Hostage (7 page)

Code

I cannot believe the level of low that I’ve sunk to.

What kind of person does the things that I just did to a person like Wren? I mean, sure, maybe I’m partly doing it to protect her, but I kind of got a thrill out of it too. Like I wouldn’t have minded if we were someplace else and I could have tied her to a bed, all spread out for me, and fucked her senseless.

So. Not. The. Time.

When did I even get this way?

So here’s the thing about me. I was a quiet, nerdy kid growing up. I did whatever was expected of me, and I never argued with anyone. Ever. And then I grew up and realized that I had so much rage in me that I would spend hours, days even, thinking of ways to fucking get even with all of the people in my life.

Not that I really blame them. They’re all pretty much like some fucking Stepford family. They were always so concerned about appearances that they have no clue how to act like real people. No one ever abused me or even raised their voices to me. Honestly, I don’t think they ever paid much notice to my existence except when there were other people around.

I can still remember the blank look on both my parents’ faces when I finally unleashed. They didn’t have a fucking clue—no idea what to say or how to respond. I remember laughing like some sort of deranged lunatic.

Which I kinda was.

I had a privileged life. We pretty much lived in a mansion. I was born with that fucking proverbial silver-spoon in my mouth. People might think that money can buy you happiness, but they’re wrong. In my case, it only seemed to make everyone around me—including me—miserable. We were a miserable family who really didn’t like each other…and we were fucking loaded.

We had a live-in housekeeper. Can you believe it? She made the best damn fried chicken I’d ever had in my life. What kind of asshole walks away from that kind of life? How fucked up do you have to be to think that this…this fucking nightmare that I’m living is the better alternative to something out of rich-ass reality shows?

My stomach grumbles loudly, and I remember what it is I’m supposed to be doing. Getting food so that we can eat and get some sleep and then figure out how the hell we’re going to get out of the damn mall.

I know how to pick the lock, and it doesn’t take any time before I’m in the kitchen of the pizzeria and walking toward their big walk-in refrigerator. We may not be having hot food for dinner, but at least it’s food.

I’d kill for some fucking fried chicken right about now.

Food. Focus on the food, dumbass.

This is just another aspect of my life that I can’t believe I’m living. I’m stealing food. Back in my old life, I never had to think about food. It was always there. I didn’t have to think about how to get anywhere. I had several cars at my disposal.

Hell, right now, there’s even a trust fund that matured last year with my name on it.

That was my plan before fucking Deke. Just do what I had to—just survive—until the trust fund matured, and then I could go away and live by my own rules.

I was just too damn stupid to figure out that I had gotten conned into living by someone else’s rules. Again.

When this is over, when I’m free of this shit (and I still have no clue how that’s going to happen), I’m going to finally do it. I’m going to be smarter this time and live the life that I want. No more fleabag motels, no more petty crimes...just...nothing. Just get the trust fund and be free.

Luckily there aren’t any strings attached to the trust fund. My grandfather took care of that.

Strings would have meant making an effort, and we don’t do that in the family. Except for an audience.

I need to put that in the past. I need to not think of them right now. I’ve got to focus on myself—and Wren.

Yeah, in another life we might have met and been perfectly bored with one another. She looks the type who would have hung out with the same crowd as my family. I would have hated her on principle. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to fuck her.

Or maybe I would’ve. We’ll never know.

I scan the shelves and take just enough so that no one will notice. A couple of slices of pizza, a Stromboli, some bottles of water, and a couple of pieces of cake. It’s all crammed in a paper bag, and it’s not pretty, but it will keep us alive.

Stepping out of the fridge, I close it quietly and grab some napkins and carefully make my way out. From the corner of my eye I can see the rent-a-cop walking on the other side of the mall just across the way. Same dude that worked here a year ago.

His parents must be so proud.

Not as proud as mine, of course.

I want to get back downstairs. Don’t want to leave Wren down there tied up for too long. But I look around and think of what else we can use that I can take from this place. I put the bag down and grab another. A couple of more bottles of water, and then I wander around toward the back closet and find the perfect thing.

T-shirts and ball caps.

Not the greatest disguise, or any disguise at all, but they’ll help us blend a little bit more when we do eventually try to leave here.

I grab two of each—I don’t want to be greedy—and figure that I’ve taken enough from this place.

With my bag of food and clothes, I carefully walk out the back door and lock it behind me. I make my way down the stairs and take a minute to get my bearings and adjust to the darkness. There’s a light that I can turn on in the back corner over by where I left Wren.

My plan is to get over there, turn on the light, untie her and then we can eat. We’re both going to need to sleep soon too—I’m gonna have to find a way to keep her close to me so that she doesn’t try to escape.

The picture of her tied up naked come to mind, and my cock twitches its approval.

I’m a sick bastard.

Over the last year or so since I left home, I’ve developed a sort of…sixth sense. I know when something’s not right. And right now? Something is not fucking right.

I can hear a noise coming from the corner, and there isn’t a doubt in my mind that it’s Wren. But what the hell is she doing?

I don’t think she realizes that I’m back. Crouching down I put the food and clothes on the floor and carefully make my way over there. I’d kill for a fucking light switch right here, but I’ve got to get by her and open a door to get to it.

Shit.

All I can do is make it happen quick enough to see what it is that she’s doing.

Quick as I can, I move by, yank open the door, and hit the switch.

Her eyes are squinting from the sudden burst of light, but her back is to the metal shelves and she’s trying to cut through the tape on her wrists. Her arms are bleeding, and she crumbles to the floor.

I want to fucking kick her. It’s irrational and definitely an over-reaction, but that’s my knee-jerk response. Why is she making this so fucking hard? Why can’t she just—for once!—do what I ask?

I stand over her, and I can see a combination of fear and defiance in her eyes.

And the tears.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” I demanded as I towered over her.

Wren

What the fuck is wrong with me? He’s actually asking what’s wrong with
me
? What the fuck is wrong with
him
?

Code is the one who robbed a bank, took me hostage, kidnapped me, fucked me, and taped me up, bound and gagged, in the basement of some low-class mall. And he thinks there’s something wrong with me for trying to get away from him?

Boy, is his perspective completely screwed up.

Plus, I can’t even answer his question because there’s tape over my mouth.

Not for long. He reaches down and rips it off, causing a quick flash of pain as the adhesive tears across my skin.

I make a choked sound of pain and outrage, and I wish my hands were free so I could slap the vindictive bastard. “What’s wrong with
you
?” I snap, too overwhelmed with indignation to even be afraid anymore. “What normal woman wouldn’t be trying to get away from you just as soon as she could? You’ve kidnapped me! You’re holding me against my will. Of course, I’m going to take any opportunity I have to escape.”

“But you’re just making it harder on yourself. I’m not going to hurt you, if you’d just cooperate.” He looks just as angry as I am—just as much at the end of his rope.

I can only assume that this escape isn’t going at all the way he planned it.

“Why the hell should I trust you? What have you ever done that would make me want to trust you?” I’m practically screaming at him now—not because I’m consciously trying to get the attention of a security guard or someone, but because I’m so outraged I can’t hold it back.

He reaches over and claps a hand on my mouth. “Damn it. Lower your voice.”

His hand slips slightly against my mouth, and I try to bite him.

He lets out a soft roar when my teeth close down on the hell of his hand. He grabs me and jerks me against his body, holding me in a ruthless grip I can’t possible pull free from. “Stop it. Stop it. Right now.” His voice is low, guttural, authoritative, and his arms are like iron.

I struggle in his arm but can’t get away, and when I feel a pulse of arousal between my legs, I stop my frantic squirming.

I definitely don’t need to get distracted by
that
right now.

“Good girl,” he mutters, when I grow still in his arms. “Relax for a minute, and stop fighting me.”

I stop struggling physically, since it’s obviously a losing battle. He’s like twice as strong as I am and a lot bigger. What happens in my mind is none of his business, though. If I want to keep fighting him there, then I will, and he can’t stop me.

“Now listen to me,” he goes on. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not that kind of a monster. I have no reason to kill you or even hurt you if you’re obeying me.”

“You have no reason to still be holding me hostage.”

He rolls his eyes, clearly impatient with my obstinate comment. “Try to think it through a little. If things had gone as planned at the bank, I would have let you go back there. But all hell broke loose, and I’ve got the cops and Deke and the crew both coming after me. You’re my only advantage.”

“I’m not an advantage.” Even as I say the words, I wonder why I’m bothering. He’s not the kind of guy who’s likely to be convinced by something like common sense or logic. “I’m just going to slow you down. Think about how much faster you’d be able to move without me.”

“And think about how fast the cops will be willing to shoot me if I’m by myself. Deke isn’t going to get slowed down by you, but the cops will. They’re not going to want to risk your life. You’re leverage for me, and I can’t give that up yet.”

Thinking about it that way, I guess it does make some sort of sense—at least the kind of sense that would appeal to a criminal like him.

“Besides,” Code adds, “I wasn’t lying about you maybe being in danger from Deke. He doesn’t like loose ends, and his way of dealing with them is usually to just wipe them off the planet completely. He might think of you as a loose end, and he might not appreciate that you helped me get away from him.”

I think about that and feel a churning of fear in my gut.

“So can we please make a deal?” Code sounds absolutely exhausted now, and his blue eyes are almost desperate. “You cooperate, and I’ll let you go no trouble at all as soon as I get to Laredo.”

He must be heading for the Mexican border, after all. I shouldn’t be surprised. “Why should I believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t you believe me? I have no reason to lie to you. If I wanted you dead, then you’d be dead. You know that.”

I do know that. If he hadn’t killed me yet, then there’s no reason to assume he’ll kill me later. “Do you promise?” I ask.

His face changes just slightly. “Would you believe me if I did?”

“I don’t know. But I want you to promise.”

He hesitates for a moment, something tense flickering across his face. Then he nods. “I promise. I’ll let you go in Laredo unharmed if you just cooperate with me until then.”

I take a short, harsh breath. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

He exhales in almost a moan and frees my hands from the tape. “Thank all that’s fucking holy. Now can we please eat something and try to get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

My heart is still racing, and my skin is still chilled. My arms and shoulders and pussy are sore. But I feel a little better, now that we’ve made this agreement.

Maybe I shouldn’t believe him. I have no reason to trust him. But it makes more sense than continually fighting a battle I can never win.

I still have sex up my sleeve. I can try again to soften him, get him more on my side that way. I’m not completely helpless in this, after all.

We go back to sit on the boxes, and he gives me a bottle of water and some of the food he’d stolen. It isn’t great. It’s greasy and cold and cheap-tasting. But it’s better than nothing. I feel a kind of sick churning in my stomach, but if I don’t eat anything, I might just faint.

Not the best way to survive this ordeal.

And I intend to survive.

We don’t talk while we eat. I’m not in the mood for small talk with anyone, and definitely not with him. When we’re done, we put the trash in one of the plastic bags he has, and then there’s nothing left.

“Where are we going to sleep?” I ask, trying not to sound as dubious as I feel.

“Down here. Nowhere else.” He gets up and grabs a couple of empty boxes, breaking them down so they’re flat. “Here. We can lay on these.”

I stare down at the cardboard. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

He gives me a narrow-eyed look. “I mean both of us. You have to sleep right next to me so I know you’re not going to escape.”

“We have a deal.”

“I know we have a deal, but I trust you about as much as you trust me.”

That isn’t very much trust.

I roll my eyes at him. “Okay. Fine. Whatever.”

So we both lower ourselves to the cardboard and stretch out. It’s not comfortable at all, but my body needs to rest, so maybe it won’t even matter.

My body is pressed up against him, and one of his arms is around me. I know it’s so he’ll feel immediately if I start to get up or roll away, but it feels like an embrace.

He’s warm and hard and masculine, but I’m too tired to think much about that.

I feel like I’m still being bombarded by those billows in the Monet painting, when all I need is that pathway of light to finally open up.

Just before I go to sleep, I have one more thought.

Never in my life would I expect to go to sleep in my hostage-taker’s arms.