Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart (51 page)

"Well, I do," I say.

"After everything I’ve said to
you, are you willing to spend the night with me?" he asks.

Oh
God, of course. "Yes," I whisper.

* * *

On Saturday, I meet Sawyer at our
diner—that is how I think of it now—for breakfast. I can tell he is distracted.
He didn’t order a large breakfast. He’s just drinking coffee.

I pry, poke, prod, and beg him to
tell me what’s going on. Finally I sigh. "Okay, Sawyer. I care about you,
but I can’t just stand by and let you continue to be in danger. I don’t care if
you need the money. I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of my life. I’m
going to go to the local cops right now if you don’t tell me what’s going on."

He jolts up and gapes at me.

"I’d rather lose you than see
you end up dead, Sawyer."

He winces. "I talked to Helman
last night. He made it clear that my mother would get hurt unless I do what he
wants."

"God, Sawyer, this has to
stop! You’ve got to go to the cops. This is crazy."

"Claire, I’m buying time right
now. I’m going to do what he wants. I’m going to keep winning money for him,
while I figure out how to get out of this. If I go to the cops now, I have no
way of ensuring Mom is safe." He drinks the rest of his coffee. After the
waitress brings one for me and refills his, he slips a silver flask out of his
pocket and sloshes in a liquid I am sure must be Bailey’s. Which he should not
be drinking in here.

"I do know of one way out,"
he adds grimly. "If Helman were dead, I’d be free."

Oh God. God. God. Fear makes my
veins ice up. "Sawyer, you can’t do that. You could be arrested for
murder. You could spend your whole life in jail. You—you wouldn’t really do it,
would you?"

I’m so terrified, my hands are
shaking. The thing is: I really don’t know Sawyer well enough to know what he
is capable of doing if he’s pushed into a corner. The thought of him being
willing to kill scares me. I mean, I understand. When I was being bullied in
high school, I used to say that I wished Heather, my main tormentor, was dead.
But in my heart, I didn’t really want her to die. I just wanted her to leave me
the hell alone.

Murder isn’t a solution. Sawyer
would be giving up his entire life. "Sawyer, answer me. You can’t do
something like that."

"I won’t, Claire."

"Please don’t race tonight."

"That I can’t promise, Claire.
You’re supposed to go out tonight with your friends. Go and have a good time."

This is so wrong—he shouldn’t be
afraid for his life, for his mother’s life.

"I really don’t feel like
going out."

He
strokes his fingers along the back of my hand. Goosebumps wash over me.  "I
want you to go. Don’t you think I hate myself for putting you through this? I
don’t want you to stop living a normal life." His intense violet eyes are
grim, but he tries to smile. "You’ll be safe. Helman believes we’ve broken
up. Since he’s threatened my mother, he won’t touch you."

* * *

Saturday afternoon I take a cab
to Westingham’s local police station. I made my decision. Sawyer and his family
are in too much danger. He may hate me for this when he learns that I did it.
But I care for him too much not to go to them.

The cops question me and I don’t
have much information to give them. I don’t know where the races happen. I only
know the name "Helman." They thank me and I leave, not knowing if
I’ve done any good or not.

That night passes in agonizing
slowness. Sawyer has to race. Abby and I go off campus and end up in one of the
most popular dance bars. I can’t focus on my friends or what’s happening around
me. I can’t talk to anyone about my fears.

The cops promised they wouldn’t do
anything to put Sawyer or his family in danger, but what if Helman finds out
what I’ve done?

At the dance bar, DJ Mike has the
music blaring so loud it thrums through my body like another heartbeat. I’m the
designated driver, so I’ve been sucking back diet Cokes. Abby, Shanelle, Kylie
and three other girls are dancing on one of the tables. I’m standing with other
girls from Yardley.

I drain my soft drink. Maybe I’m
overloading on artificial sweetener, but I feel strange. My brain feels kind of
disconnected from my body. My vision is blurry. If I’d been drinking alcohol,
I’d suspect I was getting drunk.

It must be stress. Shakily, I get
to my feet. Maybe if I go to the bathroom and run cold water on my wrists I’ll
feel better. With the bright lights on the dance floor and so many people
crammed into the space and dancing, it’s really hot. My hair is actually damp
with sweat.

My legs are weak. On my way to the
bathroom, I stumble into a booth. A guy sitting on the end jumps to his feet
and steadies me. "Are you okay?" he asks.

I try to focus on him. I can understand
that I might feel sick from too many soft drinks, and I feel weak and shaky
from stress, but why can’t I see properly? Things that should be stationary
look like they’re moving, are growing bigger or smaller, and almost everything
is out of focus.

When I moved into residence at the
beginning of the year, we received ‘talks’ from older students. Warnings about
situations to beware. Date rape drugs were discussed.

Am I a victim of a date rape drug?
But how did it get in my drink? I never left my diet Coke alone. I’ve been a
table surrounded by girls ever since I got here. No man has been anywhere near
my drink.

"Are you okay? What’s your
name?" The guy from the booth is talking really loudly. Almost shouting at
me.

"I’m not okay. I’ve been
drugged." My words are slurred.

"Oh God, what’s happened to
her?" A woman’s voice comes from beside me. "Claire, are you okay?
What’s wrong?"

I turn toward the voice, expecting
to see Abby. It’s a woman I don’t know. She has honey brown skin, large brown
eyes, and lots of black hair that’s been ironed straight. I try to ask who she
is and how she knows my name, but I feel so dizzy I can’t stand up.

"She thinks she’s been
drugged."

"Oh God," the woman says
again. "I’ll get her home right away."

"Maybe you should take her to
the hospital. Or call the cops."

"The hospital. Yeah, that’s
where I’ll take her. Right now. Thanks."

The woman grabs my arm and propels
me through the crowd. I know I reach the door, because a blast of cold October
air hits me in the face. I pray it’s enough to clear my brain.

I try to take another step, even
though I can’t focus on where I am or what’s around me. My leg crumples
underneath me. I’m falling…

Into blackness.

Chapter
Seven

Something shifts underneath me.
Something squishy that stinks of rancid sweat and pee—

I jerk my eyes open and discover
I’m lying on a sagging mattress on the floor of a small, grim room. Gagging, I
scramble off the disgusting thing and scuttle onto the hard concrete floor. But
that’s as far as I can move. Something clanks and rattles. And something heavy
and cold is biting into both my right wrist and my left ankle.

Grey light filters in from a tiny
window near the ceiling. I blink until I get used to the faint light. A
handcuff is clamped around my wrist, attached by a thick chain to the concrete
block wall. Around my ankle, an iron shackle is fastened.

My head pounds and my stomach
lurches and rolls inside me, like I’ve just ridden the world’s highest
rollercoaster.

Where am I? How did I get—?

That I do remember. I remember the
sick, woozy feeling that gripped me. My stumbling walk toward the washroom. The
woman in the bar who acted like my friend and pushed me outside—

I was drugged and brought here.
Kidnapped
,
supplies my brain.

I’m not living up to my brainiac reputation.
I try to keep calm and use my head. Obviously I was kidnapped. But was it for
white slavery/prostitution, or was this because of Sawyer?

He was so certain his "sponsor"
Helman would attack his mother. Had Helman lied to distract Sawyer so he could
get to me?

In that case, violence against me
is not just a threat anymore.

Oh God.

Suddenly, I retch as my stomach
clamps tight in horror. But I don’t throw up. My throat feels parched, as if
all the water inside me has been sucked out. My lips are dry and cracked.

Then I see it.

A tall glass filled with a clear
fluid. It has to be water. It stands on a scarred wood table, where the rays of
dim light hit it. It’s out of my reach, of course.

Left there deliberately to torment
me?

If I’m in the hands of Helman, what
is going to happen to me? He’s going to use me to—to what? Force Sawyer into
racing? Or am I going to be used as an example? This is what you get when you
don’t obey: a dead girlfriend.

Then I’m sick. I barely have time
to get to my knees and face away from the mattress as I throw up. I keep being
sick, even when my body is heaving nothing.

With a loud creak of hinges and a
grinding sound that must be metal against the concrete floor, the door to my
room opens.

I turn, which is amazing since I don’t
seem to be able to breathe and my heartbeat is like constant explosions in my
head. Beyond the doorway, it looks dark and shadowy. I squint—my glasses are
gone, I suddenly realize. That makes me panic. I’m not going to be able to even
see properly. How in hell will I get—?

No, it’s not dark in the corridor.
I’m looking at men who are standing in the doorway and they are all wearing
black. Without my glasses, I can’t tell how many are there, watching me.

Someone makes a gagging noise. "Disgusting,"
says a clipped, authoritative male voice. "This room smells foul. Get it
cleaned up. I will return in five minutes."

The owner of the voice leaves. I
wait, breath heaving. After what seems like forever, three men walk into my
room. Three huge men. Each must be over six foot-three inches. One has a mop
and one of those metal janitorial buckets on wheels. The other carries two
bottles with blue liquid. Cleaner, I pray, not something to dissolve my corpse.

Frantic, I pull on the chains.

The third man, who is fat and
paunchy even though he’s tall, isn’t carrying anything. He looks at me with
derision. His eyes are small and jet black. He smirks.

They mutter to each other. Their
voices are low and I can’t understand a word. They’re not speaking English.

Two of the men completely ignore
me. The one with the mop cleans up my watery vomit.

The third man keeps staring at me.
When I glance at him, he makes a gross, clicking sound, as if he’s summoning an
animal. Then he pursues his lips and pretends to kiss me. Finally, he does a
grinding motion with his pelvis and points his finger at me.

I want to be sick again. But there
isn’t anything left inside me.

Another man strides in. "Good.
It’s clean. Now get the fuck out and do something." He’s the one who
issued the orders before. I recognize his voice.

The other men file out.

This man that I am left with is
wearing a silk suit. It’s gray and looks shiny, even in the gloomy light. He
walks around me, studying me. "Not what I expected," he says.

I don’t say anything. Even if I
wanted to, I’m too terrified. I remember being scared to go to high school in
case I got mocked and bullied. I had some idea what real fear was—I had been
really scared when my brother’s colitis flared up. But I had no idea what real
torment was.

I’m really terrified—am I here
because he knows I went to the cops?

"Water." I force the word
out. "Could I have water?"

"Of course." He gets the
glass and brings it to me. Is this a good sign?

As I drink, I squint at him. He
stands close enough that I can sort of focus on him. He’s short, probably
five-eight. Maybe he had tall henchman to make up for that. But he is bulky
with muscle, wears an expensive suit. Very shiny black dress shoes. Underneath
his flashy suit jacket, he wears a white T-shirt. Black stubble shadows his jaw
and cheeks. His hair is longish and black and is coiffed to be high on his head
and brushed back. It’s so full of hair gel, it looks like porcupine quills.

"You will be seeing Sawyer
soon," he says, crouching to look me in the eye, but doing it far enough
back that I can’t reach him. My heart beats in hope at those words.

Then he says, "Have to show
him the goods to prove I’ve got them. Then the motherfucker will do what I
want."

I flinch at the curse word applied
to Sawyer.

"Nice
boobs though." Helman gets up. "If things go south, I might treat
myself to a good feel of those. And a hot, hard fuck. Before you die."

* * *

Hours go by. I know it’s not days
because it hasn’t got dark yet. I’ve moved to the extent of my chains. There’s
not enough slack to reach the door or any of the walls, never mind the window,
which is seven feet off the floor.

I’m trapped, damn it.

The fat henchman brings me a plate
of food—half of a fast food burger and a few fries. I take it he ate most of
the meal before giving it to me. He walks right up to me, sets the plate in
front of me. Then he reaches for my breast.

I lash out at him with my feet, and
scurry back. He just laughs. "Later." He winks as he leaves.

I know what he thinks he is going
to get to do later. That is not going to happen. I’d rather die.

But I’m scared I’m too much of a
coward to pick death. I’m scared I might capitulate out of the pure fear of
dying.

I eat, though I hate taking
anything from these bastards. I’m so hungry, I have no choice. Shadows are
starting to fill my cell. It’s getting close to night—

Rattling sounds at the door. I hear
the click of the lock. There’s a loud scrape as the corner of the door drags
over the floor again, then a deep voice shouts, "Fuck! What have you done
to her?"

Sawyer! My brain registers his tall
strong body, his black leather, his blond hair. Then I see his face. Fresh
bruises sit on top of the older, fading ones.

Behind him are two of Helman’s
men—one of two who cleaned up my cell and the gross, lecherous one again.

"Claire, are you okay?"
Sawyer gets on his knees and wraps his arms around me.  His lips touch mine and
I hear the two guys snicker.

Next thing I know, Sawyer has
pulled away from my kiss and he jumps to his feet, a knife in his hand. He
slashes at one of my captors and the blade slices the man’s side. The guy howls
in pain and rage. I scream to Sawyer, but it’s too late. The other guy slams
the butt of a handgun into the side of Sawyer’s head.

Sawyer stumbles forward, then falls
to the floor.

"You could have killed him!"
I scream. I scramble toward Sawyer, my chains rattling. I feel like I’m choking
on my own heart.

As I reach him, Sawyer groans and
pushes up on his arms.

He sits up, rubs his head. "Fuck,"
he mutters. He sees me and comes over to me. He strokes my hair and hugs me to
his strong, warm chest. But I’m stiff with terror and even smelling his sensual
Sawyer-scent of soap and warm skin isn’t soothing me. It’s good to be held, but
I’ve got to think of a way out of this.

Behind Sawyer, I see legs in shiny
black leather pants step through the door. And I see the muzzle of a long gun.
It’s the last of the three henchmen. The guy has a shaved head and pale skin.
He wears sunglasses, a tight black T-shirt, and black leather pants. He points
a huge gun at Sawyer. It’s streamlined, gray, and must be some kind of
automatic weapon.

Oh God.

I can’t believe this is really
happening. I used to watch mystery and cop shows with my mom. I saw hundreds of
women in this situation. It feels so surreal.

And, damn it, I can’t figure out a
way to get out of this.

Helman strides in, a phone pressed
to his ear. His suit shimmers in the grey light. He grins, then laughs—a
high-pitched hyena-like sound. "You want your pretty little whore back?
Win tonight, and I let her go."

"That’s it?" Saywer asks,
his arms around me. "I win tonight’s race and you let her go?"

"You will run two races
tonight. Win them both and she’s yours."

"Why?" I ask.

Sawyer looks startled I asked.

"I have some friends who find
this idea amusing," Helman says. "Betting on this entertaining idea
has risen to 50Gs. My associates believe you will do anything to win to save
your whore-in-distress."

"She is not a whore. And I
would do anything for her."

"So I’ve ensured you have some
real competition." Helman gives a slimy grin. "It’s time to go,
Sawyer. You want her back, you be at the race tonight. And you win."

The guy with the machine gun
motions Sawyer to stand. But Sawyer cups my face and kisses me. A long, deep,
melting kiss. He draws back, touches his forehead to mine. "You’re mine
and I’ll do anything to protect you."

I’ve
never had anyone say anything like that to me. And say it with both hot rage
and icy determination behind the words. It makes my heart race.

* * *

Helman has his hand at my low
back. A 9mm handgun is stuck in the waistband of the trousers of his silk suit.
Surrounding me are his muscle—the three stooges in black—all armed and all
instructed to take me down if I try to get away.

He pushes me to walk through the
crowd gathered in the parking lot of a restaurant called
Babe’s
. It’s
ten o’clock at night. The lights of the restaurant are the only lights for at
least half a mile in each direction—this stretch of highway is pretty empty. We
drove about an hour north of the warehouse where Helman was keeping me. No one
in
Babe’s
seems to care about the large number of bikes, trucks and
trailers, and people who gather in the shadowy end of the parking lot. There a
lot of women showing cleavage. Guys wear leather jackets or vests and T-shirts
with pictures of rappers on them. On the vests are insignias that I guess
belong to biker gangs. One group of tall, scary looking guys wear a logo that
reads:
The Riding Dead
.

Ahead, I see Saywer. He’s so tall
he towers over most of the crowd. I want to run to him, but I don’t dare move
away from Helman.

As we get closer to Sawyer, we have
to fight through people who suddenly start to back up. In the middle of the
crowd, someone starts shouting and cursing.

The crowd is drifting away from two
men, leaving an open circle around them. The one who is yelling has spiky dyed
white-blond hair, caramel-colored skin, and wears a black leather jacket with
an insignia that reads
Zombie Bikers
. The other is heavy-set, pale
white, with a red bandana covering black curls and a long mustache that hangs
off his face.

"You don’t deserve that bike,"
the blond man goads. "You gonna lose it tonight. You a fuckin’ coward, you
know that?"

The heavy-set man snarls. "Shut
up or I’m gonna pop you."

My heart pounds. I’m sure I’m about
to watch two men kill each other. But instead,
Zombie Bikers
guy takes a
swaggering step toward the other man. "Yeah, you fuckin’ chicken? Gonna
race me? Put that fuck-ass bike of yours on the line." He points to a
gorgeous bike with a sapphire-blue paint job. The bike is lit underneath with
LED lamps, and the eerie blue glow makes the bike look futuristic, like it’s
floating on air.

I sense someone right beside me. I
breathe in scents I recognize and my heart races. Even when I’m surrounded by
so much danger, I suddenly feel safer, and I feel…intense, excited, aware. I
can’t describe it. It’s like I’ve never felt more alive now that Sawyer is
close to me. I turn and look up at him.