Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (10 page)

He was tuned into Scarlet’s footsteps as she came rushing back into the room with the straw. He was aware that Killian’s gaze had never left him.

He’d done the surgery in seconds. The world around him frantic, but his heartbeat held a steady rhythm.

Paramedics came rushing into the room just as he was reaching for the straw. Dropping the plastic next to him, he yelled. “I need a tracheostomy tube stat.”

Jerricho lingered in the dining room, mentally walking through the evening’s events. The caterers worked around him, clearing the table now that the last guests had left.

He’d saved a life today.

The rush of it was still in his blood, the glow slowly dissipating as the awareness of the consequences started to niggle. It had been more than an evening of drama; it had been an evening of revelations.

There would be questions.

He was so used to hiding that the idea of being exposed was uncomfortable.

The party’s mood had probably died with Lana’s outburst, but the incident with Mary had definitely brought it to a close. Visibly shaken by the evening, Scarlet had said goodbye to the guests then slipped off to the library to see if there was any news from the hospital yet. Killian was outside with Joel arranging to have Gregory Hall’s car delivered to the man.

Jerricho stood there torn, hand twitching with the memory of the incision. The cut hadn’t had the same poetry as a scalpel, but when you’re eating crumbs, you don’t care if its cake or bread.

“Excuse me, sir.”

He stepped back out of the way as the caterers cleaned. The piano at the other end of the grand room caught his eye.

And then there was that.

A siren’s serenade.

If he didn’t watch himself, he’d end up drowning.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He’d canceled all his regulars for the next forty days, but there were the customers who called randomly when life hit their triggers and the need struck.

We have a medical emergency.

Dado.

Jerricho had been trying to get the man to agree to a monthly payment instead of the weekly one. So far Dado had been ignoring him.

Jerricho stretched his neck first to the left then the right, but tension had locked its jaws on his muscles.

The only situation I have is financial. Unless you’re texting to say you agree to the monthly payment?

He stared at the text before he hit send. More reality sank in.

Killian now knew he had been hiding something. Had showing his hand blown their arrangement? Or would Killian use it against him? Leverage. You didn’t give a man like Killian leverage.

Dado’s message buzzed.

Ha. Funny-Man. You know what I want.

No medical favors.

He had to hold onto controlling the things he could. He should have never boarded that boat. He should have found a different way to travel to New Zealand and the help he’d hoped to find there. But beating himself up over it was moot. In surgery, sometimes things went wrong, and when they did, you just worked the problems one by one.

Did you watch the news tonight?

Where was Dado going with this?

No
.

There were terror raids in Sydney today. Police said the suspects were planning to chop off the head of an enemy of Islam. Got me thinking. Do you think there is a bounty on your fatwa?

His fingers instinctively locked on the phone as his gut tightened. He was certain it was just a threat, until one day when it wasn’t. His phone buzzed again.

Bring the money the day after tomorrow. We’ll talk about what you want and what I want.

One month, Dado. I’ll pay you everything I owe and extra.

Killian was paying him twenty thousand more than he needed. He’d bribe Dado if that would buy him the time he needed.

Extra is what I’m asking for. Meet me in Hyde Park.

The phone remained dead.

Fuck.

Any last romantic notion of the earlier evening was now gone, and he relentlessly worked the problem. He had just enough to make one more payment. It would mean breaking the lease on his apartment, leaving him with nowhere to live after the forty days were up. But that was the small problem; the bigger one was where the next payment was going to come from if Dado didn’t agree to give him the month.

Everything hung in the balance.

His clinical assessment deteriorated into a sense of helplessness. He wanted to burn it off, burn off the cold rage.

He wanted to dominate and fuck with a cruelty that would lead to abandon.

Sadly, that was not going to happen tonight.

Tonight he was just a paid whore, who didn’t know if he still had a job.

As if on cue, Killian walked into the room. One look from the man and he hadn’t finished counting his problems.

“Drink?” Killian headed toward the minibar and poured two whiskeys.

Jerricho stared at the fool’s gold in the glass; it never solved anything yet still he reached for it. He remembered the blood on his sleeve just before Killian’s gaze fell on it.

The world hit pause.

He’d washed up after Mary, but had remained in his clothes. It wasn’t going to hurt to remind Killian he’d saved a friend’s wife.

“You want to tell me what a doctor is doing pimping himself for sex.”

“Usually, there’s very little sex.” He took the offered glass.

“That’s avoiding my question.”

“Yes. It is.” He’d rather talk about whoring instead of the doctoring.

Killian didn’t break eye contact as he took a slow sip of his whiskey. Jerricho watched the muscle pull his top lip and the slow bob of his Adam’s apple as swallowed. Unlike Dado, Killian had his full attention.

“Are we going to have a problem, Black?”

He shook his head. “I’m doing exactly what you hired me for.” Back to the whoring. “Ask your wife.”

Killian didn’t flinch. “My wife seems fond of you—”

Jerricho didn’t like the response his body gave to that, didn’t like the squeeze in his chest or the sudden dryness of his mouth that made him instinctively swallow.

“—but I’d like a more objective reassurance.”

“What reassurances are you looking for, Killian?” All he had to do was kill off the problems one by one.

“You’re going to agree to a babysitter. Joel will arrange someone.”

He nodded, even though it wasn’t a request. He didn’t like it, and he’d have to work around it, but he’d accept it to keep the money.

Killian stepped up into his space. “I protect what’s mine.”

The man was so close, Jerricho noticed green flecks in his gray eyes for the first time.

“Don’t makes me nervous, Black. You won’t like me that way.”

There was bluff and there was truth. Killian wasn’t bluffing.

Jerricho reached for the bottle and poured another drink.

At least, he still had the money.

The day was starting to feel brutal; work had felt just like work. Killian never thought of what he did that way. For him, each day was a step further away from where he’d started. He’d grabbed onto opportunity with the single-minded focus to pull himself out of the low-rent, low-love home from which he’d come. He’d taken wild risks, because in the end, he’d had nothing to lose. From the outside, he’d made it look easy. He lived life full throttle—work and play, excess in equal measure. When you grow up in an abusive house, you became dependent on adrenalin.

Except this year.

This year felt like he’d smashed into a brick wall, and it had nothing to do with the bullet they’d dug out of his chest.

Daniel. Scar.

He was the one who was supposed to have taken care of them. All his fucking money was worthless if he couldn’t protect the people he loved. Like the card games he used to play on the street, the whole world he’d built had just been a bluff. He’d felt the certainty bleeding from his life as he lay there dying on the dirty floor.

Balance.

The universe was a fine line of balance.

The balance between his father drinking enough to fall asleep or enough to get violent. Two different worlds teetered on one glass.

He thought he’d eaten enough shit growing up to deserve the good stuff later on. It seemed he’d been wrong.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the headrest and shoved the paperwork off his lap. He wanted to get home. He wanted Scar.

He wanted to find balance.

He’d tried to buy that with Black, and even though there had been a moment she’d hated him for doing that, in the end, she was much happier. He had a fucked-up way of expressing love, but he’d been right.

So why wasn’t he happier?

The phone vibrated on the seat next to him; the screen backlit with a faint glow.
Prophet.

It had been roughly twenty-four hours since he’d phoned Eli, a.k.a. The Prophet, and asked him to look into Black. Watching the unexpected episode of
Emergency Room
unfold in his dining room had made him want to know who the fuck Black was.

“Speak to me.” He placed the phone next to his ear.

“Your boy’s a ghost.”

No. This was supposed to be open and shut. A doctor turned escort. He was expecting a malpractice suit or something equally mundane to explain this picture. “Come again?”

“Jerricho Black, right?”

“One and only. How many can there be?”

“None. That’s what I’m saying. Jerricho Black doesn’t officially exist. He’s not on record, Killian.”

“He speaks … maybe French. Has a slight accent. Definitely foreign.”

“Do you think I’d take all day to come back to you if all I was checking was locally?”

Fuck.

He looked out into the night at the shadowy outlines of trees flickering in his window as the car sped passed. The check-up on Black was supposed to be routine, due diligence to back up his gut because his gut told him the man was safe. Black had saved a life because he couldn’t stand by and keep his cover for Christ sake … and Scar was happier.

“What do you make of all of this, Eli?”

There was a pause.

“I checked police and legal, there’s nothing dirty. Then I checked the things that aren’t so legal, still nothing. For all of these planets to align, he’d have to be very good, and if he was that good, I’d have heard about him. I think you have a friendly ghost.”

“Coincidence?” Having had the cartel get behind his defenses once made him cautious.

Eli laughed. They were men who by their nature were suspicious of coincidence. “Maybe. Maybe you just have a doctor who’s got some troubles.”

Probably.

“Did you check out Wright?” If they couldn’t find anything on Black, maybe the photographer who’d given Scar the card …

“I don’t need to check out Wright. I know him.”

“What does he know about Black?”

“He can explain in great detail what the man’s tattoo looks like.”

He sighed.

“Look, I’d bet money the name Jerricho Black is not on his birth certificate, but that doesn’t make him dirty. Do you want me to meet him, Killian?”

“Maybe.”

“Your call.”

Eli was named The Prophet for a reason. He dealt in information, but it wasn’t just facts. He had a way of reading people; no one really knew what he’d done in the military … or why he’d left.

“I don’t want to lose focus on Romeo.” Getting the kidnapper was the most important thing. As for Black, he’d go with his gut. The man was under his nose, and as of this morning, under watch. In terms of threat management, Black was covered.

By the time Killian arrived home, the ground floor of the house was deserted. He trudged slowly up the stairs. Just after ten, he was dead tired and wide-awake.

He paused halfway up the stairs; in the quiet dark, he was distinctly aware of the difference. Gone was the empty. Instead, there was a sense of calm, even as the inhabitants still moved about with their fractured edges.

Black.

The man had a tangible presence. He was living in the boathouse, and still he was filling up their spaces, seeping into their lives.

The idea nagged him, but before he could pinpoint why, a sound interrupted him.

Something like a wet thud … no lighter … a slap. The noise came from the direction of Scar’s bedroom. Even though the house was dark, he knew she was up; the pale light glowed from her window down onto the garden outside.

The noise came again, a consistent beat punctuating his footsteps as he walked toward her door. He paused outside the room.

A garbled sound, a muffled moan.

Fingers on the handle, he rested his forehead against the door and breathed deeply. He could feel the pull from what was happening in the room. Relaxing, his squeeze on the handle. The slight tremble in his hand made him instantly clench again, strength over fragility.

He wanted to go in.

No.

He
should
go in.

Black could be anybody. A Trojan horse. Scar might not be safe with him.

He was responsible for her well-being.

He should—

The door slipped soundlessly open, already in motion as he tried to make up his mind.

He crossed the threshold as silently as he’d opened the door.

Black’s head snapped up to meet his gaze.

They stood there momentarily locked—no give no take.

A flick of red broke the spell, the flash of color in his periphery. Killian’s gaze traveled down Black’s fully clothed body to the red flogger in his hand. The man was predator-still as he swished the whip’s tails.

Scarlet moaned. A sound of wanton impatience.

Need.

Killian’s gaze flicked to his wife. She was tethered by a rope to one of the beams of the four-poster bed. The electric blue rope ran seamlessly from the binding pinning her arms behind her back, up to the coils around her head in a makeshift blindfold, before it snaked up through her hair where it twisted amongst the red waves as it lifted and pulled them skyward.

Bound and blindfolded, she stood there with her back to him, like a flickering candle. He was sure she wasn’t aware he’d entered the room.

She whispered something he couldn’t hear, the rustling sound pulled Black’s attention back to his prey. The man’s gaze narrowed with intent and Killian had the feeling his presence was no longer of consequence. All that mattered was Scarlet’s burning.

Dismissed. Invited.

He didn’t give a fuck.

He was here to watch.

Black’s wrist rolled, and the tails of the flogger must have licked across her breasts because her back jerked. The sound he’d heard outside, the slap of leather against skin, was forcibly louder on this side of the door.

It shouldn’t have been erotic, but it was.

The sensuality of it embodied in Scar as she jerked back then pushed, straining toward her tormentor until the bondage pulled her back.

Killian’s cock stirred to the sensual rhythm.

It was warm in here; heat filled the room.

Sleeves already rolled up, he loosened his shirt and pulled down his tie. A chair stood against the wall, but it was wishful to imagine he’d been expected. Sitting, he faced the bed, directly opposite the show.

It didn’t matter that all he saw was his wife’s back. It was a strikingly erotic sight with a curving beauty all of its own, and lines of grace and strength that rippled in an expression of flesh.

And her sounds. Sweet Jesus, her sounds.

He used to savor making love to her in the deep of night. So dark they were nothing but souls, only becoming corporeal under his hands as her sighs guided him.

The need in his groin became a burn. How long had it been since he’d allowed himself even this small sexual intimacy?

The burn was too distracting to ignore.

He’d told himself the lies he needed to open the door, but in the room, the truth was hard to ignore, the reasons tumbling down as he slowly lowered his zip.

He wanted back in Scar’s bed, even though he hadn’t earned it. He was tired and aching, and he wanted heat.

He wanted her to whisper to him in the dark as if she held all the truths he could ever want.

But he couldn’t have that.

He had to make restitution. He had to find balance.

With Black, he could at least be in the room. With Black, there’d be no risk of forgetting. With Black, he could pretend it was him.

His hand slid into the open zip and freed his hardening cock.

Other than that, he didn’t touch himself.

Instead, he let the sultry air wrap around warm skin as nerves twitched and muscles tensed. Pressure built to the sound of the flogger and her ragged breath—a raw duet of passion.

Scar cried out, a short bark of agony swallowed by a mellow hum of pleasure.

It was mesmerizing, watching pain melt into lust.

Such an exotic thing.

He absently drew his fingers up the underside of his shaft, touching so lightly, and still it fizzled, as if a spark ran along his skin.

The thud of leather got louder, harder, but her movements turned slow as if she was swimming in the sensations as she moved through them, a sensual writhe of curves under the violence.

Desire scraped along the inside of his stomach as he shifted his weight. The more she relaxed, the tighter he got.

Black whipped her again, a deafening blow, and she cried out that helpless little scream, the scream that had nothing to do with agony and everything to do with tumbling over into the abyss.

She was going to come.

His fingers curled tighter around his cock with the compulsion to pump.

“No,” Black barked the command, his hand clamping her throat. “Not. Yet.”

Killian clenched his lower muscles and squeezed the head of his cock; a bead of precum leaked from the tip.

His body screamed for release.

For Scar.

Masturbation had been a poor diet. He had to work to come, but tonight was different. He was as charged as the room.

He was drawn by Black’s sexual violence, a predilection he held restrained. Killian had no illusions; he was a man born from brutality. He’d seen the attraction to violence in Scar and tried to shield her from it.

Protect
himself
from it. He refused to beat the people he loved, and still he wounded her.

It was no surprise she was drawn to someone like Black. In the end, they had both reverted to their nature.

In the end, love and pain always mixed.

In the end, people like them were always going to fall to violence.

Black slowly loosened his grip around her throat.

The world breathed.

Scar drew in harsh, panting gasps, hips twisting as she fought the need inside her, fought for control. He understood, felt how close to the edge she’d been.

The swell of lust momentarily ebbed, and his thumb brushed the precum, smearing it over his glans. The light was dim where he sat, but he could see the glisten.

The blue rope twirled on its axis as the man turned Scar to face his chair.

She was a flag of passion, red marks and blue rope on white skin.

The touch of his eyes roamed over her. She was pornographically erotic.

The color of her nipples were as deep as crushed berries, a red stain from the flogger covered her chest and thighs.

Ripe and raw, she trembled in wait.

Black dropped the flogger onto the bed, and it was only then that Killian’s noticed the black glove lying there. Black slipped it on, squeezing his hand into the tight fit.

He pulled Scar back up against him, folding himself around her as he kissed along her shoulders and up her neck. She purred with rapture.

The man’s bare hand slowly slid down to her swollen sex, the gloved one dragging across her breast. Momentary white lines scratched into the burning red skin.

A vampire glove.

Welts caused by the prickly teeth poking from the leather flared white before blood rushed back to color under the skin.

Scar groaned in agonized pleasure as her stinging nerves were scratched raw.

Black’s fingers slipped into her folds, and Killian could hear the wet sucking sound proving she was drenched.

Killian swallowed his groan and pumped his cock. Twisting locked fingers as they moved over the head, he clenched his muscles, pulling his abdomen and groin so tight that it tugged at his balls.

He kept stroking, his movement in time with Scar’s hips as he watched her impale herself on Black’s fingers, greedy to come.

Just like him.

He squeezed his muscles tighter, pressure and burn as he bit back another groan.

Black pinched her nipples with those tiny biting spikes, and she barked a sound of visceral pleasure.

Killian focused on the white lines appearing and disappearing across the red skin. She was scratched sore, and still she begged for more, her body blindly swaying as it chased Black’s moving hand.

The sensitivity of his own skin just as excruciating, every sensation moving like the kiss of a thousand lovers’ lips across his flesh, sending shivers throughout his body.

Black’s bare hand slipped from her body, and her voice cracked in needy protest even as the gloved hand slid down to her mons. Sharp, prickly fingers stroked the fleshy mound, and she sighed, pushing into the pain of the man’s hand as if it offered blessed relief.