ESCAPE: A Stepbrother Romance (These Wicked Games Book 2)

ESCAPE

These Wicked Games, Book 2

Ava Dark

This is a work of fiction (albeit a hot, sexy, and downright dirty one). Names, characters, places, dialogue, and everything else are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to people or events, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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I stand there, my nose bleeding, without my purse, my thin clothes soaked with blood, staring at the plane as it leaves my world forever.

A hand grips my shoulder. I turn, my heart rising.

It’s the police officer. “Let’s get you home.” She holds out my phone to me.

Numbly, I take it.

Numbly, I stare at it.

Numbly, I realize the little LED is flashing.

I don’t consciously processes this, but some automatic action takes over and I turn the screen on, and stare at it through tear-blurred eyes.

Don’t leave. I’m late.

And then, sent two minutes later—just a few minutes ago, perhaps as I was crashing to the floor:

If you already have, don’t worry. I’ll call ahead and have someone pick you up. Otherwise, I’m pulling up now.

I look up at the officer. B. Burton, according to her nametag. She seems to be looking anywhere but at me. She also seems to be waiting patiently. And still holding my purse.

She must notice me looking, because she glances at me, and very intentionally keeps her gaze on my face, which I find strange. Maybe she doesn’t like the sight of blood? But my face must be bloody as hell. “Your mother should be here soon. I’d take you, but I’m not supposed to be this far off my beat.”

I frown. “Why are you?” I ask, wiping a hand across my nose, and coming away with blood.

“Let me get you something for that. I’ll be right back.” She looks around. “Here.” She holds out my purse. I take it. She then quickly walks toward the bathroom.

Well, that was easy. I thought I’d have to run.

I give a shrug, then, when she’s through the bathroom entrance, I
do
run anyway. At least I try to. But after a few slaps of my feet, blood starts pumping from my nose again, and it starts to hurt.

Well, continues to hurt, and starts to throb, which makes the pain more noticeable.

I stop running, and start texting.

I text and walk at the same time, hoping I don’t slam into anyone, sniffing blood back into my nose and feeling and tasting it run down my throat.
I missed the plane. I’m coming. Please don’t leave.

I look up and have gotten only a single step when my phone buzzes:
I’m here. I’ll wait as long as it takes.

“Maggie?”

I look around, and see the cop. Fuck.

I run.

My nose starts bleeding.

I keep running.

I almost slip on my own blood, and change my path to a carpeted area, darting between chairs.

“Hey!”

I don’t look back this time.

I run as fast as my legs will carry me, trying not to crash into anyone or anything.

My purse catches on a chair, and trip and start to go down.

I pinwheel my arms as I stumble forward, keeping a death grip on my phone, and manage to stay standing.

Then I run out of carpet, and have to run on the floor again.

Bloody noses are really inconvenient when being chased. Slipperiness aside, I have to breathe through my mouth. Which somehow makes me feel like I’m drowning, or like I’m sticking my head out a fast-moving vehicle and trying to breathe as the air tries to force its way in—which is like expecting a water fountain and being given a fire hose, for anyone smart enough to never have had the urge to imitate a dog.

“Stop!”

I can hear heavy footsteps.

Not good, she must be close.

My body finds some previously unknown reserve of energy, and I run faster.

I ignore the strange, and sometimes frightened, looks people give me as I try not to crash into them.

Mainly because if I did, I’d fall, and then get caught.

My boobs flop around wildly, and I curse Cynthia for not letting me put on a bra.

Up ahead is the terminal exit. I make a beeline for it.

I glance down at my phone and see the LED blinking.

I bring it up to look at it, and feel myself slowing.

Fuck. I’ll have to get away from Officer Burton first.

“Stop!”

And this time I almost do, because the voice isn’t Burton’s.

From out of nowhere someone tackles me from my side, and we both go crashing to the floor.

Then I’m flipped onto my stomach—barely avoiding smashing my nose into the floor again—and my arms are pulled behind my back.

I hear a ratcheting sound, and my brain provides the helpful connection of those plastic handcuffs that people use to tie wires together.

Or hands, as the case may be.

Which is my case.

I’m pulled to my feet, and a blonde woman in a uniform is staring at me.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I glance frantically around, expecting Burton to come and thank her for catching me and tell her she’s got it from here.

But she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Someone was chasing me.”

Her brows knit together. “Is that related?” She gestures with the hand not holding me at my nose.

“Sort of.” Which is sort of true. Sure, I tripped, but Burton
was
there.

She shakes her head. “Come on.”

“I can’t!” I cry.

“Oh?” She looks amused. “Have somewhere to be?”

“Yes! I have to meet someone. He’s waiting for me.”

“Lover’s triangle? This is starting to become clear.”

Another man in a uniform comes running over to us and grabs me.

I shriek.

“I’ve got this, Gus,” she says, exasperated.

“Oh. You sure? Is she resisting?”

“No, goddammit, does she look like she is?”

He looks at my face, then back to the woman. “Well, yeah.”

She sighs. “That was before. Come on, let’s get her down to One.”

“No!” I cry.

She pushes me and we begin moving. “Don’t resist,” she whispers in my ear, “unless you want to deal with Gus here.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re just going to ask you a few questions.”

“But I wasn’t doing anything!”

People are gaping at us now as we pass, but I don’t care. I twist my head around to look at the woman, see her name is Emily. “Hey, you have the same name as the girl I got my ticket from.”

She groans. “Yeah. I know. Is it really that amazing? Emily’s a common name.”

“Dickinson’s not.”

She looks down at her tag.

Gus is making snorting sounds.

I look at him.

“Goddammit, Gus. Is it really that funny?”

“Yes,” he chortles.

“Dickinson? Really? Do you even know who that is, or do you just think the Dick’s funny?”

Gus snorts in reply.

“I don’t get it,” I say.

“Just keep moving.” She shoves me forward, even though I can’t go any faster since she doesn’t relinquish her grip on my arm.

“Where!”

“We just need to ask you some questions.”

We stop in front of a door. Emily swipes a card and enters a code, and we go through.

“For running!?”

She pushes me through the door. “In an airport. Covered in blood.”

We start descending a flight of stairs.

“And not much else,” she adds under her breath.

“This is ridiculous! I didn’t do anything.”

“No guilty person has ever uttered that phrase before.”

“Never,” Gus adds, and snorts.

“Goddammit, don’t you have work to do?”

“I’m helping you. She might get out of hand.”

“I can handle it.”

“I don’t know,” Gus says contemplatively, “she’s got at least twenty pounds on you.”

“At least let me check my phone,” I plead.

“They’ll be time for that later.”

“No! There won’t! That’s the whole point!”

“Calm down.”

“I am calm!”

Gus chortles again. “Where you keeping a phone? Up your—”

“Gus!”

“What? I’m just pointing out fact. You’d be able to see it.”

We go through another doorway at the bottom of the stairs, and into a fluorescent-lit hallway.

My heart sinks. “Crap!” I cry. “My phone. My purse! I must have dropped them when you tackled me!”

I hear her groan. “Are you serious,” she states flatly.

“You have to get it!”

“Go ahead,” Gus says, “I’ll take her from here.”

“Gus, goddammit, are you retarded? You want me to leave you with a nearly-naked teenage girl?”

Gus shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“No fucking shit you don’t mind. Goddammit Gus, how the hell did you get this job?”

Gus shrugs. “I was a cop.”

“And how’d you get that job?”

“My dad.”

“At least you’re not deluding yourself, I guess,” she mutters.

Gus reaches for me.

“Hey!” she says, slapping his hand.

“What?”

“What did I just say?”

“Something about my dad.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have a gun.”

Gus points at her belt. “You’ve got one right there.”

She looks at it, then back at him. “And I’m going to use it on you if you don’t get your big-oaf ass up the stairs and find this girl’s phone.”

“I don’t know,” Gus says. “Maybe she has it on her.”

“You’re not doing a cavity search,” I say.

We stop walking. Really, Gus and Emily stop walking, and since Emily’s holding me by the arm, I’m forced to stop—despite Gus’s comment about me outweighing her, she’s surprisingly unyielding.

“Why? Are you hiding something?”

“No! What, you think I shoved a bomb up my ass?”

There’s silence for several moments, and my stomach drops.

“You can’t be serious!” I cry as Emily snaps on another latex glove.

We’re in something like an interrogation room, me at one end, Emily at the other, by a table and some folding chairs.

“You should carry you ticket and ID in an airport.”

“I did! It’s in my purse.”

“And where is that?”

“I don’t know. I lost it when you tackled me.”

“Well, that’s what you get for mentioning bombs in an airport.”

“It was a joke! And you tackled me before that!”

She shakes her head. “Looks like the joke’s on you. Now please remove all items of clothing, including but not limited to your shirt, shorts, bra, underwear, socks…” She pauses, looking at my feet. “Uh, and shoes.”

“I don’t have any underwear.”

“Obviously,” she coughs. Then, “Good, this should be easy for you.”

“I have rights!”

“Yeah. You do. Not stripping isn’t one of them right now. I can get some officers in here to hold you down and strip you, if you’d prefer. But then your nose might start bleeding again, and I’m already going to have to get a new shirt.” She looks down at the huge splotch of blood on her uniform. “They’ll never pay for this.”

“You tackled me!”

She chuckles. “Yeah, I got kinda carried away. Not much action here.” She gestures. “Off. Everything.”

I look down at myself.

“Oh come on, there’s no one else watching. The sooner you strip the sooner we can get this over with. It’s more unpleasant for me than for you.”

“Yeah, right.” I frown. “Wait. What are you going to do?”

“Other than make sure you don’t have a bomb up your ass, as you put it?”

“Do I have to?”

She sighs. “You’re testing my patience.”

I grab the hem of my shirt, and slowly pull it over my head. I yelp when it hits my nose.

“Careful!” she shouts. “Don’t start bleeding again. You should probably see a doctor after we’re through here.”

“Assuming I don’t have a b—” I stop myself, and continue pulling. The shirt clears my head, and I look around for somewhere to put it.

“Just drop it.”

“Eww.”

“Jesus.” She grabs one of the folding chairs next to her and pushes it over to me. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I set my shirt on the chair, then stare at her.

“Go on.”

I quickly slide my shorts down. Or at least, I try to, but they get caught, and I have to shimmy them over my hips and thighs.