Author: AJ Adams
Category: Humorous
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Back when I was fifteen, I'd helped Papa kidnap a prosecutor who'd been foolish enough to go after us Zetas. It was my first proper job, and I was proud as hell to be in on it. We'd snatched him from the street, beaten him, and locked him in a car trunk for 24 hours. When I'd opened it, the stench of putrid blood, piss, and shit had knocked me back six feet.
Back then I'd thrown up. I'd grown out of it; having done my share of beheading, garrotting and slicing, meant I could hold my own no matter what. So, I was taken aback at the lack of mess, but it relieved me I wouldn't have to torch my suits.
"Out," I repeated.
She was curled up in a nest of suits, pullovers and shirts but she wasn't moving. In fact, she was too still.
"Mierda!" I touched her neck. There was a faint beat, but she was out. I rolled her into the light. She was deadly pale, too. "Joder!"
Her mouth was dry and her lips rough. It explained the lack of mess; dehydration kills fast. I'd learned that early on too. Lock a man in a trunk and leave him in the Mexican sun for a day, and you get dead meat. No water, no life.
She was so light, that picking her up was no problem. I took her next door into the bathroom and ran the tap.
Pouring water into her proved difficult. The first lot ran over her lips and out the other side. Holding her in my arms as I dripped it into her worked better. After half a glass went into her, she swallowed. After that, it was easy. She emptied the tumbler in swift gulps.
She didn't move when I left her to fetch a bottle of water, but she opened her eyes. As I lifted her again, she really was too light. I ignored the blue welts on her ass and the black bruises on her wrists and ankles. Underneath the surface damage, her ribs were showing, and the bones were too sharp in her face. "When did you last eat?"
All I got was a blank stare. She was conscious but not tracking.
I'd intended to starve her into submission. Having her die on me would screw up the plan. I carried her into the living room, piled her on the sofa and picked up a chicken leg. "Take a bite."
To my amazement, she turned her face away.
"Come on, eat."
She whispered a protest.
"What?"
"I'm a vegetarian."
Of all the fucking things! "Seriously?"
She didn't have the energy to shrug, but the determination shone through. I fed her the side salad and went into the kitchen.
I had a cupboard filled with booze and a fridge with chili, ketchup, and jalapeños. Luckily, I'd saved a flyer from a place across the street. "Canton Kitchen? Can you send me a vegetarian set?"
She gobbled the sweetcorn soup and the mushroom stir-fry with shaking hands and squinting eyes. She was functioning but that quick mind was dulled and I could see she wouldn't be able to stand up. That was the dehydration at work. A day and a night in a cupboard couldn't have that big an impact. She must have been ill when I'd taken her.
Another fucking problem. I couldn't just go at it. I'd have to nurse her.
In short, I ended up sitting on the sofa with her. It was the first night I'd spent at home since I'd arrived in London. I like to have people about me, so it was a bore. The channels that weren't filled with reality shows, were devoted to football. I loathe the game.
But the girl was soft and supine. I found myself stroking her hair. Then I was imagining having her. She was a bitch from hell but she had skin like silk.
As Arsenal scored a goal, she shifted and opened her eyes. "I stink."
"Yeah, you fucking shot me."
"Very funny." But she was shivering. "I'm sweaty."
I touched her forehead. No fever. In fact, she was cold. I carried her to the shower and took off the cuffs. "Get warmed up."
She was wobbly on her feet, and so I stayed, just in case. "Can I have a cuppa?" She was shuddering. "Pretty please?"
The English and their tea. Still, I needed her alive. "Okay."
She drank it with shaking hands.
After, I picked her up. "Come on, bed."
She didn't struggle as I chained her to the headboard. "Coward. You afraid I'll shoot you again?"
I did not slap her. "Terrified."
A silence and then, "Thanks for the tea."
We lay in the dark, with me thinking I was cursed. I'd planned to have her tamed by now, begging for mercy and regretting all the foul things she'd said. Instead of which, she was lying in my bed, well fed, comfortable, and still big with the sass. She was one tough nut.
But she also smelled of soap and I remembered that soft skin and hair. Reaching for her, I tensed, waiting for teeth. But the girl wasn't up for wild games. Carefully, I curled an arm around her and spooned her.
I ran my hands over the high breasts, fondled the curved waist and eased my hand between the soft thighs. In the dark and in silence, she was a delight. Soft, sweet and sleek deliciousness. Burying my face in her hair, soaking up her scent, I felt as if I'd come home.
A soft sigh, and then she warmed and flexed, making it easier for me to slide my cock between her legs. My breath caught and my heart leaped. This was it. Perfection. I embraced the velvet skin, drowning in need and want.
"Preciosa."
Arching and plunging, we came together, my hardness and her softness melding into perfection. She rippled around me, sinuous sensuality, her breath quickening in concert with mine.
The loudmouthed virago had vanished; this was a quiet woman, intent on her mounting pleasure. As she stiffened and shuddered in quiet release, I sank my lips into the cloud of curls, soaking in her girlish perfume, soaring into my own ecstasy.
"Corazón."
I cradled her, sated with delighted, still feeling that sense of rightness, when it came to me that this wasn't a woman I could be with. She was the enemy. I'd also missed an opportunity. She'd moaned happily in my bed and I'd forgotten to tape it.
I'd dropped a loop but I couldn't regret it. It had been a five-star fuck.
As I held her in my arms, uncertain at the unexpected turn, she bumped her ass against me, "Still not sorry I shot you."
She was a brave, strong woman. It was a shame she was with the wrong team. I tugged her hair. "Go to sleep, fresa."
"You'd better let me go," she warned. "This isn't Mexico, you know. In London, you and your gang are nobodies."
"Shut the fuck up!" She really got me on the raw, the bitch.
Her voice was a threatening hiss in the dark. "You'll regret this, Jorge Santos."
I shoved her away from me. "I already do."
Chapter Six
Persia
I'd faded away in the depths of the cupboard, thinking I was gone. Then, light, water and soup. I was dizzy, not really in this world or of it. The murmur of a voice, "Sit, fresa" and "Just relax, fresa."
I was on automatic, as if talking and moving in a dream. There was water, bouncing off my body, soap, and, incredibly, tea. I heard myself mouth off but I felt as if I were outside myself, looking in.
Gentle hands stroking my hair and my back, then lingering over breast and hip. I floated into a soft dream of delight. I lost sense of self and body, only conscious of those warm, rough hands holding me, their knowing touch driving me into pleasure. Soft cotton sheets, hard body sliding over mine. His quiet breath in my ear, quickening as a rising need consumed me.
"Preciosa."
"Corazón."
Sweet words. Perfect love. I peaked and soared, shattering in delicious delight.
His arms cinching around me, his strength hot and damp against me, brought me back to earth.
The haze of sensual enchantment ripped away. He'd belted me and locked me in a cupboard, leaving me there until I was on the threshold of death. Rage throttled through me. Not a lover; a fiend. "You'd better let me go. This isn't Mexico, you know. In London, you and your gang are nobodies."
He stiffened instantly, "Shut the fuck up!"
"You'll regret this, Jorge Santos." It wasn't a threat; it was a promise.
"I already do." He shov
ed me away from him, growling, "Bruja mala leche." It didn't sound like a compliment.
Peering at him covertly, I saw the massive bruise spreading out from the bandage on his arm where I'd shot him. There were black and purple splodges and broken skin where I'd savaged him with my teeth as well. By the look of him, I'd hurt him as much as he'd hurt me.
Under the brave show, I was scared to death he'd take revenge. Remembering Kowalczyk making me suck him off after, I muffled the retch that rose up. The momentary strength vanished, and I felt weak again. If the Zeta beat me, I couldn't have lifted a finger to help myself.
Memories I'd repressed for years came rushing back. Rick forcing himself inside me. Jeering sweaty faces and grabbing hands. White hot pain from punishment. Then, a ceaseless stream of bodies on mine. Despair, exhaustion and horror dissolving into a never-ending hell.
I forced myself into the present and faced facts. That gentle coupling was meaningless. In my gut, I knew he yearned to destroy me. Fear powered determination: I wasn't going back into the darkness without a fight.
He was furious, the anger almost palpable. But he switched off the light and lay down. He didn't move, didn't say a word. After an eon, I breathed again. For the moment, I was safe. Also, I had a plan.
As he'd chained me like a beast, with my hands against the headboard, I'd felt a screw sticking out. The second he was asleep, I'd attack it, break apart the bed, grab the lamp from the bedside table and brain him with it.
I didn't care if it killed him. The bugger had it coming. I could have forgiven him if he'd whacked me one for laughing at him at Kowalczyk's because I'd done it out of sheer nastiness. But if he'd taken just one flaming second to listen to me, he'd have known those tweets and all that followed had nothing to do with me.
He'd not listened because he was fixed on revenge. That had me fuming again. I'd walked into that sick setup with Kowalczyk knowing what I was in for but to be revenge-fucked by the Zeta was too flipping much.
My growl of anger had the bugger sitting up, grumping, "Don't you dare throw up in this bed."
"Oh, belt up!"
"Pinche zorra!" He settled down again. "I should throw you back in the wardrobe."
But he didn't. He didn't hit me, either. Or even pinch me. Frankly, it took me aback. It also got me thinking. The frigging maniac had bruised my arse black and blue but I didn't have a split lip, black eye, or broken ribs. I wasn't torn and bleeding, the way I'd been after Rick and his mates had me, either.
The Zeta could have messed me up for life but he had held back. It was weird. Don't get me wrong, gratitude didn't figure. I'd passed out in that closet, thinking my last hour had come. I wouldn't forgive him for that.
I decided it made no difference why he'd not given me a good going over. What really mattered was figuring out how to escape. It was obvious that Jorge Santos had snatched me for two reasons: to punish me and to torture Kowalczyk because he thought we were an item.
At the knowledge, I hesitated. Maybe I didn't need to brain my captor. Perhaps it was worth having another go at talking to him. Once he saw the truth, he'd let me walk.
"I laughed at you but those tweets are Kowalczyk's work."
"Don't lie to me." The fury came over loud and clear in the darkness. "You two are a team."
"No way. It's all a front. He can't stand me and I hate him."
"So, why's he busting a nut trying to find you?"
That shook me. "What?"
A movement signalled he was turning onto his side. "He's telling the world you're visiting your family but privately, he's turning the city upside down, looking for you."
That made no sense. "No way. He loathes me."
"I hear you two had words."
"Well, yeah. I'm mouthy."
"He thinks you walked, and now he's having ten kinds of fits." His voice dripped sarcasm. "His little heart is broken."
"Look, you've definitely misunderstood. I was with Kowalczyk because of a debt." The disbelieving silence told me I was getting nowhere. "My brother took out a loan. We were going to lose our family home and the restaurant."
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" he snapped. "You and Kowalczyk are in business together."
"Well, we did a deal but it's not what it seems. Colin -"
"Save your breath. Your brother is backing Kowalczyk with the same story."
"But -"
"You're staying right here," the coldness signalled he was raging again.
"But -"
"Shall I get my belt?"
I zipped it. I know, call me a coward, but I couldn't face more trouble. Instead, I lay in the dark, wondering what the hell was going on.
I could see why the Zeta thought I was in cahoots with Kowalczyk. I had been posing as his girlfriend. But why on earth was the passionless Pole pretending upset at losing me? It was nuts because my disappearance would just cancel the agreement. Kowalczyk would take Delicious and the house. From what I'd heard, both were safe.
Puzzling it over, I decided that Colin had managed to scrape up some money to keep it all going. Backing Kowalczyk's story was just my brother covering for me. I'd never leave him facing the music alone, but I had stormed off in a snit; Colin must have thought I was taking a time out with a girlfriend.
As for the rest, Jorge had got it wrong. He couldn't have told Kowalczyk he had me. If he had, and threatened to harm me, Kowalczyk would have told him to be sure to send me back in bits. Small ones. And that would have alerted the bugger to the truth.
It brought up another question: why would the Zeta have kidnapped me and kept it a secret?
The military books at the side of the bed caught my eye. Seeing them, I got a sick feeling. Jorge Santos was waging a war. He'd taken me hostage thinking it gave him leverage. He was after payback. He thought keeping my capture quiet would torture Kowalczyk with uncertainty.
Torture. Now that was a nasty concept. Images of every kidnap film I'd ever seen rushed in. My captor would beat me, abuse me, get it on video and send it to my so-called lover. Except, Kowalczyk didn't give a shit about me which meant that the Zetas would strike out. The only person who'd suffer would be me.
My fainting fit had saved me temporarily because killing me wasn't part of the plan. A long, very painful lesson. He intended a slow revenge. My bottom was hot and aching again from the belting. There would be more of that. And from the knife in the bedside drawer, there'd be slicing games too.
Humiliation didn't faze me but at the thought of the blade, I felt sick. I had to get out.
The alarm by the bed shone brightly; just past three in the morning. From the quiet regular breathing, my jailer was asleep. Inching up, I blessed myself that he'd not fastened my feet to the bottom rail. The leather cuffs were bulky, but thanks to the long chain, I could move both hands.
A bit of bedsheet muffled the rattle of the chain. Then I turned the screw bit by tiny bit. I sweated cobs but with each twist, hope flooded in. I kept at it and a million years later, it dropped to the floor. I held my breath - and the bed failed to collapse. It didn't even creak.
I rocked the headboard a little, thinking it would bring it down.
A hard hand gripped my neck. "What are you doing?"
Hell. "Nothing." The bed cracked and in desperation, I bounced up and down, praying as hard as I could.
"Stop that!" The hand tightened, the headboard swung loose and then we were sliding to the floor. "Joder!"
The plan had gone awry. I didn't stand a chance. As we hit the deck, he scooped up the handcuff chain with one hand and whacked me on the bum with the other. "Hey!" Another whap. "Ouch!"
As his hand came down again, I twisted. His bicep brushed my cheek. I snapped and bit. Hard. "Pinche puta!"
He had held back before because the next blow on my arse landed like a tonne of bricks. The force of it was such that I practically went through the floor. I was completely numb and breathless, unable to move, when he was up on his feet, dragging me with him with one hand. I dangled ther
e helplessly as he shook me. "You little bitch!"
I was regularly in for it and from the rippling muscles, this time I'd be breaking bones. My instinctive wail of terror was stifled by a flood of beeps and then ringing.
"Coño!" He slammed me onto the mattress and held in place with a knee in the small of my back. Jorge picked up his phone, there was a blast of Spanish, and then swearing. "I'm on my way."
Again with one hand, he grabbed me by an arm and dragged me to the bathroom. "Stay!" Still breathless but now with a searing backside, I lay there on the tiled floor, too winded to move. He flashed out, flashed back, and then he was securing the cuff chain.
A wickedly strong hand pinched my jaw, forcing me to look up at him. "Mess up the place, and I rub your face in it, hear me?"
He took my gasp for a yes because he was off a second later. A distant slam of the door and a deep silence told me he'd exited the apartment.
I took about a year to get up from the floor. I was aching all over and moving like an old lady. I had the shakes, and I knew exactly why: that one blow on my bum had knocked me for six.
It shocked me because I'd thought myself as hard as the Zeta. Now I now knew differently. Jorge Santos could have broken my bones with his bare hands if he'd wanted to.
The violence in him had scared me witless but looking myself over, I was reassured. My backside was black and blue, as were my wrists and ankles, but that would fade. I'd fallen down the backstage steps at the Milan Fashion Show once and hurt myself worse.
But there was no getting away from that bathroom. He'd linked the two sets of cuffs together, securing one end to the base of the jacuzzi tap and the other around my wrist. Thanks to the long chains, I had just over two feet of room to play with. It got me to the loo and into the tub but that was it.
Examining the cuffs told me he'd bought quality: the leather covered good steel, and the chain was solid. Oh, I tried to get free. I hauled on the bloody thing, trying to break it. When that didn't work, I reached for a towel, looped it around the tap and tried to snap it off. Even with all of my weight, it didn't shift.
I couldn't reach the sink but by lying on the floor and reaching with my feet, I flipped open the cabinet underneath and liberated a storage box and medicine kit.