“Afraid you’re going to skin me and wear me as a suit?”
“Having a pretty girl locked in my basement wreaks havoc on my imagination. Murder doesn’t factor into it.”
“But you stopped. You remembered my limits, and you stopped.”
“Yes, barely. My main concern was you were about to change your limits, and that’s not something you should do in the heat of the moment. If you’d consented, I would have had a hell of a lot of trouble stopping myself.”
“I was not about to change my limits!” My face went hot.
Zero made a sound of disbelief. “You know you were.”
“Yeah? Well, the two of you were going to take me up on it, so you’re as bad as I am.” I thought about what that would have been like, basing my information on a few brief moments when I’d thought that was where things were going between the three of us. With a clearer head, the very idea was overwhelming—especially since I doubted either of them would have been gentle. I liked it rough, but probably not as rough as they were thinking, and I’d never been with two guys at the same time, let alone in that kind of scenario.
Yeah, definitely not the sort of decision I should be making without thinking it through first.
Besides, the book I was working on only involved having one captor taking his revenge by kidnapping a woman for the transgressions of her brother. I hadn’t even written a second man into the scenario. Maybe I needed to change that, considering I could imagine a lot of different things based on the research we’d been conducting over the past few days. Had it been a few days? I wasn’t even sure. I had been trying to keep track, but it had been almost impossible to do so.
“Come on, there are some leftovers in the fridge that are a lot more appetizing than the cold oatmeal we were going to force-feed you,” Zero said, holding his hand out for mine. I took it.
Zero sat with me while I worked my way through a plate of chicken and mashed potatoes. He talked about where I was going with my plot, and how his own book was going. Vandal, however, went up to his bedroom and didn’t come out. Whether he was sleeping or avoiding me, I couldn’t be sure.
Chapter 11
“Don’t even think of talking to anybody—at least not past pleasantries.”
The glance Vandal gave me was completely unreadable, especially with his sunglasses on. He turned his attention back to the road as we flew down the highway.
I hated myself for admiring how hot and aloof he looked today in a faded black T-shirt and nicely fitting blue jeans. Despite the heat, he was wearing his favorite scuffed combat boots, and I might have developed a serious boot fetish by the time he was done lacing them then pulling his jeans over top.
As for me, he’d sorted through my clothes as though he had every right to, then threw a sundress at me and told me to get ready.
“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?”
“I don’t want to give you time to make plans.” He frowned at the driver in front of us and passed him. Apparently, we were in a hurry. Every line of his body was tense, and he seemed ready for a fight—almost as bad as my first day with him.
I tried to ignore his mood and amused myself by making notes in the notebook Zero had given me before he’d lent me his old laptop. Now and then Vandal got me to skip songs on the truck stereo. We drove for a few hours before he finally pulled into the parking lot for a series of big box stores. He parked, got out, and grabbed a bag from the back seat, then met me on my side as I got out. Rather than walk on ahead, he took my hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm as though he were a gentleman.
“Keep your hand there. And like I said, don’t talk to anyone. Don’t make a fuss. Follow my lead.”
Were we robbing a fucking bank?
I trotted to keep up with his pace, my cheap sandals already giving me blisters. The skirt of my sundress kept trying to blow upward in the wind, but Vandal wasn’t interested in letting go of my hand so I could keep it down on both sides. I hoped I wasn’t flashing anyone with too much leg.
It was early, and still sort of cold. If I’d been left to my own devices, I probably would have worn a sweater, but considering Vandal’s mood, I hadn’t asked any questions. He knocked on the back door of a large brick building, and after a few moments someone opened it, grinning when they saw who it was.
“Mr. Stokes, it’s such an honor!” The woman backed out of our way and led us in. She shook Vandal’s hand and gave me a polite smile, probably assuming I was the girlfriend.
Although I was still baffled, we followed her in through a maze of hallways that led into a stockroom. She gestured to the far side of the room where a door stood ajar.
“Please make yourself at home in our staff room. No one will bother you in there. The staff has been directed to stay out until you leave, so you don’t have to worry about being swamped with fans. At least not in there.” She laughed nervously, and Vandal gave her a faint smile.
Oh…right. He was famous. Amazing how soon that had slipped my mind.
“Thank you, Evelyn.”
“We put together a welcome basket. Please help yourself.” The woman was so excited, she was almost vibrating. Silently, I commiserated with her, remembering how excited I’d been as I had biked up to Vandal’s front door. My dream meeting with him had been depressingly different than what had actually happened.
I let Vandal lead me into the break room. If Evelyn had any idea what the man was actually like, she wouldn’t be so excited, that was for sure. The staff room looked like every other staff room I’d ever seen—which had only been on TV. The gas station I’d worked at hadn’t had a staff room at all, and most of my other jobs had been outdoors. The Keurig on the counter and the newish table with matching chairs around it seemed opulent compared to the stool behind the gas station counter where I had gotten to sit if there were no customers at break time.
True to her word, there was a large basket filled with treats and fan-made things sitting in the middle of the table, like an offering to a well-loved god. There was wine and chocolate—an expensive kind I’d never so much as tasted. There was a scarf someone had hand knitted that matched the colors of his last book cover. Someone else had carved a miniature of Jamison, the serial killer from his most popular series, and the star of the book he was editing, as well as the one he was writing after it.
“This is so cool,” I couldn’t help but say as I knelt on a chair to examine the contents of the basket without touching anything. “Are we here for a signing? I thought you didn’t do signings.”
“Not usually, but I know the owner. I agreed to do this as a favor as long as she didn’t advertise I was coming.”
“If the owner isn’t allowed to advertise you’re coming, what use is it to her?”
“Notoriety? Bragging rights? I’ve signed here before, and apparently people show up just in case it happens again, then they stay to buy.”
“Is she family or something?”
“My old creative writing teacher from high school.” He took off his sunglasses and put them on the table. “She’s the only one who didn’t try to talk me out of pursuing a writing career. She didn’t even tell me that horror was a waste of my time or talent.”