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Apparently, the client I was supposed to be meeting today, Joe, tipped off Godfrey and sold me out. Asshole. But that’s how Godfrey works—buying friends and collecting debts.
I’m sure Beat and Ink owe him a favor. A big one, too. A favor that he cashed in tonight, in the form of me.
The men flip radio channels. My lack of sight sharpens my other senses. I detect Beat’s husky, monotone voice. Growls are his favorite method of communication, and peace is the ambiance that pours from this huge man. He doesn’t speak much, never raises his voice and is unimpressed with his companion. Ink’s voice matches his body language: high, pitchy and articulate as an artichoke. He talks a lot, but says very little. A definite sign of stupidity.
“Can you believe this shit?” Ink spits. “Ain’t nobody got time to babysit this rich kid. She’s bangin’, though.”
Beat grunts in response. Maybe he doesn’t share the sentiment.
“We can’t tap that, but maybe we can get away with a BJ. Whaddaya’ think?”
“If I find out you as much as grazed one of her fingernails, I’m handing you to Godfrey by the balls.” Beat sounds so serene, you’d think he just offered Ink a pampering vacation in Bora Bora.
“Whoa, what do you care about this sorry ass chick?”
“I don’t.” He’s detached, composed, unreadable. . .and scary as hell. “But that doesn’t give us the green light to act like bitches.”
Is it a good time to tell him Prince William won’t be calling for etiquette tips anytime soon?
“Whatever.” Ink disregards Prince Asshole of the East Bay. “I just hope she ain’t gonna cry all day. The walls are thin, and you know how I need my morning naps.”
“Don’t worry,” I shoot from the backseat. “My emotions are rare and treasured. I won’t waste them on the likes of you.”
Beat grunts. “Where’s that quote from?”
“A little dark and twisted place called my head,” I rub my tied hands against my face. The cloth is itchy, and it smells like Beat. It’s not a bad smell. Spicy and fresh, with just a twinge of sex thrown in. Something male. Something dangerous. Something musky.
“Bangin’, we’ve got ourselves a smartass.” Ink snorts. I hear a smack Beat must’ve awarded him with.
“Your dark, twisted place might be worth visiting, kid.” The compliment is aimed at me.
“Thanks. That means a lot coming from the guy who just kidnapped me,” I deadpan.
“Shorty’s got a mouth on her,” Ink complains.
“Yeah, well, shorty’s in luck. Our walls don’t answer back,” Beat says, slamming a lid on the conversation.
They pull up to the curb and drag me into what I presume is their house. I resist, digging my heels into the ground. Kicking, screaming, making a scene. Praying that someone will hear. My body twists from side to side as they usher me in. Someone tries to clap a hand over my mouth when they realize my yells can draw attention, and I bite it hard until my teeth meet. A slap to my cheek whips my face, my head crushing against a stone-hard shoulder.
Even before I feel the small, damp palm, I know that it’s Ink and not Beat. I stop shouting because: 1. It stings like a thousand needles pricking my cheek, especially since Seb has already banged my head against every surface we came across earlier this evening. 2. The door behind my back shuts with an earsplitting bang, and hushed rage electrifies the air.
“What did I say about touching the girl?” Beat’s large body pins Ink to the nearest wall by the sound of bones hitting concrete. “I’m letting you off with a warning.” I hear something snapping. Not a bone, maybe a ligament. Ink cries in pain, howling like a dog who’d lost a fight. “Next time, your glowing career at flipping burgers is going to end on the grounds of two broken arms. No warning. No second chances. Understood?”
Ink is trying to swallow a scream, and I hear a slap that did not land on my face. I jump back anyway. Beat receives his answer in the form of a hard gulp I can actually hear.
“Words, idiot. Under-fucking-stood?”
“Yes.” Ink’s voice tells me he, too, is terrified of Beat’s commanding presence. The power in the room is distributed haphazardly: I have none, Ink has very little, and Beat. . .he rules this place.
“Don’t fucking touch her,” he warns. “Ever. Again.”
My burning cheek and I are relieved when I feel Beat’s calloused hand pushing me through what I believe is their hallway.
“Come on, Country Club. I’ll see you to your room.”
Just when I think I have a real shot at forming some sort of a dialogue with this bizarre man, he throws me in his basement—laced with a dingy scent and moldy temperature. The deadbolt snaps from the outside.
“No.” A small voice escapes my paper-dry throat. “No, no, no!” I’m throwing my bound fists against the door, begging.
