4. Jasmine

Chapter four

Jasmine

I stumble through the front door of my shitty little home, my heart thumping in my chest. I have no idea how I didn't crash the car on my way home, but I made it. Now I need to grab some clothes and run, but first, I need to get showered and change to remove any evidence. My little place, which has continually fought my attempts to make it home, is now a prison. The only way in or out is via the staircase leading from the main road to my first-floor bedsit, adding to the trapped feeling wrapping around me.

Catching my breath will have to wait as I race toward the bathroom, shedding my clothes with trembling hands. I'm hoping I can wash this evening away. Water pelts against my skin, scalding hot, as I scrub every inch of flesh, searching for any trace of crimson that might betray me.

"Please, please be clean," I mutter to myself, eyes squeezed shut against the sting of soap and anxiety. Each droplet of water feels like an exorcism, casting the memory of my crime from my body. I attacked Andrew Green, and whether he lives or dies, the mafia will now be coming for my blood.

Once I'm convinced there's no blood, I wrap myself in a threadbare towel, my mind racing as I gather the soiled garments. A splash of bleach douses them until they're soaked through with the pungent chemical. Even the crumpled bills from tonight's tips are not spared; they, too, must be cleaned of any potential guilt. I can't risk any evidence, even if this is a crime the police will never know about.

In my room, I change into more practical clothing and shove the rest into a bag. I have no idea where I'm going, and sleeping in the car might be my life for a short while. Anything is better than concrete boots. I pick up my ballet slippers from the drawer where they hide. They are too small for me now, but I keep them with me. I always dreamt of being a ballerina as a child, and I was so proud when my mum bought me the shoes and took me to my first lesson. I was told in that lesson that I didn't have what it takes, and Mum took me home again. I gave up on that dream at the age of nine. I keep the shoes to remind me never to give up on my dreams again.

My priorities include my phone charger and the cash hidden under my mattress. There's more there than I have in my bank, but I'll still stop by a cashpoint and dump my card. I am still trying to figure out how to run from the mafia or how far they will look to find me. Am I really worth that much effort? Was Andrew?

My heart hammers against my chest as I stumble through the dimly lit hallway back towards the door. It's the middle of the night, and all I want to do is sleep, but this situation won't wait for the rising dawn. The walls feel like they are closing in on me, spurring my haste to get the hell out of town.

"Focus," I whisper to myself. I need to plan my next step. When they realise what I've done, the police will come knocking at the door. They will know it's me. I'm not worried about them; life in prison would be a walk in the park compared to what is really coming for me.

Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I bid goodbye to my life and head down the stairs to the front door. My hand reaches for the latch, beginning to twist it, when a boot impacts the front door, forcing it open. I'm knocked off-balanced, finding myself tumbling as someone pushes inside.

"Hey!" I protest, grabbing the bat I keep by the door as I find my feet. "I'm calling the police." Thought that probably isn't a good idea considering what I've already done tonight.

"I wouldn't recommend that," a smooth voice calls from above. I stand, raising the bats, but when I see the beautiful man in my doorway, I can't bring myself to swing. He has dark hair with short sides and longer on top, a sexy stubble and eyes as dark as his black shirt and expensive black suit. Now this is a man I would dance for.

"Put the bat down, please, Miss."

Wow, sexy and refined. A tattooed hand grabs the bat and pulls; despite my best efforts, it's pulled free from my grip. I may not have it in me to whack a bat across someone's face, but I am not above kicking him in the shins.

He grabs my forearm tightly as I attempt to slap him. "Relax, and no one gets hurt."

If I run, he'll chase me. I'm not giving him that invitation.

"So what? You're just going to rough me up and then go?" I ask, more hopeful for the letting go than the roughing-up part.

"We have a few questions regarding your whereabouts tonight."

"No. Please. I didn't mean anything. Whatever he said was a lie."

"I'm sure you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for me." Mr Smooth says as he invites himself into the tiny hallway. So I invite myself to kick him in the nuts.

"Easy now, kitten." He turns, trapping me between him and the two men still in the doorway. Running to my room might be my only chance. He's after me the second I bolt for the stairs. The whole way up, I'm sure he could grab me at any moment, but he doesn't. My safety-conscious pursuer waits until I'm safely on the landing.

Mr Smooth stops behind me. His arm snakes gently around my waist, and a hand grips my throat.

"A lady shouldn't be chased down like this," he whispers against my ear. "Let me take you downstairs so we can talk."

"And if I refuse?" I'd kick him again if I wasn't barefoot and feeling the blows as much as he was.

"You have nothing to fear from me, my dear. I am Zane Whitehall, Consigliere to the Thayer Cartel, and I know how to treat a lady." His nose tickles my cheek as he seductively introduces himself. "My men, however, are not so well educated. Refuse, and they will have to drag you down, and neither of us wants that, do we?"

If he lets his thugs do that, who knows what else he'll let them do?

"You can be reasonable, can't you, kitten? Put those claws away and play nicely?"

With a sigh, I relent, relaxing back into this stranger with his paws across my body. He shouldn't feel so good pressed up against me. He shouldn't smell so good. God damn, I shouldn't want to taste him. It is only for my own safely that I do want to walk downstairs with him instead of his thugs manhandling me.

Really, just for safety.

"Please don't kill me. It wasn't my fault." I try to pull myself free. And fail.

"Hush, kitten. Don't make me hurt you." His fingers tighten for the briefest second. "No one is going to kill you."

What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm more excited to be called kitten than I'm worried he threatened to hurt me. No one has called me kitten before and I think I like it. Why have I always been drawn to bad guys in their designer suits? He pushes me towards the stairs, but I won't roll over because he has a devilish smile. A second push puts me at the top of the stairs. He may be trying to delay it, but this man will push me down the stairs if he has to.

"Can't we just have a civilised talk about this?" I protest. Zane Whitehall may be a gentleman, but what he's doing to me is downright... hot!

No. Savage, or cruel, or mean. Yes, Jas, you idiot, he's a meanie-pants.

"You're going down one way or another, kitten."

I take a step back, pressing myself against the wall. There are no options. I'm all out of ideas. Sane ones at least.

Zane gives me another encouraging push, tipping me over the stairs. If I don't walk, I'll fall.

"Mother fucking arsehole." I grip the handrail and stumble down. He's right behind me with his palm out, ready to give a shove if I hesitate.

As we reach the bottom of the stairs, Zane wraps his arms around me again in more of a dominating hug than restraint. It seems Mr Whitehall doesn't like dragging ladies up and down the stairs.

"I didn't mean to hurt Andrew," I plead.

"Why do you think I'd care even if you did?" Zane insists. "Were you expecting someone to come?"

Was I expecting someone to come?

I knew I could never go back to work. It was obvious that I had to leave town, but did I really expect someone to knock on the door tonight? My paranoia is getting to me, but unless this man found Andrew right after I stabbed him, there is no way he can be here this quickly.

Zane wouldn't be here so quickly, and he wouldn't be talking so kindly.

Could he be here to save me?

It's nothing more than wishful thinking, but there are no other options that don't involve my brutal torture and murder, so I'm going with clutching at straws.

Let's pretend the sexy man who calls me kitten is here to save me from the shit show that is my life. Please.

Which puts me back where I started. Only now, I'm not standing against this man with fire in my eyes. I'm leaning against him with fire in the pit of my belly. It would be too easy to lose myself to the inner rhythm of my pounding heart and grind my arse against the erection I can feel against the soft cotton of my joggers.

"Let's get you somewhere more comfortable and safer than this place, shall we?"