusal to say my actual name, I take the pills and toss them into my mouth. So I don’t have to catch a glimpse of him and acknowledge how traitorous my body is behaving, I close my eyes as I sip some water to swallow them down. Then I finish the water.
We sit in silence for several minutes. In my peripheral vision, I watch as Ara unhurriedly continues to drink the contents of his mug.
When it’s empty, he gets to his feet and moves behind me.
His hand on the back of my chair, he pulls it out from the table, and I stand, since it seems that’s what he wants from me.
“Let’s find you some clothes,” he says, and turns for the hall that the armed man led me down.
Speaking of the armed man, I don’t see him anywhere. I half expect him to be in front of the bedroom door, but he’s not there. Ara opens the door, and I follow him in.
“Where did your guard man go?”
“To work,” he says.
“Are you afraid of someone breaking in and shooting me while I sleep?”
Ara steps into the closet. I hear his quiet laughter answer my question. I adjust on my feet, trying to ignore the way everything in me feels like it hums in response. Fuck’s sake.
He returns and holds out a stack of clothes. “Get dressed, hockey player. Then we’ll see what the day holds.”