Or the way his eyes glinted into mine - so full of danger and forbidden temptation.
I lose my place on the page as I take a shaky breath, trying to clear my throat.
This has to be the beginnings of Stockholm syndrome, and I have to get the hell out of here before it gets worse.
Chapter Eleven
Connor
I'm brooding on my couch later, thumbing through my phone. I'm trying to coordinate shit with people and trying to get abreast of this whole Ukrainian thing, and I hate that I'm cooped up here instead of out there with the rest of the Saints figuring this out.
I'm also having a hard time concentrating on anything because my head's all over the damn place.
All over the damn place, but mostly just on her.
I've ignored that little voice in my head all day, and all last night. I've ignored it while I ignored all my own rules and warnings and bantered back and forth with her, like this is some sort of office flirtation and not her being my goddamn prisoner.
I'm ignoring it now, glancing up to see her curled up on my bed reading a book she had in her purse. And if I needed any more reason to know I was right about her being out of place in that bar, with the flirty skirt and the boots and the leather jacket?
Yeah, it's the fact that she had a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover in her fucking handbag.
Sorry, but genuinely grungy, edgy girls do not carry eighteenth century English literature in their bags.
Regardless, I'm not playing this right, and I know it. I'm getting too close, and being too casual, and too jokey, and too … shit, too flirty with her. And this is not the girl to be doing any of those things with. She's too sweet, even trying to act tough like she's doing. She's too innocent - too young.
And for all the excuses or rationalizations I want to make, none of that matters or means shit. Because at the heart of it, there's one pretty big glaring reason why I shouldn't be playing this so easy and loose.
She's a witness.
She's a loose end - a leak in the dam. As sexy as I think she is, even I shouldn't be thinking that, this girl is potentially the enemy. She and her mouth and what she saw could fucking break me, and I'd do well to remember that next time I start thinking about the way those sweet lips tasted, or any time my thoughts wander to wondering what they'd feel like wrapped around my cock.
Fuck, there I go again.
This is all going wrong. This isn't neat and organized, not like my life and not how I like things. I mean, hell, I've got my vinyl collection organized by release date, for fuck's sake. I've got my books arranged on the shelf in perfect alphabetical order, by author's last name.
My fucking cereal and canned goods in the kitchen are organized by height and color.
I have control, and I have simple, efficient organization, and a girl like this shatters all of that control.
Hell, I never even bring women here. I bring them to my car, or a bar bathroom, or their place, if I'm feeling especially wild that night.
But never here. Never to my sanctuary. Not like this.
This is messy, and I don't make messes, I clean them up.
I'm so lost in my thoughts that I never hear the footsteps come up behind me. I'm so busy weighing out the possible consequences of bringing her here that I'm oblivious until something heavy connects solidly to the back of my fucking head.
I groan, my jaw tightening and stars dotting my eyes. The room spins, and I start to try and stand when my knees give out and I stumble to the ground. I stumble, fumbling for the gun in my holster when something hits me again
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My only thought is wondering how the hell the Ukrainians found me here, and I'm whirling again, my hand closing on the butt of my gun this time, when I freeze.
Yeah, not Ukrainians.
Sierra.
"What the fuck are you-"
"Take your hand away from your gun."
I blink, the room still fuzzy at the edges and my balance still off. I can feel something that's probably blood drip down my neck from whatever the fuck she nailed me in the head with.
The irony that I was just thinking about the consequences of bringing her here is not lost on me.
"What are you doing, princess," I groan, squinting to make out which of the three of her is actually her. My eyes focus for a second, and that's when I notice what's in her hands, pointed right at me.
A taser. The taser I keep in the bottom drawer of my bedside table.
"You're going to want to put that down."
She's trembling, her eyes wild as she shakes her head side to side. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's got her leather jacket and her boots back on.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"I'm getting out of here," she hissed, leveling the taser at me.
"I can't let you do that."
"What, so you can just keep me here? Yeah, no fucking way."
"Hang on, there's more to this than you know," I growl. I haven't told her about the Ukrainian shit yet. I haven't told her that whatever she thinks of me, outside of this place is far more dangerous for her right now than being in here with me.
"The Ukrainians - those guys from the bar, I mean. They're looking for us both. You can't just walk out there and-"
"Stop, no," she shakes her head. "Whatever bullshit you've got lined up, save it. Look, I'm not going to the police, I swear. I just want to get out of here, and I just want you to leave me alone, okay?"
She's still shaking, and I start to weigh the probability of her actually pulling the trigger on that taser.
"Sierra, you need to-"
"Don't follow me," she says, her voice shaking. "I'm not going to say a word about what I saw, I just … " she swallows, and her eyes flick down for just a second.
That's all I need.
I lurch towards her, my hand drawing the gun from the holster. Sierra screams, and I'm just about to get my hands on her when everything goes white and pain lances through my body like liquid fire.
I roar, the gun dropping from my hand entirely as I go dropping to the floor like a fucking brick. I groan, clutching at my sides where the prongs are sticking into my skin and trying to stand when the jolt comes a second time, and this time, everything starts to fade.
The pain claws at me, dragging me down into the darkness as I drop back to the floor, and it all goes quiet.
Chapter Twelve
Sierra
"Thanks for coming to get me," I mumble, looking at the floor of the car.
Jayson clears his throat. "Yeah, of course."
I look out the window as we drive in silence.
"Look if you were with a guy, I- I mean, I deserve-"
"I told you, I was at a friend's house."
"Out here?"
Why Jayson, of all people? Because I have zero friends, that's why. Because after months of digging this hole for myself, I don't actually have anyone else to call. Sure, I've got my family, but they're off doing their own thing. They're off living their lives and getting married and having kids and careers and all that.
Me?
I'm still just … treading water, I guess.
Stella would have picked me up, I know that. She'd even have put Carter in the car and driven out here to this shit-hole area to pick me up, and probably wouldn't even have asked any questions until tomorrow because she's that good of a big sister.
Except, I'm supposed to be the good one. Maybe Ivy would have gotten into shit like this, but not me. I'm supposed to be knee-deep in paid offers from firms, not fleeing my kidnapper, who I may or may not be totally and completely inappropriately attracted to.
Cut out the rest, and all you've got is Jayson, who I called after running away from that factory building of Connor's and finding shelter in the world's shittiest corner store a half mile away.
Hey, I knew he had a car.
"Thanks for picking me up, too."
He nods.
"Look, what I did was fucked up, I just-"
"That was my fault, Si," he sighs. "Dude, that was me, I just- it was a misunderstanding, you know? I really thought you were done with me that night, and the next night, with that girl, she just-" Jayson sighs, shaking his head. "I was lonely and afraid you were gone, Sierra."
I bite my lip, eyeing him. "I set your practice space on fire, all your stuff-"
"It's just stuff."
"Does your band hate me?"
"Nah, they're mad at me." He laughs. "Well, okay, they might hate you too."
The difference between him and Connor is striking. Jayson's small, and furtive - eyes darting as he cautiously takes a corner. I've only driven with Connor once, and I was in the trunk, but I imagine him driving purposefully, with confidence.
And I can't believe I'm still fucking thinking about him like that. I'm still sitting here thinking about that stupid fucking kiss, or the way his hands just grabbed me and tossed me over his powerful shoulder like a caveman.
I'm still thinking about how wet that gruff, dangerous, coldly calculating man made me.
This must be what Stockholm syndrome is.
"So, what happened with your friend?"
I blink, startled from the filthy and entirely wrong thoughts of my fucking kidnapper.
"Um, nothing, she- she had to go someplace."
"And she left you out here, dressed like that?"
"No, she left and then I went out to grab a soda, and the keys … "
I trail off. Somehow, Jayson seems to let it go.
"Well, I'm glad you called."
"Me too."
I'm not going to think about whatever bullshit about people looking for me Connor was trying to feed me when I made my escape because I know that was just his last-ditch attempt to keep me in that place. For now, all I need is a ride, and maybe a couch to sleep on, and tomorrow I'll take the train to my parent's house in Shelter Harbor and figure out what the hell I'm going to do.