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“Seen you here a few times now.”
I glance up into the face of a tall man with sun-weathered creases surrounding his glassy eyes. Timidly smiling, I say, “I’ve seen you, too.”
“Well, then,” he says, becoming bolder. He moves his pool stick aside and extends his hand. “We’re overdue for an introduction. Why don’t you join us for a game? We need another pretty face at the table.”
I glance around him to see one of the girls bending over the pool table to make a shot. Then I look at the guy’s outstretched hand. “Sorry, honey. I don’t play.”
This needs to move along quickly. Connelly will be offended if I shrug off his subtle advance for another man. I could lose what little connection I’ve made with him.
The guy, who’s wearing a plaid shirt and baseball hat, wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me up to stand. “I don’t mind teaching you a few things one bit, sweetheart.”
Shit. Trying not to make a scene, I wrench my wrist free and smile. “Maybe I’ll just watch. Root for you to win.” I peek at Connelly. He’s downing his SoCo, attention intentionally averted.
“That sounds real nice,” the guy says. “Stick close to me, baby. I need a good luck charm.” He winks as he settles his large hand at the small of my back.
My whole body locks up. Tension gathers in my shoulders, snaps my spinal cord straight. My skin flames where he his hot palm rests. As he guides me toward the pool table, I instinctually pull away from him, unable to suppress the flaring panic.
Pull it together, Sadie. The plaid-shirted trucker doesn’t notice my aversion to being
touched, but to my dread, Connelly does. There, in the pits of his black eyes, a twinkle of suspicion. A hint of doubt.
He’s too fucking perceptive. A true hunter. This trucker might know a little about stalking, but he’s light-years apart from the forensic tech who dissects and analyzes his prey down to their most basic, visceral need.
A prostitute who cringes at touch is either an intriguing specimen for him…or a red flag. As I settle in beside the trucker, I keep Connelly in my peripheral. I can almost see his brain churning the prospect; how excited he is by the thought of a woman, who’s terrified of being touched, bound and tortured. Her fear that much more palpable. The inflicted pain felt that much more deeper.
Pure lust washes over his face, and he’s having a difficult time controlling the tremor in his hand as he tips the tumbler to his mouth.
Caught.
After a week of fruitless foreplay, in one unguarded moment, I’ve become his ultimate target. By revealing my greatest vulnerability, I’ve ensnared a predator that rivals even my abductor.
This will end tonight.
“Scoot closer, baby.” The trucker squeezes my waist, forcing my body close to his. “This game is about to get interesting.”
My heart rate jacks, but I don’t move. Frozen in place, I allow Connelly to assess me openly. My triggers and my reactions. My weaknesses. I’m giving him a wealth of knowledge to use against me, but it’s a fair trade.
I’m learning even more about him.
Our desires can be our ultimate weakness, too.
The man at the other end of the pool table catches my attention. He’s sussing out his own target. He sways to the side on a drunken stagger as he raises his pool cue. As his partner leans over the table to line up her shot, he slides the stick between her legs.
She misses the shot, the tip of the cue marking the green felt. “Shit!” she snaps, glancing back at the guy. “That’s fucking stupid. I’m on your team, ya know.”
But he’s not worried one bit about the game. He continues to run the stick up the inside of her thigh, then lifts the hem of her skirt, his gaze steady on his prize. When she attempts to straighten, he moves quickly. Bracing his hand against her back, he pushes her chest-down on the table.
My stomach clenches. Out of reflex, I place my hand on my hip, seeking the comfort of my weapon…only to find my SIG not there.
Her yelp startles the rest of the patrons of the bar, including Connelly. All eyes shift to watch the scene unfold as the drunk trucker yanks up her skirt. I wait, breath bated, for someone to stop this from happening.
Only no one does.
One by one, the patrons shake their heads, and either return to their drinking or stand to leave. As her warnings turn into shouts of protest, the bar clears out. Tightness squeezes my lungs, a vise-like terror infusing my chest.
This has happened before—and it’s common.
A normal enough occurrence that a head shake or distaste expressed through simply leaving and turning a blind eye is customary.
