Page 26 of Ricochet

“Cap it. I never agreed to go celibate in this shit.”

“Killing prostitutes in public places is not the best way to keep the authorities on the right trail.”

“I never killed them,” I said, pointing a finger. It was true. I never once killed the girls, though what happened in those moments of blackness, I honestly couldn’t say.

“Yet.” He tipped his head. “So, you innocently fucked a woman, and the two of you parted ways, all sated and happy with the world?”

I rubbed my hand across my skull. “I never hurt her.”

“I’ve seen you, Nick. The blackouts. Gaps of memory you can’t account for. The violence in your eyes. You’re about a thread from losing control.” He rolled his shoulders. “Are a few strokes to your dick worth fucking up the plan before it’s begun?”

“I won’t fuck it up! Trust me.”

“Trust is all I’ve got, Brother. And if you fuck that up, I’ll be running this show alone. I don’t think either one of us wants that.” Gaze fixed on me, he toyed with a cufflink and straightened the shirt beneath his jacket. “You got everything you need for tonight?”

“Yeah. All set.”

“Staked the place?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t do anything stupid.” His gray eyes drilled into mine, full of all kinds of serious that I just didn’t have the fucking brainpower to appreciate through a monster hangover. “It’s important that you keep yourself alive.” He smirked then cocked his head toward Aubree’s door. “Speaking of staying alive, she’s probably starving. Try not to subject her to your eating schedule. And give the girl a bathroom break, for fucks sake.”

CHAPTER 11

Aubree

Heat hit my face, and I was suddenly aware of a grotesque numbness in my hands. I opened my eyes to a room, lit only by the streaks of sunlight fighting their way past the god-awful paisley drapes. An upward glance spurred both nausea and relief at the sight of my hands chained to the bedpost—at least what I felt wasn’t phantom limb from being hacked alive by a madman, but I was still bound to a bed in a room that looked like it’d jumped out of an Edgar Allen Poe Home and Gardening magazine. Dark gray walls and dark wood—aged-looking furniture—coupled with the peeling paint and cobwebs gave off a Halloween vibe.

The warm scent of a cigar filled my nose, notes of cedar over the delicious flavor of musk. Had my mouth not been bone dry, it might’ve watered at the scent.

Pumping my fingers did nothing to abate the numbness, and while I felt glad they moved at all, the dead sensation made my stomach queasy. Squirming definitely wasn’t helping, but being able to move at all told me I wasn’t completely paralyzed.

In one last futile attempt to break the chains, I kicked and screamed like a madwoman. The squeak and thump of the bed beat out the rhythm of my tantrum, until at last, my muscles sagged in defeat.

“Numb?” The deep, rich voice snapped my gaze to the dark figure across the room, propped against the wall with his arms crossed.

A zap of panic shot through my body, but crackled in my hot blood like ice cubes melting in boiling water. “Do you earn bonus points if I feel dead before you actually kill me?”

“I could untie you.” Inflection gave his words an air of taunting.

Between his calm tone and casual posture, I didn’t immediately peg him as a killer. “But that would make you a decent human being when clearly you’re an—” Asshole.

Easy now. No sense pissing off the guy who kidnapped you and chained you to a bed.

Getting unchained was one step closer to getting the fuck out of there.

“A what?” He pushed himself off the wall, and the first features to come into view were his eyes—a striking cut of blue diamonds that sliced me open with his intense stare. Evocative, distracting eyes that didn’t belong on the face of a kidnapper.

Not that I’d thought about kidnappers much, I certainly didn’t fantasize about them, but I’d imagined them with coal-black, almost demonic eyes—like Michael’s. This man’s powerful glare and calm vibe told me, without a doubt, he could probably slice me open while softly chanting a dirge like an angel.

The hood of his black leather jacket concealed his hair, but the white wife beater he wore beneath provided an eyeful of muscles. Deep ridges that looked like they’d been hand carved peeked over the top and disappeared behind the shirt where the outline of his pectorals and nipples punched through the fabric. The bronze tone of his skin left me wondering if he worked outside. Maybe a construction worker?

I glanced down to see if he sported any calluses on his hands, but black leather gloves covered them. People generally wore gloves indoors to hide fingerprints. While committing crimes.

His face was flawlessly chiseled and symmetrical, those eyes set beneath dark, broody eyebrows. The smirky shape of his lips, smooth and perfectly proportioned, left me resisting the urge to bite my own.

“My husband has connections. He’ll find you. And he’ll have you killed if he doesn’t do it himself.” It sickened me to give Michael’s power any merit, but perhaps mention of the asshole might lead me to what this guy wanted with me.