Target 84 (14 page)

“I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way. Let our scars fall in love.
”―
Andrew Boyd
The hotel is cheap. I’d worried about walking in wearing only a robe, but he’d ushered me in a side parking entrance and we were alone in the hall and elevator. I’d kept my head down, not wanting any security cameras to see my bruised face.

I have never been so thankful for a steaming hot shower. The spray washes away all the dirt and debris from the warehouse. I’m mentally exhausted. Physically tired. I feel it in my bones. Stepping out of the shower, I note my eyes are swollen, one nearly closed completely for the moment, and my face is puffy. I’ve seen better days. My lips are even bruised. I drink from the faucet, gulping the liquid like it’s the last time I’ll have it. When it hits my stomach it sloshes around uncomfortably. I will my stomach to calm down.

I’m riddled with strange emotions. Bentley, my boy, the one who gave me hope all those years ago, is a grown man.

An attractive man.

A man who I want to touch me.

My body shakes with the need to be held, touched by him. I don’t understand it. I’d prefer to want to kill him. I’d prefer to have no attraction to him. My desires conflict with each other but I can’t deny he sets my senses on fire. Combing through the tangled mess of my hair as best as I can with my fingers, I finally exit the bathroom.

Bentley moves from the edge of the bed towards me.

“I’m going to shower. Sit, please.”

I sit in the chair at the small desk and watch as he ties me to it.

“Really?” I question. He doesn’t respond. Instead, after checking my ankles and wrists, he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. Heat pools in my gut. There is a primal instinct perhaps born of nostalgia for the boy I held dear to my black heart or, maybe, I’m sick in the head and these feeling are Stockholm-esque. I don’t dwell on them for long because the shower shuts off and I can hear him rumbling around behind the closed door.

A trail of dark hair spreads from his belly button below the wrap of his towel at his hips. Just the thought of where that trail goes makes me swallow hard. My mouth is dry again but not from dehydration. He’s lean and defined. Rippling abdominals lead up to broad shoulders and cut biceps. His eyes darken as though he’s read my mind and all of the thoughts now swirling around in there. He unties my bindings and holds his hand out to me. I don’t move.

He jerks his hand, insisting I take it. I lift my hand into the air, dropping it into his. He closes his fingers around mine gently. Terror isn’t the right word for what plagues me right now but whatever it is, it’s a heady mix. I don’t know that a word exists to describe it. He pulls me along to the bed. He's gentle. My heels start to dig in and his grip tightens. We’re playing a game, dancing around the strange desire that plagues us. Should we or shouldn’t we?

Releasing my hand, he moves to shut the lights off. I don’t see him. With a soft jerk he pulls me down on the end of the mattress. The heat from his face and hands make goose bumps along my body. I grip the bedding. His breath hits my neck, making shivers everywhere else. I hate myself just enough to want him, but I hate him just enough to want to run from him too. Yet, I understand him and maybe I'm crazy enough to be with him.

He runs his hand down the front of my robe, tugging at it. I whimper and grab at the cloth, gripping it together. Grabbing hold of both my hands, he lifts them above my head and holds them there with one hand. His other hand cups my face gently before placing a hard kiss to my lips. It’s painful but welcome.

I’m frozen.

How do I know if he wants this or if this is his plan of distraction?

I want this, but I don’t.

I do.

This is Twelve.

This is the boy who hums.

My hope.

This is probably oh so wrong.

My body betrays me. My lips begin to move with his. They don’t care what my brain says. The way his mouth claims mine makes my stomach drop. I've felt sexy before. I've felt needed before but never have I felt wanted. Not like this. He desires me. He
wants
me. All of me. Not half-truths, not Greta-the-consultant, the lie, not just Greta-the-killer. He wants the me that exists in the normal world and the me that exists in the deplorable underworld.

He is
my
boy.
The
boy. There is no one else in the world that I would be able to give in to anyone else like this.

His kisses are like bullets shooting me down. If I lose this game, he wins. If I break, he wins
me
. If I allow him to see me, to see all of me, it means trusting he will take care of my heart. It means accepting these kisses that make me want to drop to my knees and pray to my many non-existent gods. Yet, my natural skepticism is hard to override. I don’t trust his intentions or all the unspoken details of our charade. Deep in my core, I believe he will not hurt me physically
again
, I trust in that now, but is that enough?

His hand cups my left breast. His thumb rubs across its peak while his mouth wraps around the other. I moan in pleasure, unable to keep myself silent. I want the release. I crave it.

“Bird,” he grits out. “Tell me yes.” I moan as his thumb caresses my breast but say nothing. “I see you, Greta. You don’t have to pretend to be anyone.”

His words...it feels like he took a portion of my insides out and shows it to me in the palm of his hand. How could he possibly know? How could he possibly see
me
?
The robe spreads open and this time I make no move to stop it. I’m bared to him and it feels strangely intimate, as if we’ve waited a lifetime for this moment. My panic that comes with full nudity is absent. Maybe only because he experienced the same thing. Maybe only because he is Twelve. I can’t be sure.

“Yes,” I pant. Some small, infantile cord snaps in my brain. In this moment, I would die for him. I would kill for him. I want him with a primal lust.

“Say it again,” he pleads with a moan.

I lift my head towards the sound of his voice until I feel his breath against my own. “Does this convince you?” I dart my tongue out, capturing his full bottom lip, before sucking it between my teeth. He breaks away, leaving me breathless as he releases my hands.

Warmth drags up and down my slit. I cry out before I can stop myself. The warmth of his mouth crashes onto me. He lightly bites my clit, making me jerk and grab at the bed. He licks and sucks slowly. I feel one of his huge fingers touch me. He pushes it in slowly, just dipping it in a couple times. It's enough. It's all I need. He sucks my clit again, harder, and I orgasm. He feels me tighten and pumps his fingers in and out of me. I'm in a frenzy. He slides his fingers out and I feel him moving around.

I shiver when I feel the warmth of his mouth hovering over my nipple. He rubs his erection up and down my slit. One arm hooks around the back of my thigh and pushes it up close to my chest. He slams in hard and fast. I don’t know which way is up. His face hovers above mine for a moment. My eyes adjust to the darkness enough to see the glint in his eyes. I don’t know which I prefer--being able to see his eyes, intensified by the desire gleaming in them, or the disconcerting screen of darkness.

He growls in my ear. His heavy breathing is making me hot and sweaty. I'm wet, soaked. His cock slips inside of me with ease at every thrust.

It’s angry.

Bruising.

Rough.

Raw.

Punishment.

My body spasms. He left me. He left me. All those years spent hanging by a thread, hoping not to finally lose my sanity. Anger rouses my temper, my violent streak. He grunts and moans, "God damn.” I close my eyes, unable to share the overwhelming intimacy and choosing to feel the rage instead. He pumps with uneven jerks. I feel his grip loosen. “Look at me,” he demands.

I don’t want to look. I want control in this moment. I open my eyes and watch his shadowed expression as I use my freed hand to slap him across one cheek and backhand him across the other. “You left me,” I shriek. His mouth opens as he cries out in shock and pleasure. He doesn’t look mad. He looks lust filled.

“I’m here now,” he grunts. I push up to bite his lower lip and pull. He moans loudly.

"Faster," I mutter breathlessly into the space between us. He licks his plump lips and lets a slight grin lift one side of his mouth. Grabbing hold of both my hands, he lifts them above my head, twining our fingers together as he looks down at me with fierce determination in his stormy blue eyes. His hips pull back and he pounds all the way in with one deep thrust before repeating the action again and again. My breathing is frantic as my orgasm builds. He’s hammering into me and I’ve never felt such pleasure and pain. I fall over the edge in a stunning moment of bliss. He drives into me one more time before he stops moving, keeping me pinned beneath him as he comes. My body aches from the force of our romp. My bruises throb ten-fold.

I wiggle my fingers and he releases my hands. I run my fingers through his unruly, dirty blonde hair as he eases out of me. I lay still, unsure of what comes next. This isn’t my usual experience. I don’t have control of the situation. I’m still his prisoner. An arm hooks around my waist and I’m pulled back flush against his chest. I lie stiffly.

“Relax, Greta,” he grunts.

“I don’t do this,” I state.

“Snuggle?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Well I do, so get used to it.” My mind is a whirlwind of confusion in the aftermath of our passion. I don’t know if I should be scared or content. I feel both. I don’t sleep.

I think he must be thirty-three this year, yet to me, he looks older. Not haggard, but experienced. How did he assimilate? How does he expect me to?

Maybe it’s possible to have a life I’ve never dared to imagine: a sunny, warm house where peace, love, and trust exist. Bentley’s arm slings over my middle, fingers lacing through mine as I think about the significant steps that led us here. If I hadn’t been assigned him. If I made more money per hit, I’d be long gone already. If he hadn’t escaped. If he had been found after escaping. If Pepper and I had never met. There are so many ways to dissect this. Still, I can’t help but think that everything I’ve been through has led to this. If I hadn’t been an exemplary student at Ravenbrook, I wouldn’t be alive.

If, if, if.

He reaches down and pulls the comforter over us before slinging his arm over me once more. The bed is too soft. Bentley sighs heavily, shedding the weight of the world for a few hours in slumber. I want to say something to him, but I can’t think of what, so I rest my head in the crook of his arm and let my eyes close. I let myself absorb the many clamoring emotions pummeling me. If I just feel them, each one, individually, then maybe I can make sense of them.

“Come sleep with me: We won't make Love, Love will make us.
”―
Julio Cortázar
Sweating and exasperated, I throw back the covers and sit up, rubbing my face. The walls hold the faintest fragrance of hotel shampoo from our showers before, the once comforting scent now cloying. Three-thirty a.m. Greta’s sleep-hot hand hits my back.

Greta. Thirty-three. My little, blonde bird.

“I need some Valium or sleeping pills. I can't sleep, and it's driving me crazy. I swear my eyelids are glued to my forehead,” she admits.

“I don’t have any of that. You should be exhausted anyways,” I tell her, wishing she was asleep. I recline back, tucking my arms behind my head to stare at the ceiling.

Thoughts racing. What now? Where and what has she been doing all this time? How has she embedded herself in Pepper’s life without my knowing it?

“My body is. My mind, not so much. Why are you awake?” she asks lazily.

“You didn't leave,” I state as my brain catches up with the current situation. We fell asleep after a rather rough round of angry, raw sex. God, she’d felt so good wrapped around me. I’d pumped in and out furiously until I felt my balls tighten and draw up with my release. At any point, considering I’d failed to restrain her in any way, she could have left.

Or worse, killed me. A fatal error on my part. One that I will not make again.

“Yes. I’m still here.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I...I don’t really know. I just am. I thought about it,” she admits.

“Should I be worried?” I ask, partly in jest but partly seriously too.

“I’m not going to kill you, Bentley,” she says flatly. The fact that any of this is even a concern sends white-hot anger scouring through me. For all the injustices she’s lived, I’ve lived.

It eats at me.

I push up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, reminding myself that people just do the strangest things when they believe they're entitled. But they do even stranger things when they just plain believe and Greta just plain believed in everything she was fed at Ravenbrook. That alone makes her dangerous. Emotionless. Mechanical. I’ve been a fool for losing sight of that. I let my frustration envelope me.

“What is it like not to feel anger...or
heartbreak
?” I spit venomously at her.

“Excuse me?” she barks, bolting upright at my outburst.

“Get in the chair, bird,” I command, pointing to near the desk. Her arms cross over her chest in defiance.

“Fuck you, Bentley. You’d be smart to kill me now,” she crows. Anger and defiance roll off her in thick, tangible waves.

“Now!” I bark.

She stands, stomps, and sits down hard in the chair at the desk. I restrain her legs and arms as she glares at me.

“This how you treat all your women?” she spits. Her words wound me. This entire situation is too raw, too fresh. Smarts before hearts. I was caught up in lust before. I was caught up in a dream of
wanting
to be able to trust her. Maybe I can, but I need to be smart about it.

It’s too soon to know. I don’t have the luxury of making a wrong move. If they hired her, and she fails, they will hire someone else. I plod back to the bed, tucking myself under the comforter. Her angry huffs are the only sound in the room.

“You are a grade-A shithead, you know that?” she berates.

“Shut. Up,” I clip. I need to gather my thoughts. I need to figure this out. I can’t just let her go. This entire plan hinged on gathering information from someone who
didn’t
know me.

The impossibility of this situation is eating a hole through my gut. I’ll end up with an ulcer the size of Texas. Greta’s quieted down, her breathing soft and shallow. Exhaustion must have won. I punch my pillow a few times to fluff it, roll over, and close my eyes. Sleep is slow to come.

“Wake up,” her stern voice commands. I lie still. “Wake up!” she yells. I roll over, lifting my head slightly. She is still secured to the chair. I let my head drop back to the pillow.

“Why are you such a pain to be with?” I yawn, disgruntled. The clock says 9 a.m.

“Because you tied me to a chair all night,” she snaps. I close my eyes, still too tired to move. “Bentley,” she crows.

“What?” I ask gruffly.

“I have to pee. Now.”

Groaning, I let my feet hit the carpet, stretch, and move to her. I untie her as she fidgets, the urgency of her needing to use the bathroom obvious. As the ankle ties are released, she shoots up, jogging for the bathroom. She doesn’t even fully close the door behind her.

“Hey,” she yells from the bathroom. “Your phone has been blowing up.”

I grab my phone from the pocket of my pants on the floor. Six missed called. Two voicemails. A fist tightens around my chest. Five calls from Clint. One call from Pepper. I hit one and send calling up voicemail. The toilet flushes. Greta comes out in the hotel robe. Clint’s voice starts berating me for not answering my phone.

What comes next drops me to my knees. Literally.

The phone makes a muted thud as it hits the hotel carpeting.

Greta picks up the phone, puts it on speaker, and stares at me with wide eyes. Tension builds as she catches the end of Clint’s message. As the next voicemail begins to play, the raw energy between us is snuffed out, leaving me with a chill. Pepper’s voice is so very broken as she speaks.

“Bentley, my God.”
Sniffle. A wail.
“What have I done? Get her back. GET HER BACK!”
Sobbing. A guttural scream of lament. Silence.

The message ends. My hands curl, wanting so much to punch someone or something. The room is thick with visible tension. Greta is pulling on a pair of my jeans, mumbling, her body rife with strain.

“Get the fuck up, Bentley. We have to move,” she barks, snapping me from my mental stupor.

Instinct takes over. Moving to my feet, I drag my weapons bag from under the bed. I keep them in perfect condition and they’re clean, ready for use. I zip the bag closed and toss it at Greta’s feet as she pulls on one of my tee shirts. I yank my pants from last night up my legs and tug my shirt over my head. Grabbing the last of my crap and tossing it haphazardly into a duffel bag, I ask her, “You coming?”

“There isn't a chance in hell you’ll be able to stop me from killing them,” she answers.

She rolls down the window and sucks in some crisp, cold air. Once she can breathe easier, I watch as she leans her head back against the headrest and tries to compose herself. I almost miss our turn. Her seat belt locks in place, tightly confining her in the seat, as she inhales sharply.

“Sorry,” I mutter, distracted.

“Just drive, Bentley,” she snaps.

Our drive is strained. The tension and fear between us palpable. The tables have turned before we’ve had a chance to examine the details of our situation.

When we arrive at the Napolis’ rustic mansion, my mind wanders to the voicemails from earlier. The ones I missed.

Allie Napoli. Twelve years young. Abducted right out of Pepper Crown and Dominic Napoli’s workplace. Before the car is even in park, Greta has thrown the door open and is sprinting up the front stairs and into the Napolis’ home.