Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (15 page)

Jerricho walked through the garden from the boathouse. It was almost seven o’clock; the car would soon be here. He’d fucked up. The invitation to boxing wasn’t because Killian liked his company. Maybe that knowledge should’ve been eating at him, but his thoughts were too distracted.

Scarlet had avoided him for two days.

In the moment of the bastinado, Scarlet had joined to him in a way that was spiritual, a breathtaking union of sadism and masochism that moved him in ways day-to-day life couldn’t.

After the bath, he’d laid her on the bed and drank the water from her skin. A slow worship of tender kisses and gentle sex until crying in his arms, she’d come again and again and again. An orgasm for every one he’d edged and denied her. She’d clung to him like he couldn’t get deep enough inside her.

But reflection could be confronting—kink was often a wrestle between reason and soul.

He should’ve eased her into it, even if in the moment it had felt right. Even if she had been ready for it, maybe even wanted it.

He’d opened the door and now she was hiding.

Was it because he’d shown his darker nature?

Or hers?

Either way, the rejection felt raw. A scab pulled off an old wound.

After their closeness, he felt keenly estranged.

She’d been home today.

He’d seen her looking down at the boathouse from her window. He’d gone up to the house, but the knock on her locked bedroom door had been ignored.

He’d phoned. He’d messaged.

All unanswered.

He’d let them get complicated, made it personal.

He’d fucked up.

Jerricho walked through the house and out the front door. Passing through, that’s all he was doing in the Baileys’ life. Just passing through.

Right on time, the black Mercedes came up the drive.

He slowly exhaled; it was time to get his head back into triage. Time to work the problems. Killian. Money. Dado. He had to find a way to make his next payment.

He stepped off the porch onto the gravel just as the front door to the house swung open.

Scarlet. Hair and nightgown in disarray as if getting out of bed had been an insurmountable task.

She looked beautiful.

He stood there midway between destiny and desire.

“Jerricho.” She sounded raw. “I’m sorry, so sor—”

He didn’t want to hear her regret.

He didn’t want her to be married. He didn’t want to be on the run.

Before she finished speaking, he was in front of her, grabbing her and pulling her against him. A rush of victory as she didn’t push him away, then a sweeter rush as he brushed his lips against hers and she moaned into his mouth.

He pulled back to slow down, to look at her. He needed to capture this moment.

Her hand trembled as she reached up to feel his lips. Tentative fingertips traced the shape of them. The innocence of her touch unraveled as she pushed his yielding flesh and forced her way in.

He stood there, letting her explore his mouth, her eyes shining with some sense of wonder, as if discovering him for the first time. The moment tinged with a new longing.

Unable to wait any longer to kiss her, he tugged her fingers from his mouth.

As if in protest, she reached out, caught his hair, and roughly pulled him down toward her.

For the smallest second, he resisted, the same internal battle playing out as if he didn’t already know the war had been won.

The sense of falling.

Onto her. Into her.

Her lips parted on the barest of contact, a warm, wet welcome as she took him in on the softest sigh. Hungry and wanting.

There was nothing hesitant in his kiss. He kissed her as if she was familiar. As if he knew her taste.

He kissed her as if she was his home.

***

The boxing stadium smelled like stale air, sweat and liniment rub. Jerricho started walking down toward the front of the ring, but Killian stopped him.

“You can’t see the footwork from the floor seats. At the big fights people who buy ringside tickets just want to be noticed. Best view is slightly raised, ring center.” He gestured to a row to the left. “When a man’s going to hit you, you need to watch his whole body.”

Bodies talk.

Killian ushered them to a spot of his choosing and sent Joel to fetch a round drinks.

Jerricho sat and took in the atmosphere. Big, beautiful chandeliers hung down, illuminating the crowd. A show of money—the food, the bottles of champagne, the fashion—and it wasn’t just the women who were beautiful.

He glanced at Killian’s profile in his periphery. The man sat contemplatively, watching the ring. A pre-match fight entertained the crowd.

Jerricho leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs; the casual ease was all show. While the silence didn’t bother him, Killian’s mood had him on guard. The back of his neck prickled with the crawling of a thousand spiders.

The dull thudding of gloves on flesh pulled his attention into the ring—a muffled violence covered with a thin veil of civility. The tension of a similar brutality strained between him and his host, it had been a long time simmering.

He watched the boxers’ footwork in the ring, the grace at which they danced around each other. There was a beauty to the art of war. A poetry to dominating and conquering.

The driver arrived with the drinks and Killian drew a slow sip of the whiskey. When he spoke, he was still watching the ring. “You’re a smart man, Black. Want to tell me why you’re here tonight?”

Jerricho watched the boxer in the red shorts get caught up on the ropes. The fighter’s elbows tucked in, gloves shielding his face as his body braced against the assault of uppercuts.

“The bastinado.”

Killian nodded. “I hired you on the understanding you would dominate, not torture my wife.”

“I think the term torture is overstating.” It was exactly that in several countries, but he’d never hit her with the intent to harm. He’d been extremely careful, leaving her feet tender but not bruised.

Killian snorted his disagreement.

“The way I see it, Killian, the difference between you and me, is I only hurt Scarlet on the outside—”

Killian’s head whipped round to look at him for the first time that night. “Here’s where you should stop talking.”

The hard edge of violence in the man’s eyes warned that Jerricho was walking a very, very thin line. Despite the ring, where he sat had become the most dangerous place in the room. He watched Killian’s jaw clench and unclench then clench again as the man wrestled to regain his self-control.

“She’ll never leave me. You have to know that.”

Killian didn’t have to bluff; Jerricho believed him. Even as he sat there with lips that were still swollen from Scarlet’s kiss … he believed him.

Jerricho looked away. He was a smart man, so why the fuck was he thinking about another man’s wife?

The bell rang. A thin blonde in a bikini walked around the ring holding up the number four.

“Do you know how I made my first million?” Killian asked.

Jerricho shook his head.

“I won it at the tables. I took ten thousand to Vegas and I came home with seven and a half million. People think winning is a skill. It’s not. It’s balls and luck. You’ve got no control over luck. Everybody’s has the same luck. So what it really comes down to are balls.” Killian took another sip of his drink. “Balls to play and balls to walk away.”

“I don’t gamble.” Jerricho lifted his own drink to his lips. The vodka burned as he swallowed.

Killian laughed dryly. “We’re all gamblers, Black.”

“No. I’m just doing what you hired me to do. What Scarlet wants me to do.”

“Dominate yes. Claim no.”

“I don’t see it like that.” It was arguable who had done the claiming, and who had been claimed.

“I’ll tell you how I see it. I see you’ve broken faith, and I have to address that.”

Jerricho’s muscles tensed, as he braced himself for what came next. They were getting down to what the night was about.

“I promised you one hundred thousand dollars to sleep with my wife. I’m willing to pay you tonight—”

Killian was paying him off, telling him to walk away.
Tonight
.

“—except why would I pay you all of it when we’re only halfway through the forty days?”

Jerricho shook his head; men like Dado and Killian were all the fucking same.

“You’re only going to pay me half,” he said it more to himself.

There should have been some relief to get any money, but instead, there was a hollow disappointment. He wasn’t sure if it was losing the money … or the girl.

Killian shrugged. “If you want it all, you have to earn it.”

“How?”

Maybe he’d read it wrong, maybe Killian wasn’t telling him to go.

Killian gestured toward the boxing ring with his chin. “A bet. Just between you and me for the fifty.”

Maybe Killian was just fucking with him. A pissing contest.

“Why would I take this bet? If I lose, I get nothing.”

“You’ve been sitting there wondering if I am going to honor our arrangement. I’m a man of my word. You can keep the fifty you earned. Our wager is for the remaining fifty. Winner keeps it.”

It was generous terms—a payoff to go without a fuss. The twist was just for Killian’s amusement. The man was toying with him; Killian knew he needed all the money, knew the number that had made him sit down and listen to the proposal in Killian’s office.

The man knew Jerricho’s price.

The fifty was being dangled out there as a reminder of who held the power.

The bell rang and Jerricho looked back at the ring.

“Preliminary matches don’t go past four rounds. It will go to the judges’ decision. A match seldom ends in a draw,” Killian explained, as if they were sitting there just shooting the breeze.

Not with them. With them, there was definitely going to be a winner and loser.

Except he wasn’t losing, he’d still walk away with the fifty. He could make up what he needed in three to four months. He could take the money and make the weekly payment. He could keep Dado off his back about medical favors. He was one giant fucking winner.

So why did he feel like he was losing?

Tonight.

He had to leave tonight. He could see it playing out. A drive back to Killian’s office to collect the money then back on the streets. Jerricho thought back to the kiss.

To Scarlet.

“Lorenzo or Johnston, who’s it going to be?” Killian asked.

The names meant nothing.

“Why did you hire me, Killian?”

“I’m asking myself that same question.”

They looked at each other, each man simmering with his own fury.

“You’d like to hit me right now.”

“One day I will.” It was a promise casually delivered with certainty instead of a threat. Killian’s gaze moved behind him and he smiled. “Crash.”

“Killian.” The man named Crash came up to them and shook Killian’s hand then Jerricho’s.

Everything about Crash said fighter. From the short hair and crooked nose to the fit of his clothes. He turned and surveyed the crowd and the ring.

“I hear you’re leaving, Crash, switching to UFC?”

Crash turned to look at them again and shrugged. “That’s where all the pretty boys are going.” He smiled.

Killian laughed. “Yeah? Then who the fuck invited you?”

Crash laughed back. “Money talks. TV loves the cage …” He turned back to the ring with a look of longing. “You betting tonight?”

“No, Black here is. Tonight I’m just spectating.”

Crash turned and nodded at Jerricho. “You got a favorite?”

He shook his head. “I’m new to boxing.”

Crash raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’ve sparred with them both. Tight call. But I know where my money is going.” He winked at them.

It was an unspoken offer for advice. All Jerricho had to do was ask. He expected Killian to butt in, but the man only watched him, waiting for his move.

Crash was his lucky break. Hadn’t Killian said something about needing luck?

And yet he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ask for the tip.

This wasn’t about the money; this was about the girl.

A girl who’d never leave her husband.

And still it didn’t matter.

Fuck it. He was the loser.

He shook his head. “No. I’ve just made my choice.” He looked at Killian. “I’m all in, all of it for a chance to say goodbye. Tomorrow.” The only reason his voice remained steady was because he was strung so tight.

He’d just put his freedom on the line to spend one more night with Scarlet. If ever there was a moment he was expecting Killian to slug him, this was it.

Killian didn’t reply. The man just watched him, measuring him for what seemed like a long time.

No.

Killian was going to say no.

The tension burned like acid chewing up his joints. He needed to move, but he sat there calm, contained, eyes never leaving Killian.

Killian slowly nodded, raised his glass and saluted him.

It was done.

“I’ll bet on Johnston.” For no other reason than the “J”.

He finished his vodka with a gulp. He’d just cost himself his freedom. He could barely breathe, and she was worth it.

Crash smacked him on the back. “Smart man.”

He didn’t feel so smart; he’d just bet one hundred thousand dollars for a goodbye.

Scarlet heard the car roll up toward the house as the song ended. She didn’t know if she needed to take a deep breath or a deep sip of alcohol. She walked over to her piano, picked up the bottle on top of it and poured a generous splash of wine before sculling it. She drank it like it was the cheap stuff, except it wasn’t. Because of that, she’d had to drink a fair bit to get this drunk.

Not drunk enough to cause this sick feeling in her stomach. She shouldn’t be nervous. Killian never lied to her.
Had
never lied to her. She
had
never been torn between Killian and a lover before. Some things were sacred. And then they weren’t.

Killian walked into the room, hands in pockets. “What are you doing in the dark, Scar?”

The room was barely lit. She’d been practicing in her studio in front of a wall of mirrors, but tonight she really couldn’t face herself.

Killian hit the light switch just as Jerricho came in behind him.

Relief. Sweet, giddy relief.

She giggled; drunk and happy, she couldn’t hold it back.

Killian tilted his head at her.

“I can’t tango.” It was a deflection, but true. “I mean, I used to, but tonight my feet can’t remember.” She was babbling now, but she couldn’t stop. “The show. They want me to tango.” She laughed again.

“You’re drunk.” Killian started walking toward her.

“No. Tipsy. And I need someone to help me tango.” She couldn’t deal with anything deeper right now.

He gently took her glass.

“You kept your promise,” she whispered as their fingers touched.

“Always.” He looked into her eyes. “I didn’t touch him.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes prickled. She felt bad for doubting him.

Killian placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

She closed her eyes and breathed him in. “I love you.”

He froze. Or maybe she imagined it.

“It’s been a long time, Scar.” He pulled away and lightly cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the apple. “A long, long time.”

That made her want to cry even more. All this time, she had been thinking it instead of saying it. All this time, what had they been doing? But tonight was good …

She blinked away the tears; it was so easy to slip into the malaise of drinking. She didn’t want to cry. Tonight she wanted to celebrate.

“I want to dance.”

Killian smiled.

“I want to dance.” Her voice rose as her gaze traveled over to Jerricho. “My husband loves to watch me dance. Do you know how to tango?”

It could’ve been her distorted senses, but there seemed to be a pause, both men stopping. Then it was gone, imagined, because they moved as if they had an understanding.

Jerricho came up and Killian passed her hand to him. His hand was warm as he took hers.

Real.

Jerricho was real.

Killian had stuck to his promise.

A fresh wave of relief, like a swoon, made her lose her balance.

“I don’t think you’re good for dancing.” Jerricho’s hand gripped her arm as he steadied her. He sounded disappointed.

“I’m good.” She smiled.

“No. I don’t want you to twist an ankle. You’ve got a show.”

She opened her mouth to argue then closed it. “We can dance tomorrow.” There was no rush.

He gave her a smile tinged with sadness. It tugged at her conscience.

She looked to Killian as if he had answers, but he was only watching, studying the two of them, with that impassive gaze.

There was nothing out of the ordinary but something was wrong.

“Dance for me now?” she said with a new urgency, feeling an instinctive panic she couldn’t explain.

Jerricho laughed.

“Please.”

He looked at her, sobering because she was serious. “I can’t dance on my own.” That same sadness was in his smile. Bittersweet.

She looked around helplessly. “Killian. Dance with Killian.”

The men laughed together, but she wanted to cry. The bitch of it was she didn’t know why. “Please. Just … dance with him. For me?”

She looked at her husband; he shrugged as if he had nothing to lose.

She looked back at Jerricho.

He sighed. “For you.”

***

Jerricho moved together with Killian to the middle of the floor, half circling toward each other, half pulling away.

What was he doing? Except Jerricho knew.

He was saying goodbye.

This was not how he wanted it. But goodbyes never were.

And maybe this was easier—easier to leave on this disappointment than to leave the sanctuary of her bed.

In that moment, he understood why Killian had hired him. All the questions he had answered—when you loved someone, you give them what they wanted.

They came together. Both of them raising their arms, ready to lead.

Behind Killian, Scarlet raised her brows. Now that Jerricho had agreed to dance, she was back to smiling.

“Everyday songs to tango to.” She raised a remote into the air and pushed play.

The unexpected guitar riff of The Animals classic,
Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood
filled the room.

Using the distraction, Jerricho grabbed Killian and began to lead the man across the dance floor. The motion of his own body pushing them where he led, even as Killian pushed back. The slow steps less of a glide and more like wading through a bog as the man resisted.

How had Scarlet thought this would work? Them, together. Impossible.

The tango was not a contact sport.

But this was not the tango.

Their chests bumped into each other as they executed the steps up close.

They were in each other’s space.

In each other’s face.

It was impossible to ignore Killian. Impossible not to feel every inch of Killian’s strength pushing up against his body.

Jerricho tightened his grip.

A moment’s pause before they wrestled the turn and lead. In a real fight, he was sure he’d go down to Killian, but in the semblance of the dance, the man was keeping it polite.

Somehow they slowly moved along the floor in something of a dance until they slammed, straining into each other again. Killian moved his weight, stole the lead and did a step to rock them—still feigning the dance.

Neat adrenalin coursed through his veins with its feel-good rush.

Jerricho shoved, pushed the man out of his hold, then grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back. He didn’t give Killian time to get his footing as he took the steps … slow … slow … quick, quick, slow.

He thought he heard Killian laugh but the music blared. The man slipped his foot between Jerricho’s legs and almost tripped him.

Jerricho let go, the men rolling against each other as they got their balance. Chest to chest, back to back, each contact a heightened awareness. Until facing each other again, Jerricho grabbed and raised Killian’s arm to lead again.

The man ducked under it as if he was going to use the momentum to turn the tables, but Jerricho jerked him sharply against him. The solid knock of Killian’s body slamming into his own was exhilarating. Jerricho clamped his hand on the man’s neck, tilting Killian’s jaw back and forcing his head to fall against him. Feeling the throb of Killian’s pulse under his thumb and forefinger, Jerricho placed his cheek against the man’s hair and breathed deep. It was so tempting just to squeeze. So tempting to own Killian’s breath, his heartbeat. Despite himself, Jerricho’s cock stirred.

Killian maneuvered out of his hold and shrugged him off.

Shoulders bumping, they turned on a tight axis to circle each other again; they had lost all semblance of the dance. The tango lost to testosterone, brute strength and hot tempers.

Jerricho reached behind Killian’s neck and pulled him in again, leaning against each other like college wrestlers.

His forehead pushed against Killian’s, like two stags locked in a game of dominance, and somehow dangerously intimate.

Short, harsh puffs of breath meshed as their gazes held, equally fixed.

There was defiance and acquiescence rolled into one as Killian’s weight leaned heavily into him even as the man moved lightly on his feet just like the boxer he was. The contrast was captivating.

The second most erotic thing under his hands, after a submissive’s complicit surrender to their undoing, was the fight for it. Killian’s resistance and strength excited Jerricho.

The music stopped, the silence repelling the men from each other like a cold shower.

Killian’s eyes blazed with awareness as he jerked back.

“Holy fuck.” Scarlet’s words broke the spell.

Jerricho turned to look at her. The sheen of her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, no longer seemed related to the alcohol. Her tongue peeped from between her lips, licking as if she could taste what he’d felt between them.

He shook the fog of it from his head, turned, and left the room.