Page 8 of The Santas Who Stole Me

I had the same thought about him earlier. All stupid butterflies in my stomach die and fall heavy in my gut when he turns and the door shuts. I’m left in a room alone. The click of the door sends the familiar panic over me, like cold water hitting my face then dripping down the rest of me. I try deep breathing, focusing on things around me. Find three things to focus on.

I stare at a rack similar to a tool chest, but the silver metal has a much more clinical feel. Shit, please don’t let these guys want my skin or something worse. What is worse than my skin? I’m not sure, but Zeke might know. I pull on the handcuffs, knowing it’s useless. They don’t seem like amateurs who would leave any small possibility of letting me out. My chest tightens, and I remember I was focusing on three things, the toolbox. I stare at it fiercely as if that will allow me to see the contents that might reveal my fate.

A few minutes tick by and the lights turn off. They must be on an automatic system. Deep darkness sets in all around me, squeezing my throat. I let out a choking cough. The chains rattle as I yank them, but nothing budges. I pull and pull and pull, my wrists slicing into the metal with a sharp sting, not caring the edges are cutting me. I can’t do this again. I won’t be stuck, cast aside, and forgotten as a prisoner. The click of the lock repeats in my ears over and over.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I keep pulling my arms, out of breath, out of options. As usual. Regret for not jumping off the side of the building floods my brain. Blood thrums in my eardrums, the watery sounds of it swirling. I try to swallow, but my throat is too thick. Tiny beads of sweat break out across my skin, and my vision fades to nothing. Slipping into the darkness in the back of my mind: it’s the only safe place I truly know. Where I hid all those times from Chad. I go there again and fall in deep, hoping to stay there until the end.

Chapter Eight

CALUM

Stomping back up the stairs, I imagine holding Georgie’s ass again. She fought and hit me, even bit into my shoulder. We don’t let people in this house or into our lives. We are fucking killers for hire, no one can know that shit. Keeper might need this, he can save her, fuck her, whatever, or so I thought before I saw her cry. I changed my mind. Imagining those same tears as she bounces on my cock with those big tits I felt pressed in my back has me thinking, fuck it. He can’t have her for himself.

“Dibs,” calls Keep.

“Mine,” I say with a growl, unsure if we are fighting over the next kill or the girl in the basement. Keeper’s anger fills up the room, and I let mine match it. Too bad my older brother isn’t gonna win this time. This is going to be a fight about her, and he can kill the guy as his consolation prize.

“She’s a person not the front seat or last slice of pizza, assholes. You don’t get to call dibs,” Zee tells us, and I ignore his logic. Keeper slams his fist down and turns to our best friend.

“Is this because she was checking you out? Were you being nice to her for real or did you just want to get info from her? Do you want her?”

Zeke swallows and looks at me explaining nothing for a beat before speaking. “Yea, I guess I do. Dibs too.”

My eyes widen in surprise. Zee doesn’t show interest in women more than an occasional hookup when we are out of town.

“That why you agreed to that bullshit that we make a deal for her help in exchange for the kill? We don’t need it.” My arms cross and I want to stab them both.

They nod, answering my question.

“This is bullshit, I stole her, she’s mine now,” Keep says.

“Georgie is really going to be into your childish behavior,” Zee says with a scoff, and Keeper flips him off.

Here we are, grown assassins, fighting over a girl. She seems worth it, though, so I shoot my finger at Zee too. A double fuck you seems worse than a single one. “You’re such a dumbass,” I tell Keep, and I know he’s biting back his retort of “it takes one to know one.”

“Are we really killing someone in the FBI? It’s a risky target and not a paying job. This will be personal. Fuck, with Georgia we have an actual connection that could point to us.” Zee pulls us from our trash talk, which might I add is weak for a bunch of badasses.

“We are,” Keeper states, already determined.

I look to Zee, our voice of reason.

“FBI connection alone raises the risk twenty percent, the fact that he’s seen two of us. I would have to calculate it again after we formulate a plan. The usual algorithm isn’t valid on this one,” he says.

“Don’t care what you think. We’re killing the guy and keeping the girl.”

“You don’t make all the decisions for us, or for her. She might not want to stay. You threw her in the trunk, idiot. What are you gonna do, Keep, lock her down there forever? Be her white knight? Then what? There is no way she walks out of here, and we all know it.”

“Then we make her want to stay,” Keep counters.

“I second Keeper’s plan,” Zeke adds.

“What the fuck, Zeke? You know that’s a terrible idea.” He’s the voice of reason, I’m the wild one, and Keeper is the grumpy leader who watches out for us. What the fuck happened at the Santa Half-Marathon?