Jailbait (4 page)

“Hey,” she starts and points over her shoulder. “Isn’t that your bike?”
 

“Yeah,” I tell her, and the question doesn’t raise alarm. Lots of people ask me about my bike. I did custom paintwork at the shop back in California, and my own bike is some of my best work. “It is.”
 

I move my gaze behind her, right as she says it. “I think those guys are stealing it.”
 

My heart lurches in my chest and I jump up. Two men in black leather jackets slowly circle the bike. My fingers curl into fists and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to run out and beat the shit out of them.

I’m not that person anymore
.
 

And I have to be sure. A group of college aged kids bustles through the door, blocking my line of vision. I step around Rosemary and push past them, but it’s too late. The two guys checking out my bike are getting on their own bikes, and soon all I see are taillights going down the alley across the street.

I blink and rub my temple, recalling the second-long glimpse I got of one of the guy’s jackets. It was gone before I got a good look, but I swear the emblem was familiar.
 

Fuck. I should have known a clean slate was too good to be true.
 

Chapter Three

Pepper

Olson’s hand is clammy, and he keeps resting it on my lower back, which is exposed in this dress. He presses his palm against my flesh and inches his fingers under the satin fabric, reaching for my ass. I remove his hand for the fifth, sixth? time—I’ve lost count, and turn away, mumbling under my breath.
 

Savannah is busy being arm candy for her movie director boyfriend, standing next to some hideous painted canvas done by an actor, posing for pictures. I stare in her direction for several seconds but am unable to catch her eye. I grab a drink off a tray when a server walks by, and swallow a big gulp of Champagne.
 

I take a few steps and Olson follows, leeching himself back onto me. I grit my teeth, fingers tightening around the black satin clutch in my hand.
 

“Two more hours until we can get out of here,” Olson whispers, moving in close. His hand lands on my back again, and he brushes his lips against my ear. Not once did I give him even the smallest of hints that I’m interested in him sexually. He will argue that I agreed to go on a date with him, hence I want him bad, and the whole thing just pisses me off.
 

I close my eyes in a long blink, feeling my skin crawl. In any other setting, turning and whacking him across the face with my purse and shouting that being his date tonight doesn’t give him a ticket to v-town would be met with cheers and men scowling at Olson for being such a jerk.
 

There are others like me peppered throughout the crowd tonight, but I’m surrounded mostly by those brought up to believe that appearance and reputation are more important than, well, anything. I’ll never forget the day my paternal grandmother told me that the key to a happy marriage was to “shut up and take it”.
 

Some days I couldn’t care less if I pissed off those in my social circle. That line was drawn around me without my choosing, anyway. But tonight, I’ll do what I was raised to do and hold my tongue. I twist my mother’s ring around on my finger and wonder how different things would be if she were still alive.
 

She ruffled feathers in her short time on earth, I know from the stories my father fondly tells of her. She died when I was five, and my memories of her fade each day. I wish I knew what she would do right now if she were in my shoes. Something tells me she would leave Olson standing here stunned, rubbing a red mark on his cheek.
 

“Now that,” Olson starts, pushing my shoulders to turn me around, “that’s disgusting. Someone obviously doesn’t know what art is.”
 

I scan the photo before us. It’s a large black and white photo of a nude Caucasian mother nursing a newborn African American baby. The photo is tastefully done, and in just one look I can feel the love of the mother for her child. I take a step forward and read the caption on the plaque below the photo, and get chills.
 

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “The mother gave birth to a still-born and a day later, the mother of that baby died during childbirth. It’s beautifully tragic and shows the power of a mother’s love.” Tears sting the corners of my eyes, so I look up, blinking, to push them back.
 

“If I’m gonna see a naked woman, I want her to at least be hot,” Olson chuckles like his statement is actually funny.
 

“She just gave birth
and
lost a child,” I retort. “I don’t think—” I stop mid-sentence. “I don’t need to explain it to you. You’ll never understand.” I drain the rest of my drink, put the empty glass in Olson’s hand, and head toward the door. My leather heels can’t get me away fast enough, and I slip out of the gallery and hurry to a narrow hall. Being on the design team for this place, I know my way around. Sort of. Maybe.
 

Or maybe not.
 

My chest rises, pressing against the tight dress. Each step echoes off the empty hall, and the lights dim the further I go. The whole warehouse was in bad shape when it was acquired. Since the frame of this place was solid, only the space that was to be utilized was renovated, saving money to be put into supplies for the children.
 

I didn’t realize how much was left untouched, and now I’m walking down a dark hall using my phone for light. I come to a staircase that doesn’t look safe to walk on, especially in five-inch stilettos, and turn around. Cobwebs brush against my neck and I whirl around, batting them away. My ankle twists and I throw my arms out to catch myself, dropping my phone. It clatters down the stairs and lands face up on the floor below. Specs of dust sparkle in the air, illuminated by the stream of light coming from my cell.

“Son of a bitch,” I curse and regain my composure. I slowly move to the edge of the staircase and give the railing a good shake. Determining it’s strong enough, I carefully pick my way down. Each board beneath me creaks and groans, making me think I’m going to go plummeting down at any second.

When the third to last step actually cracks under my weight, I jump off, slipping and falling backwards onto my ass. I grab my phone and scramble up, suddenly feeling like I’m caught in a horror movie and someone is going to reach through the slats in the stairs, drag me to their home in the basement, and eat the flesh off my body while I’m still alive.
 

Brushing myself off, I shine the light around and try to figure out where I am and how I can get back to the safety of the charity gala. The easiest way is to go back how I came, but those stairs…yeah, probably not a good idea. Even if I took off my shoes, the formfitting gown makes even a level, clutter-free hallway a task to navigate.
 

I’m sure there’s another staircase. One that isn’t broken. I know for a fact that part of the first floor was thoroughly redone. All I have to do is find it. Though after just a few minutes of wandering around, I’m starting to panic. The glow of an “exit” sign looms ahead.
 

“Thank God.” I move toward it, holding my dress up so the hem doesn’t catch on the dusty cement floor. I can get outside and go around to the front. I’ll have to come up with some sort of excuse to why I’m walking in again, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I’m still not convinced I’m alone down here, and I really want out before I become some lunatic surgeon’s new plaything.
 

I really need to stop watching horror movies.

The metal handle of the exit door is cool against my skin. I check to make sure it won’t set off an emergency alarm, and then have to use all my weight to push it open. I emerge into an alley, and the door slams shut behind me. Dim streetlights spill into the alley, and a large green dumpster casts shadows in my path. I move away from the building and look up and down the alley, trying to figure out which way to go.
 

Over the sound of traffic, I hear music.
Right.
There’s a balcony in the back of the warehouse. I can see it now in my mind, well-lit and safe, holding people dressed in ridiculously expensive clothes sipping ridiculously expensive drinks. If I can get to the balcony, I can get back inside, buy the photo of the nursing mother, and then get the fuck out of here.

I step around the dumpster and freeze. Two men dressed in boots, torn jeans, and leather jackets stand next to motorcycles. One is on his cellphone, and the other is swinging his arms in front of his body as if he’s warming up before a fight.
 

“Can’t be sure,” the one on the phone says. “Had New York plates but it sorta looks like the picture. Yeah, it has the white skulls.”
 

“Hey,” the other man says and punches Phone Guy in the gut. He grins at me, but the gesture is anything but friendly. My heart hammers in my throat and I frantically swipe my thumb across the screen of my phone. I sidestep, fighting the urge to turn and run. I need to maintain what little control I have over this situation, and there is no way I can outrun those men dressed the way I am.
 

“Nice dress,” the grinning man leers. “Seems like you’re lost, sweetheart. Party’s up there, right?” He points a gloved finger at the building. I take another step back, reaching behind me for the door handle. It’s not there.
 

Oh, shit.

It’s a one-way door. Which I would have realized if I had been paying attention. There was no lock…for a reason. You can get out but not in. Sweat breaks out between my breasts. I have nothing to defend myself with, and I know I can’t make a desperate call for help soon enough.
 

“I can give ya a ride,” the grinning man goes on. He grabs his crotch and thrusts his hips forward. “A ride you won’t forget.”
 

Phone Guy hangs up, almost looking annoyed for being interrupted. I suck in a breath, on the edge of panic. I’ve taken self-defense classes. I can deliver a well-aimed blow and disable an attacker, giving me enough time to get away. But in this dress? No way in hell.
 

“No, thanks,” I say, then curse myself for the instilled manners. I don’t need to be thanking these men for anything. “I know where I’m going and best be on my way. My date is waiting for me.”
 

Grinning Man arches his eyebrows. “He can wait a little longer.” His eyes fall to my purse and my mind whirls with what to do. Throw my bag at him and run? I swallow the vomit rising in my throat, nerves on fire. I sidestep again, moving out of the light. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

He advances, pulling a knife from his pocket. “Your purse. Give it here,” he demands, holding the blade at his side. Shadows are cast over his face, hiding his features. Light reflects off the metal in his hand and suddenly I can’t move. I can’t breathe. “You hear me, bitch? Give me your goddamn purse.”
 

I extend the designer clutch. Grinning Man snatches it from me and tears the clasp off in his haste to open it. My phone is still in my hand and I make a desperate attempt to type in my passcode and call for help.

“Phone down!” the other man yells. Grinning Man holds up the knife and I let my phone clatter to the gritty pavement.
 

“This is all you got?” Grinning Man dumps my purse on the ground. It’s small, so I don’t know what he was expecting. “You look like a rich bitch. Where the fuck is your money?”
 

“Safe in a bank account,” I spit, mustering up my confidence. “That bag was worth over a grand until you ripped it.” I take another small step away, hoping I can lose myself in the shadows and run like hell.
 

“That ring,” Grinning Man snaps and lunges forward.
 

“No!” I yell in protest and swing my arms around, trying to stop him. He slams my head into the brick behind me, and a sharp pain goes through me, making me instantly sick. His nails tear open my flesh and the ring comes off my finger. I stumble back, head ringing from the blow, and feel like I lost part of me.
 

Suddenly a third man appears, and I can’t see his face in the dark. Boots crunch on loose pavement, and his leather jacket tells me he’s with the motorcycle men. I desperately suck in air when I hear the sound of a fist hitting a face. The Grinning Man hits the pavement, and my mother’s ring bounces from his grasp, rolling under the dumpster.

Phone Guy goes down next, and then Leather Jacket Number Three rushes over and kneels down. His face is so close it’s hard to focus. He opens his mouth and says my name the same time someone else yells in the alley.
 

“Pepper?” Olson’s voice echoes off the tall brick buildings. I blink and my vision starts to focus. It’s dark, but there is no mistaking the blue eyes of the stranger in front of me.
 

Only he wasn’t always a stranger.
 

“Pepper!” Olson exclaims. “I’ll get security.” I hear his dress shoes click along the alley. “Pepper,” he says again, but this time I only hear
him.

“Pepper,” Grayson says my name slowly. “Are you all right?”
 

Did I hit my head that hard? Or is he really in front of me? I take in another breath, and feel a sharp pain in my chest. “You’ve been following me,” I spit out.

Grayson blinks, bringing storm clouds over his sky-blue eyes. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “That doesn’t matter. Are you hurt?”

Hurt? I don’t feel anything right now other than the heat of his hand on my shoulder and the intensity of his gaze.
 

“Pepper?” he repeats.
 

I blink. “I’m fine.”

“What are you doing?” Olson shouts, standing several yards from us. “Get away from her! I’ve already called security.”
 

Grayson ignores him, and slowly brings his hand down my arm and takes my hand. “Are you okay to get up?” I nod and Grayson starts to help me to my feet.