Very Bad Billionaires (45 page)

CHAPTER 10

The relentless sun beat down through the living room window, and as I stirred, I brought a hand up to shield my eyes and turned in toward the back of the couch. My head was throbbing, every part of me numb and largely useless. Even bringing my arm up to cover my eyes took ten times the effort it should have.

I sat up slowly, bleary-eyed and disoriented, leaning forward in my seat enough that I had to grab the cluttered coffee table to keep myself from falling off of the couch. As I clenched my legs to keep myself upright, I felt the same pulse between my legs I'd felt when I laid down. The events of the night before came flooding back, and I immediately found myself aching for Rafe's touch.

I remembered the way his fingertips danced so lightly over my skin, the way he teased and taunted me, his commanding tone and presence. I found the hand not grasping the table sliding up my thigh at the memory.

Pointless. Not him.

For all I knew, it wasn't coming down from the drug that had me so desperate to get inside the apartment, so absolutely wrecked that I’d only been able to cling to consciousness long enough to fling myself on the sofa. Maybe it was Rafe. Maybe he had just thoroughly wrung me out.

I shook what fog I could from my mind, trying to put the memories of his expert touch aside for the moment and willed the living room to come into focus.

Stumbling across the cluttered floor, I picked my way carefully to avoid stubbing my sensitive toes on Rachel’s collection of accessories and boxed appliances. Only a thin path led to the back hallway. Everything else was covered in wrapped gift boxes, bags from high-end boutiques, and imported shipping crates.

People were always stashing stuff at her apartment or offering her luxe gifts she didn’t need, she groaned with an irritable wave of her hand the first time I had seen the place. I just stood there with my mouth open at the expensive, careless mess piled in unstable towers that nested against the cracked plaster walls.

From the front door of the tenement, I had assumed I would be walking into something a lot more Spartan. The other apartments in the building were probably nowhere near as well-appointed, but almost all of it seemed to be unopened or at least unused. I counted at least three espresso machines in boxes and the two mismatched leather sofas still had thick plastic on them where they butted against each other.

“What,” she had said with a disinterested shrug. “Men just like giving me things.”

I picked my way gingerly down the hallway to the bathroom, flicking on the light switch, my eyes widening at my appearance. My eyes were shadowed and haunted, mascara and liner smudged in dramatic swipes in the hollows above my cheekbones. My skin was sallow and porous, pasty with a suspicious cluster of blotches along my jaw. Just how strung out was I?

I pulled a brush through my hair, wincing hard. Deep in my belly I felt my guts flopping over themselves, warning me that I needed to eat something soon or suffer the consequences. But there was no food here. The last time I had opened the refrigerator out of desperation I had found only a jar of French mustard and a container of salt. I needed coffee, maybe groceries.

What I need is money, though. Dammit, Rachel why couldn’t you have paid me before you left?

With another ominous gurgle from my belly filling the tiny, rust-stained bathroom, I knew I didn't have time for a shower—I had to find Rachel. I straightened my clothes, giving a soft, groaning sigh as I regarded myself in the mirror.

It’s good enough to leave the apartment, at least in this neighborhood. And I should leave some evidence of last night on me, in case she doesn’t believe me. I bet my story's better than hers, for once.

I cracked a little smile at that, finally beginning to feel the weight of the strange night lifting. She was going to be proud of me, I knew it. Maybe even a little jealous if I was lucky. Slipping my sneakers on at the door, I grabbed my purse and headed out for the neighborhood where Rachel worked.

It was a short enough walk, and one I'd taken a few times before. I trudged among the grey-yellow weeds in the sidewalk cracks, head down against the wind. Though it was warmer than the night before, the sky was still low and close and every few steps I felt a gust of wind whistle into my thin windbreaker.

The street she worked on was always an odd, surreal sight. The rowhouses were seemingly endless variations on a single theme. They were all tall and narrow, with slight variances in color between them and incredibly cramped together. Slanted window boxes hung untended off front windows, choked with withered former flowers. The bottom floor windows were all barred on the outside and curtained on the inside, as though keeping the outside out as well as the inside in.

I'd become accustomed to crummy apartment living just fine, but something about the sight of these run down, beat up houses made me a little uneasy. Houses meant independence. They were supposed to be neat and tidy. Pristine examples of the American dream. Something to aspire to.

As I walked past a rusty, swaying gate a chorus of dog barks shot out into the street, making me nearly jump to the curb. Cursing my nerves, I just hunched into my jacket and walked forward faster.

I figured that Rachel was bound to pass by or see me eventually, so I forced myself to slow down and wait, make myself obvious. I couldn’t remember which houses she worked in, but there were at least two possibilities and so I stood halfway between them. I felt an uneasy pit in my stomach with the crumbling sentinels standing over me, their paint chipping and wood rotting.

Stealing furtive glances up toward the windows, I hoped to just luck out and find her standing in one of them so I would know which house it was. But every window was blanked out with drapery like a blinded eye.

This was one of the worst blights in the city as far as most people were concerned, but it was more than that. It was neglected and overlooked for a reason. The tenants were the ones society wanted desperately to forget about: the elderly, the infirm, the addicts, the disturbed.

Rowhouses in other neighborhoods were usually reserved for decent middle class families, which only made this place all the more disturbing. Somewhere along the way this neighborhood had just been forgotten and left to rot. It was structurally like so many others, but fetid and shabby.

There was probably a moment in history where it could have gone either way. Some tipping point. Some point where everything could have been reversed: the eaves painted, the flower boxes perennially filled, the gates repaired. But then everything turned, and it could never be retrieved.

The throbbing at my head was only getting worse. I leaned against one of the short handrails, grasping it tightly as the world spun around me. I reminded myself for the hundredth time that yes, taking the pill was a mistake, and that I would stand up for myself a little more next time. Either Rachel didn't get it or didn't care. Either way, that wasn't happening again.

The low rumble of an engine stirred my from my swooning stupor, and I stood as straight as I could to begin the walk anew. I slowed when I realized that the car wasn't passing by—it was following me. My walking wasn't putting any distance between me and the sound, and I could hear the engine tick up here and there. I chanced a look over my shoulder, and saw a black SUV with blacked out windows.

My heart skipped a beat. I found myself surprised at my reaction—I wanted it to be Rafe. I wanted him to come and take me into the big black SUV, drive me around, touch me, command me...
anything
. I turned and began walking to the driver's side window, a small smile on my face. It immediately fled when the window rolled down to reveal Bronson.

He didn't seem too happy with me, but he wasn't exactly angry either. “Hey, Rachel. What's goin' on, huh?”

Oh, god. He still thinks I'm Rachel.

I put on my best vaguely friendly tone and expression, but my worry must have shown through. “Hey, there. Bronson, right? What're you doing around here?”

“Just followin' up on a little lead is all. I need to talk to you.”

He opened the door, dropping out quickly into a half-crouch like a wrestler. I found myself backing up instinctively as he walked toward me, ready to bolt through one gangways toward an alley or to start banging on doors.

“The fuck are you running for? Stop, stop.” He seemed earnestly confused by my retreat. “Did I say something fucked up last night? I mean, I was on all kinds of shit, it's not like I remember. I probably didn't mean it, whatever it was. Come on, talk to me for a second.”

He gave a quick beckon with his hand and I squinted against the gusty winds. What harm could there be in talking to him? We were in broad daylight. Admittedly, it wasn't a great neighborhood, but he'd have to be insane to try something out here. Even as I took a few tentative steps toward him, I chastised myself for acting like a scared puppy. He was just a guy. Maybe he wanted to talk about the real Rachel or something, ask for her number, something like that.

“Yeah, fine. All right, just... what is it you want, exactly? It's kinda weird to meet you out here, we're not exactly close to the bar or anything. Do you know Rafe? Did he tell you where I stayed or something?”

He shook his head firmly. His auburn hair was so tightly coiled to his head that it remained utterly perfect.

“Nah. Like I said, just followin’ up on a little lead. I was kinda scoping out this block. And ah... y'know. When I saw you, I figured I had to ask. Is this where you're gettin’ the stuff?”

I could feel my brow coming down instinctively, defensively.

“Um...”

He crossed his arms tightly, muscles straining against the sleeves of his deep red jacket. Under knitted brows, I could see his coppery eyes were hooded and dark and realized he had the same hangover I did, if not a few times worse. I didn’t envy him.

“Don't be coy with me, I just want to get some for myself, fuck,” he drawled, rolling his eyes and sneering over one corner of his fence picket teeth. “Is this where you get the stuff or not?”

I hesitated for a long moment, looking back at the ramshackle buildings behind me. Remembering Rachel’s coaching I stood up straight, trying to affect a confident pose.

“Yeah,” I finally admitted. “You can get pretty much whatever in a pl—”

I felt him creeping far too close for comfort. I turned to him, staring up, the fear obvious on my face now. I think he liked that. The last thing I saw of him was his tongue, thick and curling over his open bottom lip as he grabbed me by the hair.

He spun me around, one of his arms tucking beneath my chin.

Oh, god, he's going to strangle me.

I kicked wildly, thrashed, tried to headbutt him, but nothing seemed to loosen his grip on me at all. His arms clamped around me like a vise as I clawed pointlessly as his sleeves. My mouth opened wide and I desperately tried to call for help, but nothing came. There was no one else around, and if the tenants above saw us, they didn't care.

The world was fading quickly around me, and my head throbbed like it was about to burst. I went limp just as much from resignation as exhaustion.

This is it.

Spirals twirled in front of my vision, setting the edges to fire and then black ash. I couldn't believe how cavalier he was about it, as if he'd done it a million times. Expert, quick, efficient.

I knew I couldn't have been his first; he was too brazen. That thought was simultaneously comforting and terrifying. I’d found someone truly dangerous, and I hadn’t seen it coming at all. But at least I wasn't the only woman he'd singled out. At least I wasn’t unique.

As soon as that thought drifted through my mind, I was gone.

###

End of “His Captive, Book 1.”
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Meg is an old-fashioned, dewy-eyed romantic who really believes that longing and passion begin and end with true love.

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