He’s tall, whoever he is, or maybe it’s the way his blue suit jacket drapes over his wide shoulders that makes him seem big. Button-up shirt, with enough buttons undone to imply a well-toned chest. No tie. A criminal who keeps it casual, but his laidback look doesn’t make my frightened heart pound any slower, my shallow breath any deeper.
He drops my lavender sheets, and looks me over, like a predator sizing up the trapped prey. “Where’s Jamie?”
I scoot backwards toward the opposite edge of the bed. “Don’t fucking touch me. You better stay right the fuck there,” I say, trying to control the tremble of fear in my words as my mind races for anything that I could use as a weapon—an old nail file in the nightstand, a paperweight. There’s the bedside lamp, which he’s still standing next to, but I have a hunch that he’s probably not just going to hand it to me, no matter how nicely I ask. I emptied out this room when I went to Europe two years ago. Never thought I’d be coming back, and damn sure didn’t leave a baseball bat conveniently under the bed. I’d even settle for a catcher’s mitt. I could knock him right across his perfectly angled cheekbones.
As I stand, I grab the only thing in reach: a pillow. I hold it out in front of me like a shield.
He scowls. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. He crosses his arms, and the sleeves of his suit and shirt shift up slightly to reveal tattoos that end right at his wrist.
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing here?” I say, my voice deeper than usual, my hands steady despite the fact that I feel like I have hot lava in my veins, boiling and ready to erupt any second.
Between fight or flight, I’m choosing to fight. Because when I left London this morning, I was done fleeing for good.
I cross over the bed in three long strides, thrusting the pillow into his face as hard as I can, holding it there like I’m going to suffocate him standing up or at the very least disorient him like he’s disoriented me.
He stumbles backwards a step, but manages to lift me around the waist and toss me over his shoulder, disarming me of the pillow. It falls to the floor as he carries me to the wall, where he sets me down and grabs my shoulders, pinning them, his grip forceful but also soft in a way, like he’s trying to hold me, not hurt me. I can feel the smooth fabric of his suit pants on my bare skin as he spreads his legs so his shoes straddle either side of my naked feet.
“Really running up your tab in the swear jar tonight,” he says. “Kind of like your little boyfriend. Except he owes more than a few quarters.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. Whatever’s happening right now, I refuse to let him think I’m afraid. I look up, meeting his eyes. They’re blue, that deep kind of sapphire color. Piercing, I might say in a different context, one where I know what the hell is going on.
“Got him, Ryde?” Another male voice calls from the hallway.
“We’re good here,” he says. “You and Valero head to the car.”
I turn to face my captor. “Shouldn’t you go with him?” I say. “Clown cars don’t work unless all the clowns are inside.”
He doesn’t budge. “But we were just getting to know each other.” His hard chest presses against me and I can feel his heartbeat, measured and even. Like he’s relaxed.
That makes one of us.
“So what’s your name, tiger?” he says, his mouth half smiling as he glances down at my t-shirt.
“What’s yours?” No fear, Cassie. Calm, cool, collected.
He releases my shoulders, instead putting his hands on the wall on either side of me, boxing me in. “Ladies first.”
“Bullies before beauties,” I say, batting my eyes, making sure there’s no doubt which of us is which.
“Ryder,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“For this kind of pleasure,” I say, “I’m usually at least taken to dinner first.”
“High expectations,” he says. “And you are?”
“Not telling you shit.”
“That’s too bad. Because I need to know where Jamie McEntire is,” Ryder says. “Although I certainly appreciate a woman who stands by her man.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m standing by my brother.”
Ryder tilts his head back, taking in the info he clearly has been too busy practicing “bad cop” to research. “That makes more sense,” he says. “I was beginning to wonder how a punk like him keeps a woman like you satisfied.” He studies me. “It’s a shame he didn’t offer you as collateral, too,” he says. “That’s a trade I might have taken.”
Collateral. That’s not a word that ever means anything good.
Oh, Jamie. What’d you do this time?
“Collateral for what?”
“The debt he owes me,” he says. “Ten grand. Plus interest. And since he can’t pay in cash, he’s offered to pay with this house.”
I shake my head. My muscles tense and I can hear my heart beating in my ears, working extra hard now to fuel the anger welling inside me. Really, Jamie? “No, he can’t,” I say, louder than I expect to.
“But he did.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, “It belongs to me, too. You’re not taking it.”
Ryder tsk-tsks, sliding his hands to my upper arms. “I’ll take whatever I want, tiger.”