Killian #2
She scoots her chair closer, pressing her body against my side. Her perfume is overwhelming, strong floral notes that make my head spin.
“I’ve been thinking,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against my ear. “Maybe after dinner, we could go back to your place. I’ve always wondered what a boxer’s apartment looks like.”
Her hand slides under the table and lands directly on my crotch.
On my fucking cock and balls as she gives the boys a rough squeeze.
I react on instinct. I shove her hand away before even realizing what I’m doing.
Bridget jerks back like I’ve slapped her, her eyes wide with shock and hurt. “What the hell, Killian?”
“Shit… my bad, I—” I shake my head, failing to find the words. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. Something’s come up.”
“Something’s come up? We’re in the middle of dinner!”
“It’s my fault. I’m an asshole, I know.” I’ve already stood up, pulling out my wallet and tossing a stack of hundreds on the table. More than enough to cover the meal, the tip, and a car home for her. “We’ll do this again sometime.”
“Killian, wait—”
But I’ve turned and started for the door. My mind’s elsewhere, entrenched in the fury that’s quickly taking over.
I’m going to explode on Jhene Prince when I find her.
…if I find her.
I take a taxi from Manhattan to Brooklyn that feels like it takes a fucking eternity.
I spend the whole time with my knee bouncing, jaw clenched, and eyes glued to my phone as I scroll through the security footage over and over again.
Watching Jhene grab her backpack and walk out the door, then the studio sit empty for the past hour while I was busy listening to Bridget gush about celebrities and Axolotl Darlings.
I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known she’d pull something like this.
The girl basically told me to my face she’d do what she wants. She practically announced she was going to run, and I was stupid enough to think my warning would be enough to keep her in line.
If she really has run, she’s in a world of fucking trouble.
She’s in a world of fucking trouble even if she hasn’t run—if she’s been taken, it’s actually so much worse.
The cab screeches to a halt in front of my building, and I throw a wad of cash at the driver without counting it. I’m out the door before he can say a word, taking the front steps two at a time.
But I don’t go upstairs. Not yet.
Instead, I pound on the door to the ground floor apartment where my landlady, Ms. Pileggi, lives.
She’s a seventy-eight-year-old widow who spends most of her waking hours parked in front of her living room window, watching the comings and goings of everyone in the building like it’s her own personal soap opera. If anyone saw Jhene leave, it’s her.
The door cracks open, and a wrinkled face peers out at me, her gray hair in curlers and a ratty housecoat wrapped around her frail frame.
“Mr. Killian?” She blinks up at me, clearly surprised by my aggressive knocking. “Is everything alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The girl,” I growl impatiently. “The one who’s been staying with me. Small, Black, curly hair, big glasses. Did you see her leave?”
Ms. Pileggi’s eyes light up with the gleam of a woman who lives for gossip.
“Oh, yes! The cute little thing with the glasses. I saw her leave about an hour ago. Seemed like she was in quite a hurry.” She tilts her head, studying me with open curiosity.
“Is she your girlfriend? She’s very pretty. A little skinny, maybe, but—”
“Which way did she go?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which way?” I repeat rudely. “When she left the building. Did you see which direction she went?”
“Oh, um...” My landlady furrows her brow, thinking for a moment. “Left, I believe. Yes, she turned left down the street. I remember because I thought it was odd, since most people turn right toward the main road, but she—”
I pivot on my heel and take off before she finishes the rest of her sentence.
Left from my building leads to one place: the rundown subway station a few blocks down. If Jhene was trying to disappear, that’s where she’d go.
Hop on a train, get lost in the city, vanish into the crowd.
It’s exactly what I’d do if I were a stubborn, reckless girl with a death wish and no sense of self-preservation.
My shoes pound the pavement as I sprint down the street, dodging pedestrians and ignoring the honking horns of cars I cut off at crosswalks. The summer night’s air is warm against my face, sweat quickly beading onto my back the more I run. Not that it matters.
All I can think about is finding her before somebody else does.
Before the Bratva finds her.
The entrance to the subway station looms ahead, a set of stairs descending into the fluorescent-lit underground. I leap down them three at a time, nearly bowling over a teenager with headphones who’s climbing up.
Please be here. Please fucking be here.
The subway station’s a zoo.
Saturday night in Brooklyn means the platform is packed with people heading into Manhattan for a night out or stumbling home from wherever they’ve already been.
Bodies press together in a jumbled mass of noise and movement that I shove my way through.
I’ve got no manners or sense of politeness about me.
There’s no time for that proper shit. This is an emergency.
I spot a guy in a wrinkled MTA uniform behind the ticket counter and make a beeline for him.
“Hey!” I bark, slapping my palm against the plexiglass for his attention. “You seen a girl come through here in the last hour? Small, Black, curly hair, glasses. Carrying a backpack.”
The guy glances up from his computer screen with the dead-eyed stare of somebody who doesn’t give a shit about his job.
“You’ve described, like, half the women who come through here on a Saturday night.”
“She’s got big glasses. Kind of too big for her face,” I explain from the top. “Her hair’s curly. Not just curly but really curl—”
“Heard you the first time. Don’t know what to tell you, man,” he says, shrugging. “I see a lot of people. They all kind of blur together after a while.”
I reach through the opening at the bottom of the window and grab him by the front of his uniform, yanking him forward ’til his face is inches from the glass.
“Look at me,” I snarl. “I’m not asking for your fucking job report. I’m asking if you saw the girl. Think real hard, or I’ll rearrange that face of yours so bad your own mother won’t recognize you.”
His eyes widen with fear, but he shakes his head. “I… I don’t know, man! I wasn’t paying attention!”
I shove him away with a rumble of frustration.
Useless. Completely fucking useless.
I scan the platform, searching for any sign of her among the sea of faces.
But honestly? It’s hopeless.
There’re too many people bustling about. Too much fucking movement and noise.
If Jhene was here, she’s long gone by now. She could be on a train heading anywhere in the city, disappearing into the labyrinth of tunnels and stations that make up the New York subway system.
I’ve lost her.
The thought hits me worse than any punch to the gut in the ring.
I hover in the middle of the subway platform for a minute or two, fists stubbornly clenched at my sides, trying to figure out my next move.
It seems I’ve hit a dead end and should probably call it a night.
I head out of the station scowling even deeper than usual—which is saying a lot—and make it halfway down the block when I hear a woman shriek.
“I SAID BACK OFF!”
It’s coming from a few buildings over. It’s instantly familiar and makes my blood spike.
I fucking know that voice. I’ve been listening to it snap at me and argue with me and mutter sarcastic comments under its breath for the past week.
Jhene!
I’m sprinting before it even registers that I am, shoving past pedestrians and pivoting around the corner between two buildings.
Jhene’s in the mouth of an alley, her back against a brick wall and her knife clutched in her hand. A guy in a tattered jacket is looming over her, his grimy fingers wrapped around the strap of her backpack as he tries to wrench it away from her.
“I said back off!” she screams again, slashing at him with the blade. “I’ll stab you; don’t think I won’t!”
The guy laughs in answer, the sound wet and phlegmy and mocking. He grins at her, flashing a mouth missing half its teeth. “Give me the bag, bitch, and maybe I won’t hurt you.”
She releases a squeal as he gives her a hard shove and her grip on the backpack slips. She goes tumbling backward, connecting with the brick wall and almost bouncing off it.
The guy clutches his prize and turns to run.
…right into my outstretched arm.
The clothesline catches him in the throat, and he goes down without even realizing what’s happened.
His legs fly out from under him as he crashes down and the back of his head hits the pavement. The backpack skids several feet out of his reach.
I’m on him before he can think about getting up, my fist connecting with his jaw. One of his few remaining teeth goes flying, and the consciousness goes out in his eyes.
He’s officially knocked out.
Good. Fucker deserves much worse.
I grab Jhene’s backpack and toss it to her, then turn to fully face her.
She’s still pressed against the wall, her chest heaving and eyes huge behind her crooked glasses. There’s a scrape on her cheek, and her curls are wild and loose, sticking out in every direction as if she’s been through a wind tunnel.