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Captive Ride(15)

By:Ella Goode


My priorities are messed up. Sometimes I wonder what I might have become if I’d worn the white hat in the courtroom and not the black one. But my path was set the moment my uncle died in prison, serving a life sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. Too poor to have decent representation, he took the fall for some rich guy with enough money to hire a raft of lawyers when my Uncle Dale couldn’t afford even one. He had to make do with a wet-behind-the ears public defender whose law degree was so fresh you could still smell the ink on it when you walked into his shabby, cubicle of an office.

I huddle in the bathroom, bottle of hairspray in hand. The stupid thing isn’t one of those big aerosol cans everyone used to use before aerosol was deemed to be dangerous for our ozone layer. My hairspray is a pump action thing with a fine mist that probably can’t shoot a spray farther than a few inches.

But I can imagine what Flint would say if he came in here and I didn’t have something in my hand. Amy goddammit I told you to grab a bottle of hairspray. You think this is a game? Maybe you need a spanking to remind you who’s in charge.

Just thinking about his commanding voice sends a shiver of need down my back. A scuffling noise from downstairs reminds me that my thoughts are completely inappropriate but then I’m sore, sticky and draped in a blanket while there’s at least one armed man running around my house.

I don’t know what the protocol is for this particular situation.

“Who the fuck are you?” Flint’s voice rises through the grate in the bathroom floor.

There’s a muffled response and then the sound of flesh hitting flesh. I wince, hoping Flint isn’t on the receiving end of that punch.

“Nice patch there. You think that’s going to protect you? Think again because I don’t give a fuck who your president is. If you’re acting on his orders, then you just went to war with the Death Lords.”

“You Death Lords are pussies,” the intruder spits back.

“And you’re dumb as shit because I’m the one with the gun at your temple and you’re the one kneeling at my feet with your hands taped behind your back. Your little friend is out cold. I think he fell on his own knife.”

There’s another sound, a violent one, followed by a grunt of pain.

“I’m only asking one more time,” Flint says. “Who are you?”

“Go…to…hell.” The other man chokes out.

“Amy, I can hear you breathing through the vent,” Flint calls up to me. “Go on and put those clothes on I left at the end of the bed. When you’re done dressing, come down with the bag. It’s by the door.”

I do as he says because I want to live. On the floor, near the foot of the bed, is a pile of leather and cotton. The items must have fallen off the bed while we were having sex. I pull on the leather pants, marveling at how comfortable they are and how well they fit. I’ve never even thought about leather in pants before. That seemed to be a material better suited to purses, shoes, and jackets. It’s as I’m pulling the t-shirt over my head that I heart it—a sharp, muffled, but unmistakable boom.

Moments later I hear footsteps on the stairs. “Just me, Amy,” Flint announces as he climbs the stairs. I hurriedly dress, throwing on the jacket I find on the floor without even looking at it.

Flint stops in the doorway. “You’re a picture, sweetheart. A real picture.” He stalks forward and circles me, taking in the tight fit of the pants, the nipped in waist of the leather jacket and the way that the cotton t-shirt hugs my nearly non-existent curves.

“Beautiful,” he says. His hand cups my jaw and the smell of gunpowder is unmistakeable.

“Is there a mess downstairs?” I ask, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice. Now’s not the time for me to breakdown.

“Yeah, but someone will be here to clean it up.” Flint replies absently and with zero concern that he’s left at least two dead men in my kitchen. “You have a pair of boots?” He looks around.

“Downstairs by the back door.”

He strides to the corner of the room where the case holding my things and who knows what else is packed away sits. He flings it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

My bare feet don’t move. I’m not sure what I’m getting into and I need to know. I need to have a lot more information than the few crumbs he’s dropping.

“Is my house secure?” I ask.

“It is for the next couple of hours but after that, no, which is why you and I are taking a ride to Fortune for the night. I’ll bring you back to the cities tomorrow so you can pack up anything else you need and then we’re taking a vacation. You been to Wyoming, Amy?” He tilts his head to the side wearing a curious and bland expression.