Captive Ride(8)

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I stumble out of my office at nine because the vacation doesn’t start until I say it does. The problem is with nothing going on for a month, I actually ran out of things to do. Tanya’s evil plan is working.

My head hurts.

I climb into my car, the sedate four door sedan I paid for with cash ten years ago.

Maybe I should get a dog. No, that would require way too much effort. A cat? Possibly a fish? I think I could keep a fish alive. Then I remember the plants in my office that only live because Tanya waters them.

I’m thirty-three and live alone. That’s normal, though. Lots of women aren’t marrying or having kids. Lots of women are satisfied with their careers and their battery operated boyfriends.

True, I don’t remember the last time my vibe gave me an orgasm like Flint wrenched out of me at the restaurant but maybe it was just my technique. In the darkness of the car, alone, I give myself over to the fantasy of Flint.

My whole body tightens at the thought of big, brutish vice president bending over my bed, one hand on the mattress and the other on the antique wood headboard in my bedroom. I’ve often wondered where his tattoos stop…or maybe it’s start.

He has them on his arm and I can see a hint of them around the collar of his t-shirts. They’re colorful and varied from dragons to strange symbols that maybe I would be able to discern if I’d paid more attention in history class. He’s the epitome of biker hot—the kind of guy you might see in a movie or television show and say I’d do him but when faced with the real thing, you run away. Fast.

Because who knows what happens when he catches you. I’m too soft for that.

Besides, my sole Death Lords client, the one who brought Flint into my life, once said that those bikers could have sex for three hours.

“That’s all you did was eat and have sex? All night?”

“It was only about three hours.”

“No one has sex for that long,” I told my client.

“You ain’t never had a Death Lord in your bed have you?”

I think three hours is too long. I could maybe handle thirty minutes. That’s longer than I’ve ever had before and leaves enough time for me to read a deposition or two before I fall asleep.

Besides, the three hour thing was just a brag. No one has sex for three hours straight. Who would want to? Certainly not me.

It doesn’t take more than ten minutes to drive along the nearly deserted South Minneapolis streets to pull into the alley behind my house. The lights are dark in the small two bedroom Craftsman home I rented and then purchased a few years ago.

A vacation? I can’t take a vacation. Doesn’t she understand that?

I work all day long because there isn’t anything to go home to.

The automatic lights flicker on as I pull into my garage. After a spate of robberies in this area, I came home to find those installed courtesy of Flint. I don’t know what kind of deterrent they actually are but I figure only the really dumb are going to try to attack me in the middle of a pool of light. There are better marks around here.

I unlock the door and push inside. The stale odor of a house unused all day hits me. I flick on the kitchen lights and throw my briefcase, purse, and keys on the scarred oak table.

They make an empty sound in the small space. No, I don’t need a vacation. I spend enough time alone. At least when I’m working, I’m around people.

My heels make a satisfying clicking noise as I enter the bedroom. I hit the light switch but it doesn’t work. I hit it again. No lights.

Weird.

Did a fuse get blown during the day? The fuse box is out in the garage. I fumble with my phone to find the flashlight app when a dark form rises from the bed.

I scream and turn to flee but a hand on my hair catches me and drags me back.

“My purse is in the kitchen. Let me get it for you,” I plead.

A tall, broad frame fits itself along my back. “Where you’re going, you won’t need it.”





Chapter Four





Amy


“What do you want from me?” I gasp.

“You know.” He spins me around and muscles me over to the bed. Somehow he has my arms pinned behind me. I tumble facedown onto the mattress.

I squirm under him, straining to free myself, but he climbs on top of me and straddles my waist. With his heavy weight, I can’t even turn over. The only thing he allows me to do is turn my head to the side.

He has both wrists captured in one big hand. “You don’t want to do this,” I tell him. “I’m a lawyer. I know people.”

“How nice. So do I and I’m guessing the folks I know are a helluvalot more dangerous than the pansy assed males you hang around with.”

I hear metal strike metal as he unbuckles his belt. I give a renewed effort to buck him off, but it’s impossible. I’m completely under his power. Moments later the leather is around my wrists. I might not be able to compete with him physically, but I’m a lawyer. Surely I can talk myself out of this.