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Her expression crumples like her entire world just came crashing down. “How could I not know Euan was mixed up in something like this?” she whispers.
She’s worried about not knowing her boyfriend had a gambling problem when he handed her over to cover his own ass. Jesus. “The question you should be asking yourself is how you didn’t know he was a piece of shit.”
The phone rings. I take the gun fastened to the underside of my desk and place it on the wooden worktop, locking eyes with her. “I have work to do, and I’m not sure what to do with you yet, so I’m going to need you to take a seat on the couch.” I use the remote to turn on the TV. It’s one of those twenty-four-hour news stations, but that’ll have to suffice.
On a glare, she backs toward the couch, and I pick up the receiver.
“Go ahead, partner.”
I scribble out a bet, watching her watch me from the corner of her eye. After I hang up the call, I sit back in my chair. What in the hell am I supposed to do with her for the next three days? I’m not in the business of taking hostages. People who don’t deliver end up with a bullet between their eyes, so this—her—is new territory. New territory I want nothing to do with. Yet here I am, with a girl who has to be watched for three fucking days. My temper flashes before I shoot off a text to my brother Caleb: When you’re done at Elysium, I need you to come home.
She shifts on the couch. No doubt the rope binding her is making her uncomfortable. For a second, I debate on cutting her loose, but I know how that will go. The fleeting idea of freedom and survival will kick in, and despite the fact that she’s tiny as hell, she’ll attempt to fight— scratching and biting—and I as much as I’d like to play nice with her, I don’t have time to deal with the bullshit.
I take bet after bet while the girl sits on the couch, crying, ranting, huffing, then crying some more. It annoys me, but I get it. This isn’t her planned Friday night at the college bar, so instead of telling her to be quiet, I just ignore her, glugging back liquor until the bottle is close to empty.
It’s past midnight before she falls asleep, and by then, my vision threatens to cross. In the absence of the ringing lines, the hoarse voice of my conscience grows louder. And that’s a voice I hardly recognize.
My business is one of blood and money, lies. One where, when people fuck up, they pay with their lives. There’s no room for a conscience in this world. Besides, people know what they’re getting into with me, they know the risks, and while the repercussions are sometimes gruesome, there’s no room for guilt. If a guy wants to jump in shark-infested waters, you don’t blame the shark for ripping his damn leg off.
The problem here is, she had no idea. She didn’t make the choice or place the bet, and that’s why my non-existent conscience is trying to rise from the dead right now.
She shifts, turning over on the couch on a muffled sob, and my gaze trails to the raw skin of her bound wrists.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, taking the knife from my desk and cutting her free from the rope. “I’m gonna kill Rich,” I mumbled, staggering back across the room.
I sink to the floor in front of the door to make sure I wake up if she tries to get out, then close my eyes to the lull of the alcohol.
My father taught me that even soulless motherfuckers have a weakness sometimes. And women are mine.
4
Victoria
I wake up with a racing heart, hands no longer bound. For the briefest of moments, I think it was all a bad dream until the smell of cigarettes creeps in.
The dimly lit room comes into focus, as does the shadow of that man slumped against the door, asleep. My stomach knots when lamplight glints off the gun clutched in his hand, one finger a whisper away from the trigger.
What am I supposed to do? Just let him kill me? These people obviously aren’t morally upstanding citizens. He’s huge and blocking the door with a gun in his lap...but he has to be drunk. I watched him chug back whiskey like it was water. If I hope to get out of here, I need to get that gun and then run.
Cautiously, I push off of the sofa and tiptoe across the room, noting his heavy breaths as I crouch in front of him. God, I think I’m going to be sick. If he wakes up, I’m dead, but I have no choice. I reach for the gun, and just when my fingers brush the cool metal, his large hand latches onto my wrist.
