Viper: A Hitman Romance (5 page)

CHAPTER SIX

JESSICA

Everything hurts.  Feet, knees, shoulders, arms,
everything
.  Well, except for my hands and my wrists, those don't hurt because I'm pretty sure the cuffs are too tight and my hands have fallen asleep.

Light's coming in through the windows, and by how bright it looks, it must be late morning.

Across from me, Ryker is on the floor, leaning against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest and gun in his hand.  Even sleeping, he looks ready to shoot in a heartbeat.

Nature's calling again.

"Hey."

His eyes snap open so quick it's freaky.

"What?"  He says as he gets to his feet, sliding the pistol into the back of his pants.

"I need to use the bathroom."

He looks at me like I must think he's the dumbest man in the world.  But I don't.  Most frightening man in the world?  Maybe.  Lethal?  Duh.

"I'm not trying to trick you.  I promise."

And I know how dumb that sounds, telling someone that you're not trying to trick them.  It's just like when someone says 'I'm not trying to be mean, but…', you know they're actually trying to be mean.

"Wait here," he says.

And he's gone.  I can hear him thump his way downstairs and I hear cupboards and doors open as he's searching around for something.

I take the time to look up at my restraints.  The bed frame is all metal, a bunch of beams and braces held together by screws.  It's solid — it doesn't even squeak when I pull against it.

Ryker comes back with a hammer and some nails and disappears into the bathroom. 
Thunkthunkthunk
and then he comes out again, slight smile on his face, and he unlocks my cuffs. 

I'm free.  Sort of.

I get up, rubbing my wrists to try and get some circulation back in my hands and kind of dreading how much they're going to hurt when I actually do get feeling back in them.

"All yours.  You can even shut the door and lock it, for all I care."

"How kind of you," I say.

"Only the best for my guests," he retorts.

"Are you sure you don't want me to leave the door open?  I know how much you're into that."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't answer.

Inside the bathroom, the window is nailed shut.  There's three heavy-duty nails in there, which means the window is now off the list of escape options.  Not that it worked so great before.  My feet still hurt like heck.

I finish up, wash my hands, and head back out.

Ryker is still there, still holding the cuffs.  He gestures for me to put my wrists out.

"Come on.  I'm not going to do anything stupid.  It's not like I want to see anyone else get shot."

He shakes his head and repeats his motion for me to put my arms out.

"No dice.  You're too much trouble."

"Please?  Come on."  I'm begging.  I'm doing everything but dropping to my knees.  And the only reason I'm not doing that is because they hurt too much.

"Hands.  Now."

I shouldn't, but I snap.

"Seriously?  Are you that much of an asshole?  Last night I saw a man get shot right in front of me.  I saw you stick your
thumb in his bullet wound
and throw him around like a rag doll. 
I am not going to escape
.  You
scare the shit out of me
."

He's quiet for a moment.  He has a look on his face like he's weighing his options.  Either cuff me and deal with what he knows will be incessant whining — and it will, it'll be whining like he can't even imagine — or trust the very real fact that he frightens me.

"Fine.  We'll wipe the slate clean.  As long as you behave, we can keep
these
off you for a while."  He slides the cuffs into his back pocket.  "And about last night — I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"I don't want to have to do any of that.  What I want is this job to go nice and smooth and then to get you back to your normal life."

Riggghhhtt.

"Well, you sure picked a great way to discipline your hostage."

He smiles, and for a second, I see a glimmer in his eye that reminds me of the man who sung to me the night before.  "Well, I suppose I could just spank you.  I've got all the tools here to teach you a real
fun
lesson."

He pats his back pocket where he put the handcuffs.

Even considering the circumstances, there's still something hot about seeing him with cuffs, talking about disciplining me.  It doesn't take much of a stretch for my imagination to turn that into a very, very good thing.  As much as he scares me, he turns me on.

Fuck it,
I'm blushing.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he says, noticing me blush.

I shake my head, but I can't stop my cheeks from lighting up. 

"About as much as you like to spy on ladies in the bathroom," I retort.

He laughs.

"Not all ladies.  Just the ones that like to jump out windows."

"Is that supposed to make me feel special?"

"Well," he says, "you are the sexiest woman ever to be cuffed to my bed.  By far."

"You do know how to treat a lady."

"I try.  So, what do you say?  Clean slate?"

There was a reason why I wanted him last night.  For better or worse, Ryker is a supremely unshakable, unstoppable man and that kind of confidence is incredibly hot.  Especially right now, when it seems like everyone important to me is just falling away.  First my parents, now my brother… If I had a man like Ryker in my life, there wouldn't be a force on earth that could take him away from me.  And every so often, I get this glimpse inside him and I see there's a good heart in there.

So, yeah, I'm feeling kind of conflicted right now. 

Yeah, he shot someone, but he could have easily killed them.  That would've been the easier thing to do.  Even I know that and I have zero experience in this sort of stuff except for seeing
Goodfellas
once.

"Ok, let's do the clean slate.  And I promise I'll be a good girl," I say. 

We even shake on it. 

Then, my stomach rumbles audibly.  Embarrassingly loud.  "So, what do do you have to eat around here?"

He shrugs.  "Come see for yourself."

Downstairs, he's got a nice kitchen.  Almost restaurant-quality nice.  Everything is shiny-new, there's stainless steel everything, and it all looks like it's hardly been used.  Of course, it's also empty as hell.  Aside from a few pots and pans, and some plates, and a nice bottle of scotch, there's nothing there.  Even the ice cube tray in the freezer is empty.

"How do you live?"  I ask.

Maybe he's not human.  Maybe all he's a machine, fueled by the tears of his victims and the bloody vengeance he exacts upon them
.

"Takeout," he says. 

Then, when I look at him, confused, he continues on: "Here's your lesson for the day: never keep perishable food in a house that you use only a couple weeks out of the year.  Because that's how you get ants.  And worse."

Fair enough.

But that body he has, that casually prowls like a panther about this locked house, is definitely not one that was fueled by takeout.

"So, what's there to eat around here?"

"I'll pick you up something."

As if I'm supposed to trust the culinary opinion of a man who has no food in his kitchen.  That's preposterous.

"Can't I come with?"

He shakes his head. 

"Sorry. And, I know we said clean slate, earlier, but if I'm stepping out and you're staying here…"

Out come the cuffs and he locks me to the stainless-steel door handle of his fridge.  There's a twinkle in his eyes that's so suggestive, as the cuffs click around my wrists, that my breath catches in my throat.

Fuck, he's hot
.

If he was just the man that I met at that bar last night, the man who serenaded me and brought the room to it's feet with his presence, he could cuff me all he wants.

He chuckles a little and winks at me.

"Be good while I'm gone.  Otherwise, it's back to the bed with you."

I just nod.  Part of me wants to be bad, just so I can be disciplined later.

And then he's practically out the door, yelling back over his shoulder "I'll be back in a few."

Ten minutes later, he's back with a brown paper bag that's practically see-through from grease.  He uncuffs me, and now, to cap off my insane week from hell, I'm eating burgers and fries with a hitman, while we sit on opposite ends of his couch and watch
Sportscenter
and drink scotch. 

A lot of scotch. 

I don't normally drink the stuff.  I love vodka because it's alcohol that doesn't taste like it's been set on fire, but, I figure, if I could die at any minute I might as well have a buzz.

The biggest question on my mind as I'm taking this all in, is:
What the hell is going on in my life? 

Ryker and I don't talk much at first, even though there's a sense of easiness that's settled in between us.  Ryker drinks, eats, and watches
Sportscenter
with one eye one me at all times.

Every once in a while, he'll answer a question before I even ask it.

I get the lowdown on the latest news with LeBron and other sports news that I'll never, ever, use in my life.  For the most part, I'm quiet.  But, eventually, the booze and the grease has me feeling free to open my mouth.

"So, how long have you been doing this?"

"A long time.  More than a decade."

That's all he says, then he is back to watching TV.

I refill my glass.  I'm on round number three, and, I figure, if I'm going to be killed by this guy or forced to do whatever nefarious stuff he has in mind for me, I might as well drink up all his pricey booze.  It'll be me striking back at him from beyond the grave when he has to go back to the liquor store and shell out another couple hundred dollars for more scotch.

Take that, Mr. Hitman
.

Besides, Ryker is drinking plenty, too.  We've nearly killed the bottle.

"Do you enjoy it?"

"It's a living."

I giggle.  "So, killing is a living."

I just might be drunk now.

He gives me the side-eye.

"It's not all killing.  Sometimes, I'm hired to steal something.  Or find someone.  Sometimes I'm hired to kidnap people."

"Like helpless women who work in an office and have no no money and no family except for a brother who's dying of cancer?"

Apparently, scotch makes me feisty.  I'll have to make note of that.

But Ryker doesn't look too upset.  He just nods.  "I'm a professional.  I do what I'm paid to do."

"And just how much is kidnapping little old me worth?"

Time for more scotch.  Glass number four.  Once you get over the taste of smoke and peat and whatever other burnt shrubs they put in it, and all the other negatives about scotch, it's not half bad.

"A lot."

"Like?  Come on, how much am I worth?"  I say, needling him. 

My lips are tingling and my fingers are numb, like they were when I was still in cuffs.  And now I'm thinking about being in cuffs again, back on Ryker's bed, only in entirely different circumstances.

I'm blushing again.

Apparently, scotch also makes me horny.  And makes me see some of the finer physical details of Ryker.  Like his broad shoulders and the way he moves with catlike smoothness.

"Enough money that I can retire once this is over.  You're an eight figure payday, Jessica."  He smiles a little and those dimples on his cheeks make an appearance and I heat is surging between my legs.  "Though, seeing you last night, ten's a more appropriate number when talking about you."

Did he just hit on me
? 

I feel a tingle of that same charged, sexual
power
I felt from him last night. 
Maybe the parking lot action wasn't all a ruse.
  Maybe I can use that, later.  I know for sure running away from this guy isn't going to work.  My busted feet and the shot man in that alley are proof of that.

"So, is kidnapping usually how you get your dates to go home with you?"

"Well, when I see something I want, I take it."  He says.

"Is that so?  And what do you want right now, Ryker?"