Driven to the Edge: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance Read online

  It’s as shaky as a plan can be. But it’s all I’ve got.

  I make it two steps before something grabs me from behind, dragging me down into the dirt.

  Crying out in both surprise and pain, I fall to my knees on the sandy ground. A hand winds through my hair and yanks my head up. I already know who it is before I even look up, before I see his thick, broad silhouette backlit by the desert sun. My mouth goes dry.

  He’s probably going to kill me now.

  He could bury me out here and nobody would ever know.

  I flinch, anticipating the blow. Expecting it.

  “Why?” he asks instead. His face is shadowed, backlit as it is, and it bothers me that I can’t read his eyes.

  “W-what do you mean why?”

  I shrink back down into the sand. If I’d actually had to pee, I probably would have pissed myself by now.

  “I keep promising that I won’t hurt you as long as you behave. You keep not behaving. You are making this so difficult that I’d almost prefer to just put a bullet in your head and leave you be.”

  Defiantly, I jut my chin up toward him, setting my teeth on edge.

  “So do it then! That’s why you drove me out here, isn’t it? You’re done pretending to be the client you told us you were, so you don’t need me for your act anymore.”

  The words bubble out of me in anger before I have a chance to think. My heart pounding, my pulse rushing in my ears, I try to calm the trembles running through my body. I can’t believe I just dared a man to shoot me.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Jake gives my hair a jerk, holding tight to it.

  “If you weren’t useful to me, I’d have let you fall in that stairwell and brain yourself.”

  He’s quieter now, though. Like he’s thinking. Maybe that’s a good thing.

  Loosening his grip on my hair somewhat, he trails his fingertips down, brushing the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. Even in that brief touch, I can feel the raw power in his hands, the strength there. If it came to blows, I’d be no match for him.

  He takes a deep breath, releases it slowly.

  “Get up.”

  He says it more like a weary boss than a livid murderer.

  I find my feet, pushing slowly up off the sandy ground. He keeps his hand wound through my hair as I rise--just in case--but I think I’m done trying to run. For now, at least. If he’s sincere in what he says--that I’m still useful, that he won’t hurt me--then maybe I shouldn’t push my luck. Not until I’m certain I can get away.

  “Let’s head back to the car,” he says. And my brain’s already working on another solution.

  A solution I’m not looking forward to, but one that might just work.

  Maybe I can be of use to him in more ways than one.

  Flirting with a client to get a bigger tip at the end of a job isn’t too different from flirting with a client to keep him from killing me, right? Other than the much higher stakes.

  I reach up toward his hand, the one that holds a fistful of my hair. I brush my fingertips over his knuckles, a slow and cautious touch designed to send a shiver up his spine. I leave my fingers atop his, then peer up into his dark eyes.

  “I’m done misbehaving,” I promise.

  I can see it on his face, he doesn’t trust me. But I can make him.

  There’s a rumble of tires on pavement as an RV pulls off the highway exit and into the parking lot. Jake takes a step closer to me, but releases my hair. Instead, his hand finds a spot on my lower back, a heavy reminder that I better not try to run again. He guides me toward the Maybach, his body language turning casual, less deadly.

  See, fellow tourists? We’re just two lovers on a stroll.

  “That little stunt of yours means we’re behind schedule,” Jake says. He doesn’t get into the car until I’m back in the driver’s seat.

  “I can make up for lost time.”

  And that much is true. I can drive like a maniac if he needs me to. The Maybach can handle quite a bit.

  I wonder what will happen once the Touring Club doesn’t hear from me on Monday.

  Will I already be dead in a ditch somewhere?

  I force the fear back. Despite my concerns, I have a new plan now. I’m going to make myself as useful as I can. I’ll seduce this son of a bitch if I have to, because I have to stay alive.

  I turn the key in the ignition, but Jake reaches out and puts a hand over mine. I can feel the steely strength in his fingers.

  “I want you to know that I basically saved your life back there,” he says. “You could have died alone in the desert. For no reason. I don’t know how many times I have to say I won’t hurt you unless you make me.”

  I stay quiet. Let him get it out, I think. If it calms him down.

  “But know this: you are on your last fucking chance. What I’m doing is too important for you to screw it up. I will leave you in the dirt if you interfere with my work one more time.”

  I can’t help but wonder: what’s he doing that’s so important? All the movies you see, all the books you read, they talk about hit men like they’re supposed to be these dispassionate robots. But I can see the fiery, almost crazy gleam in Jake’s eyes.

  He cares a great deal about what he’s doing.

  This isn’t just a job to him. Whatever it is he’s trying to do.

  I can use that.

  “Do you understand?”

  He’s suddenly right up in my face, his eyes mere inches from mine. The intensity in his stare robs my breath for a moment. I don’t know what to say. So I nod mutely, my lips pressed together.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  I dip my head in a tiny nod.

  “I understand.”

  He pulls away, leaving me alone again. For now. And when he asks me to drive, he doesn’t zip-tie me to the steering wheel again.

  “Get us to about an hour outside Vegas. One of those little towns. Somewhere with a hotel.”

  I was wondering if Vegas was his destination. He hadn’t said anything, but short of going on to Salt Lake City or further still, there isn’t much reason to be on I-15 this far out.

  I can’t help but wonder who he’s coming to Vegas to kill.

  11

  ~ Jake ~

  I direct Alicia to pull off I-15 in a little town called Jean, Nevada just over the state line. It’s pretty typical for this part of the state: a couple prominent casinos, a couple truck stops, assorted other buildings. After coasting around a bit, I select the Desert Vista Motel, a quiet single-story joint that’s all orange stucco and potted cacti.

  It’s significantly below market for the Maybach, but I figure the hotel staff will just assume I’m some rich playboy with a hooker. We are about an hour outside of Vegas, after all.

  People in this part of the world don’t ask questions.

  I use a different fake ID to rent the room, just in case Los Angeles has already figured out Jake Hawthorne is a criminal. I ask for Suite J on the far end of the strip of rooms. That way we only have one neighbor in the unlikely event this place fills up at night.

  I pay cash.

  Lucky for Alicia, the room has two double beds. If there had only been one, I’m definitely not the kind of guy to offer her my bed and sleep on the floor.

  The room is basic: orange and dark blue and sandy pink tones, two beds and a table and a TV mounted in the corner of the room. The bathroom has a door, at least. The whole room has a whiff of cigarette smoke about it, despite being a nonsmoking unit. Go figure.

  The Maybach is far more secure than this dump, so apart from one of my sigs and some ammo, I leave everything important in the car. My little silver suitcase has a toiletry bag and a change of clothes, chargers, the usual bits and pieces. I travel light.

  I lead Alicia into the room and let her choose her bed.

  “Am I going to have to zip-tie you to the headboard?”

  I unpack my toiletry bag in the bathroom, contemplate shaving. I wait for her resp
onse.

  “No.” She sounds sullen, but I think she’s telling the truth.

  “Do you want a shower?”

  Again, I’m happy to let her have all the creature comforts in the world if she’ll just fucking behave. This is why I never take hostages. They’re so much work.

  I poke my head out of the bathroom. Alicia’s sitting on the edge of her bed, staring down at her black high heels. She looks exhausted. And shit, the day she’s having, I can’t blame her.

  “Here,” I say. “I’ll run a bath for you.”

  I slip into the bathroom--which has way too many awful shades of dusty pink for my liking--and plug the tub. I pick a temperature a bit cooler than I usually like it. The sound of running water rushing through my ears, I stroll out of the bathtub and step out of my shoes.

  Alicia hasn’t moved. She stares up at me sullenly from her spot on the bed. I put my hands up, as if offended.

  “What? I’m not a complete monster.”

  She tilts her head up and looks me in the eye.

  “I don’t get you.”

  Her voice has an odd, questioning quality. Like she’s wondering it more aloud to herself than to me.

  “There’s nothing to get,” I explain, my voice calm and easygoing. “If you behave, I have no issue with you. Hell, I’ll even treat you real nice. But up until pretty recently, you haven’t behaved so well.”

  I sit down on my own mattress, right across from her. I put on my biggest, brightest smile for her, the kind that makes all the girls weak in the knees.

  “As long as I know you aren’t going to try to wiggle out the bathroom window, you and I will get along fine.”

  Alicia meets my eyes, but there’s a guarded wariness in her stare. I can’t blame her.

  She really has been through a lot.

  That gives me an idea.

  I hold up a finger to her, then gesture to the telephone.

  “Look, I don’t know how to convince you I’m not some murderer. But you’ve had a very stressful day. How about a drink to cool your jets?”

  Alicia gives me a look that could cut a man so deep he’d bleed.

  “My jets don’t need cooling,” she says, flatly.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I pick up the phone and ask if the front desk manager could wrangle a bottle of tequila from the liquor store across the street. It takes the promise of a huge tip, but he acquiesces. I have my ways with people. And when my ways don’t work, money talks.

  The desk clerk drops the bottle off with an awkward smile a few minutes later. When I turn back to the room, Alicia is heading toward the bathroom.

  “Hey,” I start. “Not just yet.”

  Surprisingly, she stops. She’s getting used to obeying me. This is progress. Given a little longer, I could probably convince her to do so much for me...

  She stops in the bathroom doorway, still fully dressed, a hand pressed against the doorframe. Even as exhausted as I know she must be, she’s beautiful. Her hair’s gone a little wispy, hanging around her expressive face in loose tangles. I feel a momentary impulse to reach out and gently brush it behind her ear. To comfort her. Even though I’m the reason she’s in this state to begin with.

  Aren’t human emotions funny things.

  Gesturing with the bottle of tequila, I lay out the ground rules for her:

  “I’m not against giving you a little private time so long as you don’t misbehave. But I’m also not going to take unnecessary chances. For all I know you’ve got a shiv or a phone or something hidden away in your clothes. They stay out here with me.”

  Alicia’s eyes widen. She whips her head back and forth quickly.

  “No,” she says. “Absolutely not. You’re out of your fucking mind. I am not getting naked out here in front of you.”

  I flash her an angelic smile.

  “I won’t look,” I lie. “But I’m afraid you aren’t in a position to negotiate.”

  I can see the consideration pass over Alicia’s features. She looks frustrated, disgusted, and then something I can’t place passes over her eyes, a strangely thoughtful look.

  “Fine.” She says it like a man off to the gallows.

  Alicia strips artlessly, like an exhausted person staggering home from the bar. There’s nothing seductive or sexy about it at all. And yet something about the bare, tired honesty of her actions causes a stir within me.

  She starts with the sheath dress, pulling it up and over her head. Underneath, she’s wearing a black camisole that hugs every inch of her compactly curvy frame, leaving little to the imagination. Her panties are black, boyshort style, hugging her hips in a way I find myself quite liking.

  Alicia meets my eye. I swear to God for a second she’s almost smiling.

  “You said you wouldn’t peek, so this is as good as you get.”

  She throws the dress into a heap at my feet.

  “That’s not the deal,” I protest.

  “You were worried about me hiding something in here. Does it look like this cami and underwear could hide anything?”

  I take a good, long look. I start at her feet, then wander my eyes up her shapely legs, up the pert curve of her ass, then the dip of her waist and the lines of the camisole, leading up to her bare shoulders and the tasteful hint of cleavage.

  No, there’s no chance she’s hiding anything in there other than a pair of perfectly-proportioned breasts that I can’t wait to feel in my hands...

  I calm myself down, focus on her face again.

  “Fine,” I spit. “Deal.”

  She strolls into the bathroom and shuts the door. I pull the stopper from the bottle of tequila.

  Between the drive, the people I killed, and having to manage a hostage in addition to my own life, I feel like I’ve earned a drink.

  12

  ~ Alicia ~

  I hate to admit it, but for a split second, I’m grateful. When I sink into the hot bath Jake ran for me, I feel some of my tension just bleed away. Then I remember who drew the bath for me and feel my anger rush back anew.

  It took a lot out of me to smile at him, to wiggle out of my dress in front of him, to give him a good long look at my body. I’m not sure if it worked. But he looked. And he looked for a long time.

  At some point, I made the conscious decision to seduce him. Either to ensure he keeps me alive, or to distract him long enough to get free. Preferably the latter, but if the opportunity doesn’t present itself, the former will do.

  Warm water lapping at my skin, I sink down into the bath up to my chin. The tub’s huge. I could disappear under the surface if I wanted. For a moment I’m tempted. I have the fleeting fantasy of maybe if I dunk my head underwater all of this will go away.

  I used to get that feeling after I lost my photography studio. But it never helped then, either. So I know it won’t help now.

  Wiping water droplets off my face, I close my eyes and try to formulate a more coherent plan. I’m a planner by nature, or at least I try to be. Having a step-by-step process to follow helps me when I get overwhelmed. So I try to break my current situation down into something that can be managed step by step.

  Step one: I’ve got to get Jake to either trust me or like me.

  Step two: I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.

  And those steps can be broken down yet further.

  How do I get Jake to trust and like me? Build intimacy. Let him in. Act scared and vulnerable. Let him feel like he’s in charge. These aren’t things I’ve ever done before, but it’s amazing what the human brain is capable of when backed into a corner.

  I’d have never considered myself an actress. But now I have the chance.

  And I think it might be easier if I start things off with a drink of that tequila.

  I steel myself for what I’m about to do. It isn’t easy, exposing myself to a stranger. Let alone a stranger who’s a known dangerous quantity. It’s true Jake hasn’t done anything to specifically hurt me yet, but I don’t doubt that he would in a
heartbeat if he felt like it was the only option.

  I’ve got to take that option away.

  So I’ll have a bit of his booze. Let him think I’m way drunker than I am. And if that gets him relaxed, good.

  But first I have to work up the courage to call out and ask for that drink.

  It takes a few minutes.

  “Hey!” I finally yell out. “About that tequila...”

  Jake shows up on the other side of the door. I can see the outline of his feet in the crack below it. Oddly enough, he doesn’t come straight inside. Preserving my modesty? After everything that came before? I could almost laugh.

  “What about it?”

  “You haven’t finished it, have you?”

  I hear him loose a short laugh. Then he opens up the bathroom door and peers at me through a crack in it.

  I meet his eyes from the waterline, sunk down low in the bath.

  “I think maybe I could use some relaxing after all.”

  He considers me from the hallway, obvious mistrust written all over his face, but he comes inside. I let my head loll back in the water, tracking him with my eyes.

  For a minute, it looks like he might say something. But he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs one of the little plastic-wrapped cups off the bathroom counter and tears the wrapping away. He pours a generous amount of tequila into the cup, then dangles it down toward me.

  Slow and deliberate, I reach up from the bath, my arm dripping with water, and take the cup from him. I let my damp fingers glide against his. Though I imagine it doesn’t quite reach my eyes, I twitch a little half-smile up toward him.

  “Thanks.”

  I force a small gulp of the drink down. It burns all the way down my throat. I haven’t had tequila since one memorable night in art school several years back, but I actively avoid dredging those memories up.

  I can feel Jake watching me, studying the ripple-distorted angles of my body beneath the water’s surface. He’s been looking since I met him, of course. But it’s more important he look now.