Chapter Seven

Calm. Stay calm. You’re The Robot. The impenetrable every VIP would love to have. You’re…

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

And a few more times for the people in the back—fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

When I accepted the Hallie Thorne gig, I imagined the most challenging aspect would be putting up with her mind-numbing chatter. Now, less than a week into the post, I’d received a letter from the Bratva informing me that they knew my whereabouts and did not appreciate my presence in SoCal again.

Good to have you back.

Looking forward to carving new memories with you.

—K

Luckily, Brat’s shopping interest seemed to vanish with her credit card. I doubted she’d even read the contract I’d given her. Maybe her interest had vanished with her purchasing power.

Now, if I were flying solo, I would take the news as a personal invitation to rip Kozlov a new one. The issue was—I was on a job. And right now, the only threat to Brat’s life was being associated with my ass.

Logic dictated I call Tom to let him know about this, then make the next call to Anthony Thorne, informing him of my immediate resignation, my reason for it, and referring him to another security company.

Logic, however, could suck it. Now that I’d started this assignment, I had my eye on the prize. I was getting that meeting with the former president and milking the connections I got out of it to the max.

By the time I was done with Brat, she was going to be enrolled in an Ivy League school, working full time, and volunteering at a shelter.

All I needed was to ensure that Brat was far away from her natural habitat.

Los Angeles.

The next few days passed in a daze.

Ransom did not leave my side. Barely even gave me privacy when I went to the bathroom. I counted down the days, the minutes, the hours until we flew to Dallas. He was obsessed with keeping me safe, and it obviously got to his psyche, because after four days, he called Max and asked him to bring a backup to my house.

“Make sure you patrol the place and don’t leave her alone for one minute,” Ransom ordered. “I have to get some fresh air.”

Oh, did he now? Funny how it never occurred to him I might be needing a breather, too.

Max was too wrapped up in his job to be nice to me. He seemed relieved when, shortly after Ransom disappeared, I went upstairs and roamed the lonely rooms of my mansion, trying to find something to do.

I never quite understood how lonely I was until Ransom got here. His imposed lockdown made me realize that without my nighttime outings, I barely even left the house at all.

Like a ghost, I wandered the rooms on the second floor, until Ransom’s was the only one left.

Don’t go in there. Don’t ask for trouble.

But trouble was a great cure for boredom, as any ditzy heiress could tell you, and I wanted to stir the pot a little. Besides—what else did I have to do? Max was anxiously sitting downstairs, checking the windows and doors every half hour like war was upon us.

I sauntered inside Ransom’s room, closing my eyes and inhaling him.

I liked that I was attracted to him. It felt safe, because I knew he would never try anything with me.

A scribbled note on his desk drew my attention. Was that the same note he took from me? The leaflet that made him change his behavior and become so protective of me?

I made my way to the note and picked it up. It didn’t look like the paper I found in the doorway the other day. No. This looked unmistakably like Ransom’s bold, long-stroked handwriting. An address. In downtown Los Angeles.

Let’s look for trouble.

For a long time now, I wanted to find out something interesting and intimate about my bodyguard.

He knew so much about me. It was only fair I had some information on him, right?

Shoving the note into my pocket, I grabbed my bag and denim jacket. Max was downstairs, and I knew two more men were patrolling the neighborhood. The so-called backup.

The security app on Ransom and Max’s phone was on, so if a door opened in the house—even a window—they’d know about it.

But they wouldn’t know about my bedroom balcony.

My bedroom balcony did not have a camera installed, which made it a blind spot. It had one, when I first moved in three years ago, but it fell a couple years ago, and I never got around to fixing it.

I’d done it before. Slipped out via my own balcony. A couple times when I accidentally locked myself inside the house, and another time when Keller was here and made me promise him I wouldn’t break my promise not to eat ice cream after midnight.

My hands and feet shook. Despite that, I slid down easily. Hopping over the balcony, firmly placing one foot over the gutter, then lowering myself until I was leaning against a garden statue.

I hopped down, cleaning mud and grass from my hands and knees. I peered into the house. Max was there, looking out the opposite window, his back to me.

Turning around, I slipped into my second favorite car, the Prius. It was parked outside the garage from the time NeNe had borrowed it to stealth from a Botox treatment undetected, so no app was going to ping.

The entire drive downtown, I kept staring at the note with the address. What could Ransom possibly be looking for in this part of town? It wasn’t seedy per se, but it wasn’t swanky, either.

Forty minutes later, I was at my destination. I parked in front of the address on the note. It was a Mexican bar. Small, loud, bursting with colors and music. The front patio was teeming with people drinking and laughing.

He’d gone drinking?

Slowly, grasping my clutch to my hip, I began moving through the thick crowd on the patio searching for his face. What was I expecting to see? Ransom on a date? How stupid. I didn’t even know the guy and I knew he wasn’t the dating type.

He wasn’t in the bar. He wasn’t in the seating area, either. It occurred to me that he may have tricked me, to see if I’d take the bait and follow him here.

I made my way out of the bar, the music shaking the ground beneath my feet. The street was still alive and buzzing. I decided to take a quick walk. Maybe he went somewhere nearby instead?

I knew I was getting myself into trouble. Worse still, I knew I was getting Max into hot water, too. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on me. But I’d wanted to see what Ransom was up to when he wasn’t at the house.

Passing by an alleyway full of industrial trashcans, I heard a noise.

“Aww.”

I stopped in my tracks, my ears perking, straining to hear more.

The muffled moans—like a small child crying—grew louder and more desperate. They were coming from the passageway.

When I was in college (for one semester, mind you), the sorority house director once told us if we found ourselves getting physically harassed or attacked, to scream “fire” instead of “rape”. Because fire was a collective problem, and people were more likely to rush to help you, while rape was something people didn’t want to witness or get involved in. And now hearing these voices…I couldn’t just turn around and risk the chance of not helping someone in need.

Well, I wasn’t one of those people.

I opened my small clutch, taking out the taser Keller got me for Christmas, and stepped deeper into the alleyway.

Immediately, two darkened silhouettes came into view. The woman was pressed against a red-bricked wall. Her cocktail dress was pushed up, her panties shoved down haphazardly to her knees. Her face glistened with tears. The man behind her pounded into her mercilessly. His fingers were shoved deep into her mouth, making her gag. His form was big, strong, wired with muscles.

I clutched the taser in my hand, getting ready to aim it at him as I gingerly stepped closer.

“Don’t try to fight it, sweetheart. You’ll just make it worse for yourself,” he taunted viciously into her ear.

My legs froze.

Ransom.

It was Ransom.

I’d recognize that deep, callous voice anywhere.

“What the fuck!” I was shaking so bad I almost dropped the damn taser I aimed at him.

Both Ransom and his victim! turned their heads toward me. The bastard had the decency to remove his hand from her mouth and wipe it over her dress. The woman looked more shocked than relieved to see me, but I couldn’t exactly blame her, considering the circumstances.

“I cannot believe you!” I felt tears, hot and fat, streaming freely down my cheeks. My mouth was coated with sour bile. “I cannot believe what you just did.”

“What’re you doing here?” His voice was inscrutable. Void of emotions. Well, of course it was. He was a goddamn psychopath. “Where the hell is Max?”

That’sthe conversation he wanted to be having right now? Desperate gaslighting if I ever saw it.

“I’m calling the police.” I fished for my phone out of my clutch, before remembering the bastard confiscated it.

“Please don’t!” the woman next to him cried out. She stepped into the light, under a lamppost, tugging her dress down. She appeared to be in her early forties. “Don’t ruin this.”

Cocking my head to the side, I waited for an explanation for her bizarre request. “Honey…what?”

“Because we’re role-playing.” Ransom stepped beside her protectively. She looked sideways at him, giving him an I-cannot-believe-this-is-happening look. I wanted to bury myself in the ground.

A role play?

Like… rape fantasy?

I’d been exposed to a lot of different kinds of porn online, but not this. What kind of people did that?

It was sick. No, worse than sick, it was degrading and harmful.

You shouldn’t be shaming people for their sexual preferences,a voice inside me countered.

“Just…don’t say anything,” the woman warned, her tone implying it wasn’t the first time she’d fired orders at people. “Please. Please, I have two kids at home and an ex-husband who respects me.”

“She’s not gonna say a word,” Ransom soothed. “I give you my word.”

“Thank you.” She turned to Ransom, putting a hand over his chest. “I think I’ll head home.”

He nodded curtly. “My apologies for the disruption. I’ll take care of this.”

“You sure?” She grimaced.

“Positive.”

He sounded sincere and polite and…almost warm. The first time I’d seen him exhibiting this kind of behavior.

She gave him a brief kiss on the cheek and wiggled past me, rushing off into the night.

I was so confused I thought my head was about to blow up.

Standing rooted to the ground, I stared at him. He tucked his shirt in, and looked presentable enough, but I still couldn’t wrap my head around anything.

He’d been…

Or at least, he’d been pretending to…

Was there even a difference, if she was in distress? Yes, for fuck’s sake, there was a difference when she had chosen that situation, made it happen because she wanted it. Universes apart difference. And she’d chosen Ransom to be the one to give her such a shocking experience?

And…oh, no. Why did it feel like my thighs were sticking together? I couldn’t be turned on by this. I couldn’t. No. After all these years, this is what turns me on? I mean, really?

“I’m…uh…” I glanced around me.

“In trouble,” he finished for me, rearranging his dress shirt. “Where’s Max?”

“Home.” I cleared my throat.

“Very professional.”

“It’s not his fault. I’m sneaky. You left a note on your dresser with this address. I wanted to know what you were up to.”

“Why?” he shot out.

“Because you’re hiding a lot of secrets, and we share a roof.”

Surprisingly, he wasn’t outraged by my answer.

“So…this is what you do at night?” I gulped. My heart was still racing. Did I want it to be his first time trying this or his fiftieth? I couldn’t catch my breath.

“I’m a nocturnal creature.”

“You’re a monster, is what you are.” The allegation came out as a desperate bark. My whole body was caked in cold sweat and goosebumps.

His laugh, raw and rough, rang out through the starless night. A thin wire fence separated us from the industrial, funky part of Los Angeles people used as an outdoor sex spot. “Labeling something you’re afraid of as monstrous is the easy part. Understanding how they got that way is what takes true courage.”

“W—w—what you did there was—”

“Having sex with another consenting adult who shares the same fantasies and kinks as me. Nothing wrong with that. She was into it, so was I.”

More than anything else, I hated that I was into it. When I first thought I saw what he was doing to her…when I imagined him doing it to me…I didn’t hate it. I was scared, but I didn’t hate it. And that was awful to admit, even to myself.

“What got you into…uh…these fantasies?” I didn’t think I’d actually get a straight answer, but it was worth trying.

Ransom began making his way out of the alley, certain I would follow him. I did. He shoved his hands into his front pockets.

“Initially, just the sensation of it all. You don’t have to suffer trauma or abuse to enjoy kink, as long as you’re owning your and your consenting partner’s way.”

“And still?” I asked, knowing there was more.

He shrugged. “Childhood trauma, mainly. The idea of using violence freely, unabashedly. There’s safeness in this scenario. It requires trust and a level of protection. In a way, acting out a date-gone-horribly wrong is much safer than engaging in a real, random, Tinder hookup. It’s about the safety of the expectation. Here, we have rules. We have dos and don’ts. We have limits we do not cross. I find it much more respectful than screwing a random person without knowing what they’re into. What their boundaries are, their background.”

Without meaning to, he was kind of selling the idea for me. The prospect of telling someone in advance what I wanted and didn’t want, what I would and wouldn’t do… what they could and couldn’t do… I liked it. I liked it a lot. It didn’t seem so crazy when he explained it to me.

“Were you hurting her?” I gulped.

We were strolling toward the Nissan. It went without saying that he was my ride home. We would pick up the Prius tomorrow.

“Only the ways she wanted me to, but in terms of actually hurting her? Not really, no. Maybe a few light bruises here and there if she decided to ‘struggle harder’ to make it feel real.”

“Is she your…?”

“I do not have a BDSM partner. I prefer more casual hookups.”

“How often do you…?” I trailed off.

“That depends.” He scratched his chin. “But not often. You need to choose your partners carefully for this kind of thing. Mutual friends, people you know and trust.”

“Do you ever have like, just, regular…?”

I couldn’t believe he was answering all these questions. I had a hunch it had more to do with the fact that he didn’t want me to tell my parents and less about wanting to be open with me.

Or maybe it was because he could see my heart beating in my throat and he (thankfully) mistakenly thought I was still scared instead of sort of terrifyingly exhilarated.

“No,” he said flatly. “This is the only form of sexual relationship I’m seeking. I trust this stays between us.”

“Yeah,” I said finally. “Don’t worry about it.”

He unlocked the car automatically, jerking his chin forward for me to get into the passenger seat. “Good, because this discussion is over, and I’m about to rip Max a new one.”

The next couple days were spent in Los Angeles, preparing for the Dallas trip. I touched base with my contacts, while trailing after Brat. Even though she did not have her phone—not only because I was the one who ended up eradicating the wormed meat, but also because that phone was a bad influence—I allowed her to attend some social engagements, as long as they were indoors and I was around.

What could I say? Now that she knew about the darkest side of my life, she had some leverage on me.

She kept her old patterns, desperately clinging on to a reality that was no longer a part of her life. Goodie bags. Designer dresses. Cameras flashing. Brat didn’t even look like she was having fun. I wasn’t sure why she was doing this to herself. What I was sure of was that I didn’t care enough to ask. The lines between employee and employer had been blurred enough after her little snooping stint.

Generally speaking, I’d done my best to talk to her as little as humanly possible after she caught me mid-act. I’d watched as she squirmed, trying to make ends meet with her flimsy daily budget, which I’d cut in half from the original sum Anthony Thorne had named. Last night, Brat had to resort to making her own acai bowl, because she didn’t have enough to DoorDash and leave a twenty-five percent tip.

“Subhuman,” she had complained to the vast, ugly space she called home as she sliced a banana into thin pieces. “That’s what I’ve become.”

To Brat’s credit, she, too, seemed wildly uninterested in me. That was refreshing. Usually, straight, unmarried women I worked for wanted to climb me like a tree. But she seemed so disoriented, so uneasy in her doodled skin, sex didn’t seem high on her agenda.

A week after the note from Kozlov had arrived, Brat and I boarded a plane to Dallas. First class. Not as good as flying private, but I was relieved to leave Los Angeles behind.

We settled into our respective reclinable pods, which faced each other. I didn’t need to look at her more than absolutely necessary. Brat made a show of snapping open a glossy magazine and crossing her legs in her head-to-toe pink Juicy Couture sweats. She frowned in concentration during takeoff, but her eyes were not moving along the text.

I answered emails and reveled in the fact that in a few short hours, I would get to meet a former president. Anthony Thorne hadn’t exactly left a lasting impression on me during his administration—I wasn’t even in middle school during that time—but he was well-loved enough.

After takeoff came an endless stream of snacks and alcohol. I refused everything the flight attendant offered. Something about eating during flights unnerved me. Brat said yes and even asked for seconds. She loved snacks, and the little pillows they gave you, and chitchatting with the staff. In fact, I was pretty sure the only extraneous object she didn’t like in her vicinity was yours truly.

Deciding it was time she got a perk after everything she’d been through, I allowed her to have a drink during the flight.

She polished off three glasses of wine—the first time she’d drunk alcohol since I’d arrived in the picture—before smacking her lips and announcing, “I’m going to the restroom. Be right back.”

I stood up before she did, cracking my knuckles.

She tilted her head up in confusion. “I’m not the queen. You don’t have to stand up when I do.”

“I’m tagging along.”

Was it absolutely necessary? Probably not. But it wasn’t superfluous, either. I didn’t know what I was dealing with when it came to Kozlov. I didn’t know how much he knew about our whereabouts. And I didn’t want to take any chances.

“No, you’re not,” she said firmly, standing up and taking a step sideways. I rounded my pod, blocking her way to the bathroom.

“What if you use drugs?”

Of course, I was fucking with her.

Tilting a thick eyebrow, she said, “Then at least one of us would be in a good mood. Move out of the way, assface.”

I didn’t budge.

She stared at me, wide-eyed and exasperated. The plane hummed as it charged through the sky. People around us napped or worked on their laptops.

“Random,” she said slowly, again with this stupid nickname. “I need to go number two.”

She let the words settle between us and I decided I was going with her to the bathroom, after all. I did not believe her for half a second. Not even a quarter. And I’d force her to call my bluff.

“I cannot afford to take my eyes off you,” I said shortly.

“Wow. That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever told me, and it’s coming from a guy I would likely stab if I could guarantee there wouldn’t be any criminal repercussions,” she bristled.

I almost let loose a smile. Almost. I had to admit, even though she was a royal pain in the ass, and likely the most self-centered person I’d ever met, she was mildly entertaining.

“Move it, or your bladder will burst with all that wine,” I barked.

She rolled her eyes but charged forward, muttering profanities all the way there. She didn’t put up a fight, and in doing so I knew she was planning something that would piss me off.

We both entered the tiny lavatory (why were they always the size of a matchbox?) and Brat got to business immediately, pulling her pink, studded sweatpants down and squatting in an angle toward the toilet seat, without actually touching it with her thighs.

I turned around to give her some privacy. I was an asshole, not a creeper.

“So, tell me,” she started, a solid stream of pee as our musical background. “Do men pay less attention when they pee in public places? Like, do you care less about aiming when you’re on an airplane?”

“I’ve always been a good shot.” Both with my dick and pistol.

She groaned behind my back, “Unsung American hero. The Pulitzer Prize is on its way.”

“I’ll hold my breath.”

“Now there’s an idea I could get behind.”

“I pity women,” I drawled, in the mood to throw her off-kilter. “You have to crouch like a constipated frog to keep from touching the toilet seat for fear you get an STI or pregnant.”

“Don’t pity us. We outlive you, have stronger immune systems, and scientifically, have way better memories. I’ll take doing a few squats over being a man any day.”

“You seem to know a lot about this. Don’t tell me you opened a book,” I concentrated on the door, and not on the reflection of her in the mirror.

“God forbid. It was on the back of a tampon box.”

I allowed myself a small grin, listening as she flushed the toilet. The sound shook the walls. She washed her hands, squirting a generous amount of soap.

“I do apologize,” she said.

Here we go.

“What did you do now?” I demanded. If she’d peed on my black Italian wingtips, I was going to punch a hole through this goddamn wall.

“Nothing…yet.” She leaned forward in front of the mirror, applying lip gloss and smacking her lips. “But I’m about to.”

She pocketed the lipstick, turned around, then leaned close to my ear. Being a true dom, I could read her body language, anticipating what she was about to do before she did it. Her mouth fell in an O-shape.

She was about to scream.

I acted quickly, pushing her against the sink, covering her entire body with mine. My palm squeezed flat against her mouth, sealing all of it.

“Are you crazy?” I hissed in her face with a snarl. “Do you think this is funny?”

She attempted a smart-ass answer, from the look in her eyes. Her words were muffled by my hand.

“That was a rhetorical question. You’re as crazy as a soup sandwich. You’ve gone a step too far now, Brat.”

In response, she sank her teeth into my palm, then started grinding her jaws like a Chihuahua. My skin broke, creating a slow, scarlet trail of blood that ran down her chin and along her pretty little throat. The little shit bit me.

And that turned me on. Because when I got bitten…my instinct was to bite back even harder.

I pressed my hand more forcefully against her mouth, feeling aroused and annoyed and fuck, I should have chosen the Mayor Ferns post. My blood was the exact shade as her hair. Another turn-on.

“Stop this. I already told you, I won’t touch you in an inappropriate way. You have my word. Why do you think I’d try anything with you? It’s like hetero assholes naturally assuming gay people will come on to them.”

She said something animatedly, but again, it was muffled by my palm. Brat reached at my face, trying to claw my eyes out. She wanted an altercation, and I wasn’t sure why.

She was feral, unruly, and a goddamn pain. She was also the first client to make me bleed, which didn’t disturb me as much as it should have.

“You aren’t going to stop, are you?” I asked.

She shook her head wildly, looking at me with a crazy twinkle in her eye. I recognized that abandon. It appeared whenever I hooked up with a woman who liked to be roughed up. But it couldn’t be. Brat wasn’t that kind of person. She was used to Hollywood pretty boys who probably fucked like they were starring in French art films. Making loooooooove.

My blood had disappeared into her cleavage. We both watched as it trickled between the valley of her breasts. My cock throbbed, thick and pulsating against my jeans.

“Don’t hold back.” She hooked her fingers inside my front pockets, tugging me closer. “Grind against me.”

“What do you want?” I shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to get out of this bathroom without cooperation. It sounded more like a plea than a question.

She began moving her lips. Reluctantly, I pulled my hand away to let her speak.

“My phone back. Permanently, Skipper the Creeper.”

She licked her lips, looking up at me like a little vampire. Forbidden and fey. I wondered about the men she’d been with—or had they been pretty boys, unable to deliver what she needed? What was Hallie Thorne like with each of them? How many? A good amount, no doubt. Although interestingly enough, when I sifted through her text messages and call logs, I couldn’t find any evidence of hookups. She had a Tinder account on her phone, but obviously hadn’t been using it since meeting me—and there had been no new notifications. Maybe she was going through a self-inflicted dry spell.

A greasy beef-head like Wes Morgan could trigger celibacy, even in nymphomaniacs.

“And you think acting like a child is going to achieve your goal?” I snarled. We were crowded together in the tiny space, my body flush with hers. Someone shook the lavatory door from the outside, groaning in protest when they realized it was locked.

“I think we both need to learn how to compromise if we want to make this work.”

“Compromise,” I repeated, bracing the sink on both sides around her, my nose very nearly brushing hers. Her entire body was humming with charged, pent-up…something. Desire? Hate? Disdain? I couldn’t tell. Parts of her personality made me suspect she was a grade-A sex kitten, and others hinted she could give the Virgin Mary a run for her money. “Fine. Let’s bargain. Tell me why I should give you your phone back.”

“Because in return, I’ll give you my cooperation.” She smiled winningly.

“Nice try.”

“Well, what do you want?” Her eyebrows pulled together like two perfect checkmarks.

That was easy. Not get a stiffy every time she decided to get a rise out of me. Could she make that happen? Doubt it.

“I want you to make a promise and keep it.”

She stared at me, wide-eyed, like a child listening to a story, waiting eagerly for more.

Was I really letting her off with a bit of homework? Yes. It was too soon for her to find an actual job. If she got one now, she’d be fired before she even showed up to work. Besides, I could follow her around the mansion all I wanted, there was no way an employer would accept me scaring away the customers.

“You may have your phone back if you promise to use the time in Texas to think about what you want to do with your future. I’m talking about getting a real job, Brat. Not one you can do from your phone while taking a dump. Once we get back to Los Angeles, you’ll be making some changes to your lifestyle. Am I clear?”

Hatred stared back at me through those baby blues. She really didn’t want to get a job. Why? Thousands of jobs, in Los Angeles alone, required minimum intelligence and even less commitment. She could be a stylist. Or a reporter for one of those cable channels. The very thought of putting herself out there seemed to paralyze her.

“I still don’t understand why I can’t just continue as an influencer.”

“Well, that’s because your annual income is currently $3,392.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

The lavatory door shook again, reminding us that outside, someone waiting now believed we were either fucking or taking the longest shit known to mankind.

“It’s my job to know everything about you.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she closed her eyes. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll think of something.”

“And no more pranks. No steak in my closet, salt in my coffee, screaming in public. I apologize that you had to witness what you did the other night, but it was a sexual relationship between two consenting adults.”

Now that I’d listed all of her little stunts, I had to admit, she’d crammed a lot into a short period of time. The door shook more prominently now. I banged my palm against it. “Go away.”

“All right.” She pouted. “Guess it’s only fair, since I don’t seem to be able to get you to quit. Truce?” She raised her pinky finger, offering it to me.

I unlocked the lavatory and stalked out, passing by a man in a suit with a white moustache. Assumingly the shit who’d tried to rush us out of the restroom.

“Congratulations on joining the Mile High Club, boy, but some of us have to drop the kids at the pool.”