Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(21)

That’s not the type of girl who wanted to ruffle feathers, especially not with her dedication.

I can’t explain it, but I feel a certain connection to her, as I have since I first met her to invite her to the program. My professionalism required that I be harsh with her, perhaps more so than the other students. I’m not the type of trainer who’d succumb to my baser desires, but I wanted to establish early than I was off-limits, and much too hard and cold for her.

But my impression was such that I had truly high hopes for her at the time we met, and my instincts are rarely so far off.

I peer at the students for a moment more before making another call — this time, to one of my colleagues.

“Max? How’s the new batch of students?”

“Excellent, but I’ve got to go track a couple of them down. Can you cover for me? I’ll owe you a drink later.”

“Ehhh, fine, no problem, I’m around the corner.”

“Thanks, I’ll leave my chart by the door — I’ve got to run.”

“Good luck, Max.”

I hang up the phone and head out of the building, leaving the athletes to handle themselves for the time being. By now, most all of them are self-sufficient enough to handle themselves for five minutes.

For some reason, with every passing heartbeat, I feel a growing sense of urgency regarding the two students. My mind keeps recalling my first meeting with Liv, occasionally wondering if I was too harsh with her despite all the potential I saw, and perhaps that’s what rouses my sense of responsibility even more strongly than usual. Maggie strikes me as more inclined to cut loose, but both are still extremely talented, and the fact that they share an apartment and both haven’t shown concerns me all the more.

I care deeply for my students. In all my time as a teacher, I’ve given more than a few rides home in pouring rain, helped them pay for their equipment and travel costs, and even given little lessons on how to cook cost-effectively. I have a personal stake in such things. So when a young woman fails to appear for the first day of training, I become concerned.

Especially in the case of a talented young woman like Olivia.





7





Liv





Something smells like death.

I struggle to open first one eye, then the other, feeling like my eyelids weigh a thousand pounds apiece. My body is numb and heavy, and I can’t seem to orient myself. I have no idea where I am, only that I feel a damp, dank coldness sinking into my clammy skin. Even opening my eyes doesn’t help very much, as it’s almost pitch-black wherever I am right now. I might as well be blindfolded, for all the good my eyesight does me here. I blink impotently in the darkness, willing my arms to move, to feel, to do anything at all. But everything is so stiff and immobile, like I’ve been paralyzed. My muscles simply won’t answer to my brain’s instructions.

Am I dying? Am I dead?

My throat feels coarse and thick but I need to make some kind of sound. What if I’m not alone in here? Where are my parents? Am I in the hospital?

Then it dawns on me that I’m not in North Carolina anymore; I’m in France. My sluggish brain trudges through the train of memories. I came to Paris to study and train under world-renowned gymnastics coaches. I came here alone. This is my first night in Paris, and…

Maggie! Where is she?

I was with her earlier tonight — I know that much, even though the rest of the night is still so foggy. I try to open my mouth to speak, but it appears that some kind of restraint is wrapped around my head, cloth fabric pressing in on my lips to keep me from forming words. Summoning all my strength and focusing every sleepy nerve of consciousness, I manage to push a moaning sound out of my vocal chords. Somewhere to my right I can hear a similar groan, more akin to a whimper, high-pitched and fearful. Maggie.

My heart starts to race as the full gravity of our predicament settles in around me. We’re being held somewhere dark and dank, we cannot move or speak, and we have no idea where we are. At least, I have no idea. I wonder if maybe Maggie knows something — not that I can ask her, since neither of us can talk at the moment. I decide that’s got to be the most important thing, the first order of business. I’ve got to get this thing off of my mouth.

But how can I do that when my arms don’t work?

I grunt and strain, willing my arm muscles to respond to me, all in vain. I feel so detached from my own limbs, like they don’t belong to me. I can’t even figure out if they’re restrained or if I’m simply paralyzed. Closing my eyes, I decide to start small, with just my fingers. I try to recall the sensation of wiggling my fingers, and slowly but surely my fingers start to twitch. I let out a gasp of relief, realizing that I must not be totally paralyzed. I wonder if I may have been drugged, and now the effects are beginning to wear off. That must be it.