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Then I can go to the police and force them to look into it.
God, I’m shaking. As plans go this one is crappy, I’m well aware of that, but it’s all I was able to come up with after leaving the warehouse.
Thing is, I haven’t been able to get the image of his bloody, slack face out of my head. Say what you will. I can’t leave him to die, even if we barely know each other, even if we don’t care about each other.
Crazy or not, here I come.
***
Creeping into the warehouse feels all sort of wrong. I’m torn between abject fear and the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of what I’m doing.
Fear wins out as I try the door I used last time to enter and find it locked.
Good thing I’ve run around the place since I was a kid. I know another way in. I go around the back of the warehouse and try one of the small bathroom windows that never closes completely. I push it open carefully—there’s a trick to it—and slide inside.
My purse thumps to the floor before I catch it, and I draw a sharp breath. Shit. Then I stalk to the bathroom door and press my ear to it, listening for noise and voices.
It’s quiet.
Drawing a deep breath, I open the door and step into the warehouse proper. I tiptoe toward the stairs. Dorothy’s feet are smaller than mine, and her black All Stars are so uncomfortable.
Jeez, this place is cold.
And Hawk is tied to a pillar, sitting on the freezing tiles in the basement.
I’m going to do something about that. Hey, the guy gave me toe-curling orgasms. That counts for something in my book, even if he wants nothing more to do with me.
It’s not love. It’s not friendship. But he’s been nice to me. He’s been the perfect rebound from the last asshole I was with. And hey, we can’t let the world lose such a hot boy, right?
Right.
Besides, even if it’s mafia business, that still doesn’t mean the police shouldn’t be told, right? This is about justice and citizen safety and…
About Hawk’s life.
Some answers wouldn’t be bad, either, I think as I slink across the huge space, open the door soundlessly and climb down the stairs.
The only illumination comes from the lit-up EXIT sign on top of the double door behind him. And there he is, where I left him this morning, tied up, head bent forward, darker splashes on his long hair that can only be blood—only he’s blindfolded and gagged.
Jesus. It’s like I stumbled into a horror movie. I half expect a madman to come around the corner, swinging an axe or a chainsaw.
I drop to my knees by his side and sweep back his hair. “Hawk.”
I push down the gag, untie the blindfold, and take it off, my hands s
haking.
God, he looks terrible. His face is bruised, one side swollen. He has a cut under one eye that has bled a lot, coloring his fair beard, and his lip is split, too. His eyes flutter open, and they look bloodshot in the dim light.
He blinks at me uncomprehendingly and licks his cracked lips. A cough rattles his chest, and it sounds awful. Then he blinks again and something changes in his expression.
“Hot Body?” he rasps, and yeah, see why I shouldn’t worry about him? He won’t even use my real name, like, ever, even when I show up where he’s kept prisoner, and beaten bloody.
“Layla,” I say automatically. Not that it ever does any good. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Ah, that.” He chuckles, and although he winces, the warm, dark sound of it makes my whole body tingle. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry about it? Seriously?” I gape at him.
