Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (6 page)

“Mr. Black.”

Jerricho looked up at the man who’d called his name. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a heightened awareness of danger that came from growing up in his part of the world, from the experience of war … and from his current predicament.

He’d have to move apartments.

He wasn’t naïve enough to think Dado didn’t know where he lived, or that the cartel couldn’t find him if they wanted. He’d flirted with the idea of disappearing again, but it really came down to how many problems could he practically outrun? How many things were worth continually looking over his shoulder for? Paying the money seemed easier.

Still, no one had ever shown up on his door before …

He finally registered the suits.

Not cartel.

These men were high-class muscle. Standard black suit, but the fit, that was the giveaway. The tailored fabric made him think of someone else. Someone who could rent suite 1069 in the most expensive hotel in the city.

Scarlet.

She was the only thing that had recently changed in his life.

Now that he’d placed them, one of the faces appeared familiar from the hotel lobby. Still he didn’t relax; this didn’t feel like a social call.

Fuck, he wanted his coffee. A nice macchiato. He could almost smell the beans.

“Mr. Bailey would like to see you.” The man who’d called his name offered the missing piece.

So that was her last name. Scarlet Bailey.

Mrs.
Bailey.

He’d noticed the wedding band. His thought at the time was there were only two reasons a woman wouldn’t take her ring off: She was a widow. Or she wanted to fuck her husband at the same time.

As long as she was paying, it was none of his concern.

His chaperones stood in front of him and slightly off to each side, effectively blocking him in. He couldn’t drum up the care factor to feel intimidated.

“I take it you’re not extending an invitation for a later date?”

No one smiled.

“We’d prefer if you joined us now.”

Prefer. Insist. Semantics.

He nodded, looking down the block at the coffee shop in the distance. So near and yet so far. He turned back to the passive faces. “Where are we going?” He blew out his frustration.

“To Mr. Bailey’s offices near Circular Quay.”

He nodded. That was, at least, better than an abandoned warehouse somewhere.

The drive wasn’t far, but as expected, the city was in gridlock. Jerricho rested his head back and closed his eyes. He concentrated on the energy of the men. Professional. Calm. Routine.

Mistakes happened when nerves were involved.

Eyes still closed, he began to systematically walk through his last few moments of pleasure. A ritual he’d used in the war when riding in the back of an ambulance, not knowing what he was riding into, or if he was coming back.

It had made sense to focus on the things that had made him want to stay alive.

Now, it was no surprise the first thing that came up was a woman undulating under his hands like a flowing river. Even less of a surprise was when he rolled the woman over and saw it was Scarlet.

He tried to push the thought of her out of the way, consciously repainting the face of Jessica, but the spell was broken.

No point beating himself up about it. That would come later. Just because they were using words instead of fists didn’t mean he wouldn’t bleed before this was over.

Eyes open, he stared blindly out the window.

Right now, he’d stay alive for coffee.

The office building was all glass and sunlight. The sterile marble floor was offset by a living green core rising in the center of the building behind the reception area.

The directory indicated a number of different businesses operated out of the building. Everything gleamed with the shine of success and there was vibrancy to its inhabitants.

He was led past a coffee shop in the lobby on their way to the elevators, making him smile as he stepped into the steel cage.

***

“Is everything all right, Killian?”

“Peachy.”

“Then may I ask why you’re canceling your appointment?”

“Last I checked, it was a free world, Eloise.”

There was a pause. She was too professional to sigh, but the silence said it all. “The point of therapy, Killian, is that you talk to me.”

“The point of therapy is to help Scarlet. We both know I only come to you because Scarlet insisted.” Week in and week out, he kept his appointment, comfortable to sit in the therapist’s office doing work in silence. If Scarlet asked if he went, he could look her in the eye. He didn’t lie to Scar, and he wasn’t about to start. Today he had some unexpected business …

“Killian, your PTSD is not going to—”

“I’m fine.”

“Your wife was kidnapped and you almost died. That’s hardly fine.”

“My whole childhood was about almost dying. I seem to be doing just fine.”

“Killian, you have to forgive yourself.”

“Is there any part of this phone call where we are going to agree to disagree? I have an appointment coming.”

The woman paused. “Fine, if you want to play it that way. I called because I’m concerned. Scarlet also skipped yesterday without phoning. She’s never done that. When I called to check-in, it just went to voicemail. When you canceled, I thought—”

“My wife was otherwise … occupied. She’ll be there next week.” Of course Scarlet hadn’t shown yesterday. She was in a hotel suite with a man he didn’t know. Maybe she was also tired of all the talking.

“Scarlet’s been strong through her recovery, and normally I wouldn’t worry, but it’s like I said, the behavior is unusual for her.” She made a small noise of surprise. “Her reschedule just popped up in my calendar.”

“We’re good then.”

“Almost. I was wondering if you’ve given any thought to the suggestion about couple’s counseling.”

Jesus, this was becoming the longest conversation he’d had with the woman, and that included all the time he’d spent in her office.

She took his silence as an invitation to keep talking. “As I explained, I think coming together might start to lower guards and rebuild intimacy. You’re not just punishing yourself.”

Killian sighed and momentarily closed his eyes. It didn’t matter to him what Scarlet did or did not share during therapy. That was her business. His business was to take care of what happened to her.

“Killian? I’m sorry to do this over the phone, but the weeks keep passing and—”

There was a knock at the door; he’d told Anna to let them right in as soon as they arrived.

“My appointment is here.”

“This recommendation is as much for you as for Scarlet. Your relationship needs to rebuild its intimacy. Killian, your wife needs it. Intimacy validates people. And given what she went through—”

The knock sounded again. Or it could have been his temples.

“I’ll take your recommendation under advisement. Goodbye, Eloise.” He cut off her rebuttal by putting down the phone.

Intimacy.

He’d fucked plenty of nameless bodies to distance intimacy from sex. The irony was, that’s what Scarlet wanted.

He blew out a long, slow breath and turned his chair toward the window.

Let them wait; he wanted a moment.

The sky was perfectly clear today. He didn’t like boats, didn’t like the unsteadiness under his feet, but he imagined sailors looked at skies like this thinking it would be plain sailing.

He scanned the vista from his crow’s nest thirty-eight stories in the air. He didn’t buy what the scene was selling. That was another reason he didn’t sail, didn’t chart his way by the weather. There was always a storm coming. The heavens were mercurial at best.

The next knock was a little louder.

“Come in.” He turned away from the window to face his wife’s wrath.

Jerricho Black crossed the threshold.

All six feet three inches of him. Broad too.

Killian had an innate way of taking a man’s measure, something he’d learned while training to be a fighter. What he saw told him the bulk wasn’t where Black found his strength. His power came from somewhere within.

Their gazes met, and then a bemused Killian watched as the man’s focus shifted from him and casually scanned the office.

Mr. Fucking Cool.

As if the tension wasn’t so thick you could slice through it.

Killian debated whether to let the man sit or leave him standing. In fact, unusual for him as it was, he was undecided about what to do about Black in general.

When the man’s gaze returned to settle on him, Killian gestured at the chair in front of his desk. They were beyond petty power games.

Black turned and looked at Joel and David, flanking either side of the door, their hands crossed low in front of them. The picture of ease, but only a fool would think they were at rest.

The jury was still out on whether Black was a fool.

If the man was concerned, he didn’t show it. Killian watched his wife’s lover saunter across the office.

And the man was her lover. Killian was under no illusion.

The fact that Scarlet had paid for it didn’t matter.

She’d fucked him twice. In the ten months since her kidnapping, David had never left her side. Now she’d left him in a hotel lobby twice.

Killian was pissed off, both by the former and the latter.

When Black sat, he didn’t speak. Instead, he maintained direct eye contact and waited for what was going to come next. Killian had to hand it to him, the man had balls.

Or a death wish.

Gut tight, he returned the same cool gaze.

“My understanding is that you’re sleeping with my wife, Mr. Black?” Small talk was for friends.

Black hesitated for only a second, then answered without blinking. “She’s a client.”

“She paid?” He already knew. “How much?”

“Two grand.”

“Two grand? You must have some magic cock.”

No reaction. He could almost like the bastard—almost—if not for the fact that he was fucking his wife.

“Mr. Bailey, it’s not my policy to get in-between people’s martial prob—”

“Jerricho.” He smiled, but it was all business. “You don’t mind if I call you Jerricho, do you? I feel like we should be on a first-name basis. After all, we’re in bed together … so to speak.”

Anyone in Scar’s bed was as good as in his. Black was not as unique as the man may think. Their marriage bed was littered with lovers.

But not like this.

Not bought. Not alone. Not behind his fucking back.

“In your opinion, would you say my wife was satisfied?” He kept his tone light, conversational, like the devil charming a soul.

This time, Black hesitated for longer. “We didn’t talk about it.”

Of course not, that’s not what she’d hired his tongue for. She’d hired him to fuck. That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? The message was unequivocal.

“Has she arranged to see you again?”

Although Black negated the question with a curt shake of his head, Killian knew the answer was as empty as the question. He’d seen his wife afterward. Seen the fucking afterglow … and the guilt. He knew his wife.

He lived inside her. Read her like a book.

That
was fucking intimacy.

Logic told him he couldn’t kill a man for this. He should pay the guy to say no the next time Scar called. Easy money. Win-win.

But his heart … his heart saw it differently.

His heart understood what Scar had done.

“Tell me.” He looked Black in the eye. “What do you cost for a day? A week?”

“What do you—”

“I want to hire you. For my wife.” There was real pain behind that statement. The words ripped up his throat, but he could bleed without wincing.

Stunned silence. Even Joel and David froze.

“I’ll pay you eighty grand for the next forty days.”

He got his first reaction, a tic in Black’s right eye.

“Why?”

“I’ve just offered you eighty grand to sleep with my wife, and you need some higher fucking reason?”

“I think you misunderstand my services, Mr. Bailey.” Jerricho started to rise to his feet.

“Because she chose you.” Because I love my wife. Because I can’t fuck her.

Jerricho paused.

“One hundred. That’s my final offer.”

Their gazes held. There was always a balance of power, you just had to find it.

“Sit down, Jerricho. We both know you’re not going anywhere.”

“You ready?” Joel, the driver, stood waiting inside the door of Jerricho’s apartment.

Jerricho zipped up his bag and nodded. Packing up his life was easy—a bag of BDSM paraphernalia, a bag of clothes, a laptop, and a volume of poems.

If Joel was surprised by his living conditions, the man didn’t let it show. Not that Jerricho would give a shit.

He stood up. “Let’s go.”

It seemed when you made a deal with the devil, he took immediate possession of your soul.

Jerricho climbed into the backseat of the car and sank back against the gray leather. This time, he paid more attention to the tell-tale signs of luxury—the smell of new leather, walnut trim instead of plastic; even the steering wheel had been upgraded.

Money.

This was why he’d said yes. In forty days, he’d have enough money to pay off Dado and have some pocket change to spare.

There were some details to work through. Killian wouldn’t budge on the stipulation that payment came at the end, and he needed to make weekly installments. Forty days. Six weeks. He’d make a plan. In the scheme of things, this should be a small problem.

He thought of Scarlet. No.
Mrs. Bailey.
Another problem.

His attraction to her was more than physical. Connection … chemistry, whatever it was, it was also a complication. And complications had a way of being unpredictable.

What he didn’t need was for his big mess to get any bigger.

The car stopped at a traffic light. Outside on the pavement corner, children stood selling poppies for Remembrance Day. The fake red flowers fluttered brightly in their trays.

***

“Where the fuck are the poppy fields near here?” Jerricho asked as he climbed into the ambulance and shut the door. Irritation scratched at him. He’d just spent the past hour arguing with a man who’d said that the relief from drugs was cheaper than his pain medication.

Campbell looked over his shoulder. “Welcome to the new economy. Afghanistan is in a state of transition.”

Jerricho grunted at the driver.

The state of transition was supposed to be about the end of the war. Despite the international aid flowing in, the medical facilities were still sub-standard and M
é
decins Sans Fronti
è
res were doing the best they could.

But there were new challenges. He was no longer treating people scarred by war and PTSD. There were new victims as poppy fields grew and bled red.

The back of the ambulance felt cramped and the incessant rattling provoked already frayed nerves. He wiped his hand over tired eyes and sighed; maybe fourteen years in a war was too long. He’d left twice before, but without any anchor, he’d just drifted back.

Next to him, Aamir bumped his leg to get his attention. “You good? You’ve seemed off all day … ever since the mail came.”

There was genuine concern in the other doctor’s eyes. They knew each other well. Everybody needed a friend to decompress with.

Jerricho nodded, his hand wandering to pat his pocket. The unopened letter couldn’t have been more than a page, and yet the weight of it sat on his chest. He was in no rush to read it. There would be nothing warm in it from his mother. In fact, she never wrote. Any news would’ve been penned by her nurse. There’d been nothing to report for a long, long time.

Did his mother need more money again? He’d send some, even if he knew from past experience it couldn’t buy him any affection.

“Smoke?” Aamir offered the open pack.

Jerricho shook his head.

“Read your damn letter. You’re bad company, and you’re the only company I’ve got.” Aamir smiled sardonically, as he took a cigarette and lit up.

Then Aamir climbed over to the empty seat next to Campbell to give Jerricho some semblance of privacy.

There was no point in putting it off any longer; the day couldn’t get any shittier.

He opened the envelope and scanned the note.

Je regrette de vous informer que votre mère est morte
.

His mother was dead.

The slow ache inside his chest seemed misplaced. He shouldn’t feel such a keen loss for something he’d never even had. All things considered, he’d lost his mother a long time ago.

In the end, regret didn’t matter.

Maybe what hurt was the crystallization that there would never be a chance to make it right. The ember of hope had smoldered even as it was dying.

Now there was a vacuum; it sat there in an unnatural silence.

Silence that engulfed him.

Silence that swallowed the world.

His ears popped.

A muted ringing echoed in his head along with the distant shouting of Campbell. Louder, scarier, was the whoosh of blood pushing through his veins. He shook his head to clear his ears, but it didn’t help. Had he said anything?

He looked down, only to realize the thumping on his chest was his heartbeat.

He was safe. Everyone in the ambulance was safe.

He peered out of the window, through the haze of dust; it seemed as if a sandstorm was bearing down on them.

Flames rose off the debris of a vehicle while soldiers swarmed around the second, undamaged truck. The Coalition convoy had set off a roadside bomb.

He opened the back of the ambulance.

Dust invaded his nose and mouth, and he coughed.

“Stay here.” He coughed again and lifted the neck scarf to cover his mouth and nose.

Campbell nodded. The order was standard procedure; they were not equipped for battle.

They were aid workers. Their remit was to help as soon as the hostilities ceased fire, except Jerricho couldn’t accept that. He jumped from the ambulance as more rounds were fired, Aamir running at his side.

To the wounded, every second mattered.

The shooting trickled to sporadic pops, and they split up to move through the bodies, looking for victims with the highest chance of survival. The law of triage was harsh, but necessary.

There.

Jerricho knelt down, but on closer inspection, he realized the soldier would bleed out as soon as they moved him. Still conscious, the wounded man was staring at him. Jerricho reached out and squeezed the man’s shoulder.

A flash of red darted across his peripheral vision and he turned to look. Seemingly out of nowhere, a local stood up ahead of him, staring vacantly, as if dazed. Their eyes meeting only briefly before gunshot mowed the man down.

Jerricho was on his feet.

“Stop!”

He kept moving.

“Stop!”

More gunfire. Behind him? He wheeled around, halfway down in a crouch and hyped on adrenalin.

A corporal, standing by the wounded soldier, held his gun pointing into the air. “What about Bradford? You left Bradford.”

Jerricho shook his head. There was no need to say it in front of the dying man.

He turned back to see if he could help the local instead.

“You take one step closer to that dog and I’ll say you got caught in the crossfire.”

Jerricho stopped, hung his head forward, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

Words.

They were just words. Tempers were thin.

But so was control.

He turned slowly back to eyes that shone with righteous fury.

“You look after the goddamn soldiers first. Everyone else is expendable.”

A hush fell around him.

“You can’t just leave him there.” Jerricho gestured with his head to the wounded civilian.

Teeth gleamed in a heartless grin. “I say I can.”

Jerricho didn’t flinch. War was ugly, and he’d seen the worst of it. Seen it tarnish the pure and punish the brave.

He looked around. On the outskirts of the scene, oblivious to the unfolding tension, soldiers were moving bodies.

“Get your boys to load the local in my ambulance, and I’ll sit with your man.” He started back to the dying soldier—Bradford, the dead had a name.

For a moment, it looked like the corporal was going to ignore him, but then the man gave a small nod and started to order some men.

Relief came in a wave of light-headedness as Jerricho knelt down next to Bradford.

Aamir ran up to him. “Ambo is full. One blast victim, one gunshot.”

Jerricho looked around and saw the soldiers were carrying the local man toward the dead. The shot man was alive and chanting, the weak words weren’t clear but it seemed like he was praying.

Jerricho searched for the corporal, the man was standing by the surviving truck, talking on a radio.

“He can ride on the floor.” He wasn’t leaving the man with them. “Just check him out and put him on the floor.”

Jerricho turned his attention to Bradford, slow tears rolled down the man’s cheek. He knew he was dying.

“Are you in pain?” The most he could do was try to make the man comfortable.

Bradford shook his head. Blood loss and shock had probably rendered him numb.

The boom of the second bomb sucked all the oxygen out of the air and knocked Jerricho flat. He was back to deaf; the dull ringing and foggy head, an ache in his eardrums seized the muscles in his jaw.

And then the rain of dust and the hail of debris started to fall.

Shielding his eyes, he tried to click his jaw free of the tension.

Blinking against the grit, he looked around. A severed hand lay a meter in front of him. Jesus, he knew that ring. Aamir was dead.

So was Bradford.

Coughing, he pushed up from the ground to his knees. Dust was on his tongue; he could taste the devastation.

One of the soldiers was screaming something about a BCB—the local had a body cavity bomb.

His stomach convulsed as he dry-heaved. He’d insisted they bring the man right into their center.

A boot kicked him back onto his ass.

“You … YOU ….” Hate hissed and he looked into the eyes of his mother. It was all there, the same sneer of distaste and accusation of betrayal.

“I’ve got questions for you.” A finger jammed roughly into his chest, a blunt prodding that felt like nothing. The hurt, the bone-splitting hurt, was tearing him up from the inside.

“Don’t you move.” Those frenzied eyes burned into him. “Don’t you fucking go anywhere.”

***

Jerricho’s body rocked as the car took off from the light.

Of course he’d moved. He’d found Campbell and gotten out of there. At the medical camp, they’d tried to convince him it was all a misunderstanding—to stay and clear his name.

The thing was, he’d looked into the eyes of someone who’d called him a traitor before. He knew from his mother, once you were branded, your accuser never listened.

Clear his name?

He had a fucking fatwa on his head for working with the Coalition and they were questioning him?

The only thing that had made sense was the idea of distance.