… And I made out with this man.
I'm such an idiot.
Of course, I doubt he knew he was going to kill me then. I doubt he knew at all before I stepped into that room, and watched him murder two people.
And now I'm a witness.
It's dark, and he carries me through a deserted parking lot towards a big, crumbling old factory building. A cold breeze slinks up under my skirt, making me shiver. I look up to see the Boston skyline, and my hope drops.
We're not close to anyone out here. We're in the old shipping and deserted factory district south of the city and screaming is not going to help.
But that doesn't mean I stop. I try and kick my legs out, or try and get a knee into his chest as I'm slung face down over his shoulder, but he holds me firm.
He unlocks a side door with one hand and hauls me through to a freight elevator. I'm still screaming at him to let me go - pleading and begging as we go up one, two, three, four, to the fifth floor. The elevator stops and he uses the key again to unlock the freight door and push it up and open, still holding me tight. We step off into a huge, black cavern of a room. My heart's racing, I'm looking for plastic wrap or torture devices, when he strides over and clicks on a light.
I frown, blinking.
Not a murder room.
Actually the place looks like a freaking magazine shoot. The huge loft space is gorgeous - masculine, tasteful, richly decorated in leathers and dark woods that contrast to the brick walls. Framed rock posters hang along one wall above an enormous vinyl record collection, and a tiled-wall kitchen full of brushed silver appliances occupies a far corner of the space.
Low-hanging, expensive looking industrial glass fixtures lit by Edison bulbs illuminate the loft space in a soft glow, showing a hardwood floor covered by Persian rugs, a brown vintage leather couch and matching Eames chairs, an enormous coffee table made from what looks like a reclaimed wooden factory door.
The place looks like a bachelor pad out of a damn movie, not a murder room.
There's no plastic lining on the walls. No torture devices. No prominently displayed knife collection.
He strides across the room, me still over his shoulder and when I see the large king-sized bed in the far corner of the loft, I lose it.
I summon everything I have left to lash at him, tearing at him, feeling the blood on my wrists as I try and yank my binds apart. I kick his hands free of my legs, until I suddenly go toppling to the floor as he drops me.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he growls. He lurches for me but I kick at his hands, eyes wide, my face stricken.
Because this is not happening. I'll fight to fucking death before I let him-
"Will you calm the fuck down!" he roars, and suddenly, it's the eyes from before. It's not the eyes of the man who grabbed me and stuck a gun against my head, it's the man with the promise of bad decisions you'd love to regret from the bar.
The man I kissed.
The man who kissed me back like no kiss I've ever had.
The deep shadows of his cheeks hollow as that square jaw tenses. His eyes flit across mine, brow furrowing, and it's then that I notice how damn perfect his lashes are - like, enviable as a girl dark lashes.
It's a stupid thought, given what's happening.
He crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet and clasping his hands in front of him as he peers at me.
"Who are you?"
"Fuck you," I hiss.
Well, it's more of a "fffcsshhk eeuurrr" through the gag, but the message gets across.
I hope.
He grins a small, tight smile before narrowing his eyes at me.
"Just answer the question. Who-"
"fffcsshhk eeuurrr."
He sighs. "Last chance." He reaches a hand out towards the gag but pauses. "Can you behave?"
I scowl at him, the fury rising in my face and the fear making it almost impossible to breathe.
But I will not let fear cow me.
I will not let fear keep me from fighting tooth and nail until I can't anymore.
I nod.
"Good."
He slips the gag over my bottom lip and pulls it down to my chin.
"FUCK YOU!"
He sighs again as I scream in his face. "You done?"
"FUCK YO-"
"No one can hear you, if that's the goal here."
He stands and shrugs that leather jacket off. His black t-shirt is tight across his broad, defined chest - shoulder muscles and biceps rippling as he folds the jacket and drapes it over a chair.
And I suddenly can't believe I'm noticing things like "rippling biceps" on a man like this.
My eyes drop to the gun holstered under one arm, and I shiver. That gun killed two people not thirty minutes ago, and I watched it.
"I'm not going to say anything."
The words blurt out, and he turns, as if remembering I'm still here.
"I know you're not."
"I'm really not! I swear!"
The fear starts to rise up, threatening to choke out my breath - to squeeze me until I can't breathe.
His eyes burn into mine. "You're right, you're not, because you're not going anywhere until I figure out what to do with you."
What to do with me.
I swallow thickly. "Please."
"That's not a magic word here."
"I won't say a word."
"I know," he says quietly.
He moves towards me, and I'm screaming hoarsely, turning to try and crawl away across the floor as he grabs me up and slings me over his shoulder again. He marches for the bed, and my heart jumps in my throat.
"Please!!"
I'm screaming, crying, tears running hot down my cheeks as the terror grips me.
"Please don't!"
"Relax," he growls, tossing me down onto the bed.
He grabs a length of rope and lashes it around the metal frame at the foot of the bed. He reaches for one of my ankles, looping the rope around it, tying me to the bed, like I'm on a freaking leash or something.
"Just sit here, okay?"
The fight is draining from me as he tugs at the rope and then checks to make sure the plastic tie is still around my wrists behind my back.
I'm panting, eyeing him, and feeling like I might actually pass out - the fucked up mix of adrenaline spiking through my system and me still being drunk sending my head spinning.
"Relax, sit there, and calm the fuck down," he growls. He pulls a phone out of his pocket as he stands and starts to march away. "I'll be right back."
Chapter Five
Connor
Fucking shit.
This night has gone from bad to a fucking worst-case-scenario. First, a meeting I never wanted to go to, on a day of the year I fucking hate. And now Mikhail's fuckin' dead and I've got a witness tied to my bed.
In my home.
I've also got two dead bodies sitting in a fucking dumpster back at the bar.
Not exactly my best work, but I had to act fast. After I dragged her screaming from that room, shoved a bandana in her mouth and got those hands through the zip tie behind her back, I kicked open the back door and made a beeline for my car. Luckily I'd parked close. I caught a few knees and head butts on the way down the alleyway, dumping her in the trunk before booking it back to the room.
The blood splatters couldn't be helped, not with the timeframe I had.
The bodies I stashed under some garbage bags in a dumpster behind the bar, and that was that.
Yeah, I'm the fixer for fuck's sake, and I've managed to not fix this at all.
I scowl as I kick open the door to my fire escape, stepping out and sucking in cooler air. I wasn't lying to her about no one hearing her. No one will and I really am the only person who lives here. All ten-thousand square feet of it.
Technically, this building has been owned through a series of shell corporation for the last thirty-odd years. Unofficially? Well, it's owned by the Dark Saints, of course.
Back in the day, this place was used for all sorts of shit - everything from a garage for boosted cars to a safe house for when shit got hot. For a long stretch in the 90's, the Saints used it as a jump-off spot for smuggling good old fashioned U.S.-made guns over to Ireland into the hands of the IRA.
Before my time. Before I was a Saint.
I grit my teeth as I stare out over the broken down streets of the old shipping and warehouse district south of downtown. Boston glitters from across the Fort Point channel - a stark contrast to the shattered, broken gloom of this place.
Or maybe it's just the gloom of this night. It was raining on this night eight years ago. Funny how you remember stupid details like that years later. Funny the things that stick with us and fuck with our heads almost a decade after they've slipped into the past.
I take a deep breath and stare across the channel at the city. Shining, sparkling - removed from this place.
But I like it here. It's quiet, and I like quiet. The second I think it, I can hear the muffled sounds of her screaming something back inside my loft, followed by the sound of something crashing to the ground that's probably my bedside table.
I grind my teeth, my mouth tight.
Pulling the trigger was the move - the right move that I didn't fucking take for some reason. Back in that room, with that shit band making such a perfect sound barrier and distraction out front, that was the best option.
Pulling the trigger, and cutting the loose end right off, right then. The move was putting her and the other two bodies in that room in my trunk, and then heading out to Revere or some place to bury them or sink them in the harbor.
That was the organized way.
That's my way.
Instead, this just got messy.
Extremely.
Because now I've got a witness tied up. A fucking hostage. A drunk, innocent, feisty-as-shit, fight-me-until-she-can't-move spitfire of a girl. The girl who thought kissing me in that shitty club was her idea of getting wild - the rich, clean little college girl who decided tonight was the night she was going to get dirty.