Chapter 3 #2
Jamie digs deeper, pulling free a book bag. “Jackpot.” He unzips it, holding up a sleek laptop like a trophy. “This’ll go for a couple hundred easy.”
He fishes out her phone next, the screen cracked but still functional. “And this—goldmine.”
“Leave it,” I snap before I can think.
Jamie frowns. “Why?”
“Because I said so.” My voice is sharp enough that he doesn’t argue, though he watches me with suspicion.
He turns his attention back to the bag, pulling out folded uniforms, pom-poms, ribbons. He laughs. “You really picked yourself a cheerleader, didn’t you? What is this, every teenage boy’s fantasy?”
I ignore him, rifling through the glove compartment. Papers. Gum wrappers. A pair of sunglasses. Then I freeze.
Frilly lace, delicate and pale pink, crumpled like a secret. Panties.
My pulse stutters. For a moment, the world narrows to nothing but that strip of fabric and the way my body reacts to the idea of her in them.
Jamie is still laughing at something else, distracted. Without thinking, I pocket them. Shame burns through me, hot and undeniable, but the thought of leaving them here feels impossible.
I consider taking one of her scrunchies too, bright yellow and soft in my hand, but I force myself to drop it back into the bag. Too much.
“Drive it,” I tell Jamie, tossing him the keys I found wedged between the seats. “Push it into the lake. Strip what you can first.”
He grins. “You owe me, Miles. You know I don’t work for free.”
“Fine. Add it to the tab. Just do it.”
He pockets the keys, already excited at the thought of tearing it apart. “You gonna be at practice tomorrow?”
“Hopefully, yes.” The lie tastes bitter.
We say our goodbyes, his laughter trailing as he disappears into the night with the car, music thumping again as if to mock me.
When I return to the room, the smell of food greets me first, but something’s off. The bag isn’t on the table. It isn’t in Rico’s hands. It’s at her feet.
“What the hell?” I demand, glaring at him.
Rico shrugs, biting into his burrito. “She said she won’t eat at night. Something about keeping her figure. Harder to metabolize.”
I look at her then, still tied, still trembling, her chin tipped stubbornly high even with the ropes cutting into her wrists. She won’t meet my eyes, but I can feel it. The weight of her stare. The defiance bleeding from her even as she denies herself food.
Rico chuckles, greasy fingers smearing foil. “Guess she’s one of those types. Image over everything.”
I ignore him, lowering into the chair across from her. I unwrap my own burrito slowly, the scent of chicken and guac filling the air. I take a bite, chewing deliberately, never breaking eye contact.
And fuck me if I can’t shake the feeling that she’s watching every move, her green eyes wide and burning, tracking me as though the sight of me eating is the most fascinating, most infuriating thing in the world.
I swallow hard, the food heavy in my throat.
Something’s shifting.
And I don’t know if I like it.
Her eyes are on me. Wide, frightened, frantic, pleading eyes that glimmer under the weak yellow glow of the single overhead bulb.
Rico’s laughing at something that isn’t funny, like he always does, his teeth flashing too white in his tanned face.
He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, tattoos crawling up both of them like serpents ready to strike.
He asks me if there’s any news. I shake my head. No. Not yet. He chuckles like this is all a goddamn game. Like she isn’t trembling on that chair, her legs pressed tight together, her shoulders curling inward as if that will make her smaller.
Rico tilts his head toward her and tells her that she better get comfortable then.
My jaw tightens when I see her glance down at the untouched plate of food by her feet, her lashes low but not low enough to hide the flicker of want that betrays her.
Then she snaps her gaze away, chin tipping stubbornly toward the corner.
I take a slow sip of my soda and let the fizz burn down my throat. My body stretches as I stand, rolling my shoulders like I’ve been sitting too long. I tell Rico I’m calling it a night. He can watch over her. He can shout if there’s a problem.
And then her head jerks up. “Wait,” she blurts. “Please.”
My brow lifts. I stop moving.
Her voice cracks. “Please don’t leave me here with him.”
The words sink in. Rico stiffens, his grin faltering, but I don’t look at him. I keep my gaze on her.
I step closer, my boots heavy on the floor. “Why?” I ask.
She swallows. Her lips part, glossy and trembling. “It’s not safe.”
Not safe.
It makes me smile. My chest tightens around it, but it’s there. The irony. The contradiction. The fucking insanity of it. She thinks she’d be safer with me?
I crouch a little so my face is level with hers, close enough to see the tiny freckle beneath her left eye. “What makes you think you’d be safe with me?”
Her throat works as she whispers, looking deeply into my eyes. “Please.”
Fuck me. I hate myself even before I do it. Even before my hands move on instinct. I untie her wrists, ignoring Rico’s sharp exhale from across the room. She rubs at her raw skin, wincing, but she doesn’t stop looking at me.
I grab her by the elbow and haul her up, guiding her down the narrow hall to the spare room. It smells like damp wood and dust, like it hasn’t been used in months. A thin mattress lies crumpled against the wall with a pile of bedding on top of it.
She stands frozen in the doorway while I strip the mattress bare and lay out fresh sheets, tucking corners, pulling blankets, making it neat like muscle memory. I can feel her eyes on me the whole time. Quiet. Watchful. Fidgeting with the hem of her skirt.
Her legs catch my attention. Long, toned, smooth. Cheerleader legs. No hair. Skin like porcelain stretched over strength. I shouldn’t be noticing. I shouldn’t be looking. But I am.
When I’m done, I step back and look at her. “There.”
She flinches when I brush past her, going back to grab the plate of food. When I return, I hand it over.
“I’m not hungry,” she says quickly, shaking her head.
“I don’t care,” I reply, flat.
Her lips part in surprise, and then her gaze slides toward the door like she’s calculating.
“You can sleep here,” I tell her. “Or out there with him. Your choice.”
Her shoulders slump, the smallest sound leaving her throat. Defeat. She takes the food, sits at the edge of the bed, and finally digs in.
I watch her. The way she chews delicately, the way she wipes her lips with the napkin like she’s at a dinner table instead of in a goddamn hideout. It’s almost comical.
“What?” she blurts, catching me staring.
“Nothing,” I murmur.
She finishes eating, and when she’s done, she hands the wrapper back to me. I don’t move. I just stare.
“I’m…sorry,” she stammers, her voice shrinking. “Here.”
My eyes narrow. “I’m not your servant.”
Her cheeks flush pink. She looks down, fumbling, before scurrying to place the plate and napkin neatly in the corner of the room. Then she kicks off her sneakers, leaving behind chipped pink nail polish that I shouldn’t notice.
I leave the room, needing space, but when I return, rope is in my hand. Her eyes widen.
“No,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
I tie one of her wrists to the bedframe, not tight enough to cut off circulation but firm enough that she isn’t going anywhere. This close, I can smell her. Cherries. Sweet and sharp like candy.
She licks her lips. “I’m Chloe,” she says suddenly.
I pause, my brow furrowing. “Why are you telling me your name?”
She talks fast, words tumbling. “Because…because if I humanize myself, if you see me as a person, maybe you won’t kill me.”
I stare at her for a long beat, then laugh low in my chest. “That wouldn’t work.”
She blinks. “It might. So, what’s your name?”
I shake my head. “Cute.”
Her hand tugs at the rope, wincing when the fibers scrape her skin. My jaw clenches. That pang of guilt—fucking ridiculous but real—hits me.
She slides down onto the mattress, eyes heavy. “Are you going to sleep too?”
“Why?” I ask, my voice sharp. “Planning your escape, Chloe?”
Her lashes flutter. “No.”
And then she drops her head onto the pillow, curls up slightly, and within seconds she’s out. Asleep. Like she hasn’t just been kidnapped. Like she isn’t tied to a bed by a man she should be terrified of.
I stand there, staring down at her.
This girl has no survival skills at all. None. Not a single goddamn one.
Does she have any idea what I could do to her right now? Any idea what kind of man she’s dealing with?
Her lips part softly in sleep, gloss smeared, and her chest rises and falls beneath that cheer uniform that clings to her body. Her breasts lifting with every inhale, pressing against fabric too tight, too innocent.
I run a hand through my hair and curse under my breath.
Fuck.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
Two hours have passed since she drifted off. And I should be asleep too, but I can’t shut my fucking eyes, not with the picture in front of me.
Her skirt has ridden up in her sleep, a sliver of bare thigh catching the dull light.
The curve of her ass just there, the line where fabric meets skin.
Chloe. Rich girl. Cheerleader. Kidnapped and tied to a mattress on a warehouse floor.
She should look broken, terrified, but she doesn’t.
Not right now. She looks soft. Peaceful. Almost sweet.
I hate how that does something to me.
She shifts a little, and I see more of her legs. Smooth. No hair. That perfect line from ankle to thigh that makes my throat tight. My cock stirs instantly, straining against my jeans, hard and heavy before I can blink.
Jesus Christ.
I sit up, rub a hand over my face. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s asleep. She’s not mine. She’s nothing but a job. Victor’s job. And still—I keep staring. My mind starts to wander places it shouldn’t, dark places.