Lace Underground: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  My body is rigid and ready to fight or flee or both. We're far away from the town, and I feel weaker by the minute. But I'm ready to run a marathon to get away from these creeps.

  I reach for the tequila. "You know, I think I'll have some of that after all."

  The driver laughs. "See, that's the spirit."

  The passenger opens the door and climbs out. I scoot out after him and smack him hard on the head with the bottle. He yells out and drops to his knees. The driver is on the other side of the truck. I'm off and running before he figures out that I just crowned his buddy.

  Two months ago, I would have been able to outrun the guy and race at full throttle back to town. But I'm a physical shell of my former self. I grunt in pain as the jerk tackles me to the ground. Rocks grind into my bare limbs and cheek as he flattens me with his body. I gasp for air and reach blindly around for something to hit him with. My fingers slip just past a good sized stone as he pushes off of me.

  "Nice try, dolly," he growls. He pinches my skin as he grabs viciously at the back of my shirt. He yanks me directly to my feet, jarring my head back with a snap. My knees buckle, but he pulls me sharply to standing again. Warm blood trickles from the scratches on my knees and thighs.

  He swings me around so fast, I lose my balance again. The entire landscape spins around like we're in the center of a tornado. I lean forward and puke. I catch my breath enough to speak.

  "See, you don't want to mess with me," I say. "I'm sick with a deadly disease."

  He pulls me against him. The rank odor circling around him brings me close to throwing up again. "Right, doll, like I don't know what fucking withdrawals look like." He pulls my arm so hard, it feels as if it might separate from my shoulder. "You've got pin pricks all up and down those pretty arms. You're a fucking junkie, and now I'm going to give it to you good."

  His words temporarily stun me, making me forget my grim situation. I'm a junkie. I stare down at my arms, both covered with tiny red marks. How can I go back and not die with shame? How can I face Clark or Maddox with needle scars all over my arms?

  The guy I smacked with the bottle is sitting on the ground, wiping the blood off the back of his head with his hand. "That bitch deserves to die," he snarls as his friend tightens his grip on my arm and drags me past.

  All my self defense moves seem impossible now. I'm as frail and helpless as a kitten. I'm a junkie. The phrase repeats in my head again and again. Despair, shame and a bleak cold creeping sensation shudder through me. It's part of the withdrawal effects I tell myself. I can't let it get hold of me or I won't make it out alive.

  While still holding my arm, my attacker kicks in the dented door. It breaks off rusted hinges and falls into the room. The walls have only shreds of plaster left, exposing the stacks of cinderblocks beneath. Walls sturdy enough to withstand a hurricane but not the test of time. I stumble over the fallen door as he drags me ruthlessly into the vacant space. Vines hang down through the holes in the ceiling. Abandoned birds' nests clutter up every corner of the room. The floor is littered with plant debris. I have no doubt there are creatures hiding out, watching us.

  The other guy joins us. He still looks a little wobbly from the blow to his head. And he looks mad enough to take it out on me. I search frantically around for something, anything I can grab to defend myself, but dried and decayed palm fronds make pathetic weapons.

  My head has started to pound and shards of pain shoot through my limbs. I'm feeling dreadfully sick from withdrawal. The pain and nausea coupled with the dread of what is about to happen to me makes me consider death as the best way out. It's the lack of nectar which allows the dark thoughts to seep in and take hold, but I don't have the strength or will to fight them off. An hour ago I was nervous and thrilled about the possibility of going home. Now all I can think is I hope these guys are the kind of perverts who prefer to kill me first.

  My kidnapper releases my wrist for a moment to clear some debris away from an old cot. His friend steps in to give him a hand. I turn and run, only to stumble over the fallen door. I slam to my knees. Tears fill my eyes as I push to my feet. Before I can take another step, the guy grabs hold of my hair and wrenches me back. I fall hard on the ground, jarring my teeth together. Stabbing pain shoots up my tailbone and back. Detective Tennyson would have had both these guys tied up with their own fucking balls by now. Shit, where is she when I need her?

  He pulls my hair again causing my already pounding head excruciating pain. I scream and reach back to take hold of the hair close to my scalp, lessening the bite of his grasp. With one good yank, he pulls me through the debris on the ground. Grit and rocks scrape the back of my legs as I struggle to get my feet under me.

  "Less defiance and we'll all be better off," he mutters. He whips me onto the dust drenched cot. Musty clouds of dirt puff up around me, making my eyes and throat burn. The unexpected dust storm makes both men cough. I push up from the cot and try and bolt for the opening. In the middle of his cough fit, the asshole sticks his arm out. I smack face first into his fist and fall back onto the cot. The room and their monstrous faces go out of focus. I close my eyes and hope for a blackout. My shorts being wrenched from my body brings me quickly to.

  I make a last effort to bring my foot up into the guy's balls as he drops his pants, but my aim is off and I smack his leg. "Tired of this, bitch," he sneers. His hand comes across my face so fast, I never see it coming. Pain explodes through my head and things go blissfully dark.

  A roar echoes around me. In the blackness, I visualize a giant, angry beast. There is no other explanation for the sound. The hands that were holding me fall away. I can only reason that I'm dead and can no longer feel my attackers touching me.

  My lids are heavy but I manage to open my eyes. Everything is a painful blur, but I'm sure I see more than two people in the room. They've brought more friends, I conclude and quickly close my eyes to get back to that death-like state of mind. It's no use. I open my eyes again. My vision is clearer. There are three more men in the room. The small space is packed with them.

  Oscar and Jason come into focus as they step back and cross their arms. The guy I hit with the bottle is crumpled in a heap on the broken door. I pull my bleary focus around to the adjacent wall. I sob instantly at the sight of him. It's a reaction I would give anything to erase, but seeing Kane's confident, strong shoulders and the straight set of his jaw, turns me to jelly. I can't, I tell myself. I can't go back to him. But all I can think of now is running to him and jumping into his arms.

  "Kane," I say weakly. He looks back at me over his shoulder. His blue eyes are dark like an angry ocean. The look in his face sucks the wind from me. I sway back and my head taps painfully against the cinderblock wall. More of the scene comes into focus.

  Kane is holding my attacker by the neck. The man is purple and gasping for air. His nose is grotesquely skewed to the side of his face, and both his eyes are swollen shut.

  As Kane lifts his bloodied knuckles to hit the man again I'm shaken out of the fog. Due process, law, jury trial swish through my head.

  "No!" I cry out. My shorts are still around my ankles. I pull them up. "Let him go. He's dying," I sob.

  Kane ignores my pleas. He's in a fog too it seems, a fog of revenge and anger. A thud echoes through the room as his fist hits bone and flesh. I cover my mouth to stop from puking. My feet land hard on the ground. I stumble toward Kane.

  "No, you can't," I cry and grab hold of Kane's arm. It tenses beneath my grasp. He turns his face but looks past me. It seems he will do anything not to look me in the eye.

  "Get her out of here," he barks the order.

  Oscar lumbers across the room toward me. I make a pathetic attempt to avoid his grasp. Seconds later, I'm tossed over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carried out of the building. He holds my legs tightly against him, but I get in some good blows on his back with my fists. I'm certain I'm the only one who feels it.

  Oscar takes pity on me and drops me off his should
er and into his arms. He doesn't say anything to me. The nightmare scenario happening in the abandoned building falls into the past. I'm hardly safe and I have no idea what will happen next, but I'm no longer at the mercy of the creeps in the truck.

  I relax against Oscar's chest. The release of tension feels good, but I'm now totally aware of every pain, ache and tingling sensation as I withdraw further from the nectar. I know Oscar probably won't talk to me but it doesn't stop me.

  "I guess I'm in a lot of trouble with the boss," I say.

  His deep voice startles me. "We all are, kiddo."

  Blake. I lift my head and look around. "Where's Blake?" my voice wavers. "Where is he?"

  Oscar doesn't answer this time.

  13

  Kane

  I push the ice pack off my hand. The plane is just hours from landing. I'll be glad to get back to the complex. One step out of it and the whole fucking thing unravels.

  A tiny sound comes from the couch across the way. By the time we got back to the yacht, she was writhing in agony from withdrawals. The nectar laced with a little something extra brought her instant relief along with sound sleep.

  She stretches in her sleep before curling up under the blanket. The bruise on her cheek makes me tighten my fists, but I'm quickly reminded that my knuckles are the size of golf balls. Besides, he got his, the fucking asshole got his.

  Another kitteny sound, a sound I wish I could bottle for a time when my head is not filled with dark thoughts. Her long lashes flutter with a dream and her freckled nose twitches back and forth. She looks young, like a little girl.

  Icy cold knots form in my chest. She tried to run. She wanted to be free of me. I was still grappling with that reality. I'd arrived at the dock in time to see my two most trusted bodyguards running like roosters with their asses on fire for the marina parking lot. When they broke the news it felt as if someone had shot a torpedo into my gut. Anger and worry somersaulted with betrayal as we hurtled along the road to find her. I was ready to punish her, to send her on her way. Ambitious thoughts for an obsessed man. I was reminded just how far my fixation went when I saw the slimey fuckface leaning over her. Fury sent me charging at him and killing him was the only thought in my head. Kill the fucker for hurting her. Kill the fucker for daring to touch her, for daring to look at her, for daring to breathe the same damn air as her. And now she's seen me. All of me.

  I get up from the chair and walk over to the couch. The plane shimmies side to side with some turbulence and her arm falls free from the blanket. I push it back under.

  I lift her head and she allows it. I sit down on the couch. She settles her head in my lap. I draw my thumb along the side of her face, along the bruise. Her lashes flutter but she doesn't wake up.

  She tried to run. She wanted to be free of me. The words circle my head for the millionth time. The pain doesn't get any lighter with each pass.

  If anything, it gets more pronounced.

  14

  Angie

  A knock sounds on the door. My eyes open. I shut them again quickly. I reach around with my hands. The familiar feel of the quilts assures me I'm back in the bedroom. I can feel the leather cuffs circling my wrists and ankles. I open my eyes and sit up. Another knock.

  The door opens. I don't even turn to look at Blake. "One minute I'm on a yacht in the Caribbean and the next I'm tucked in this bed."

  The smell of bacon and eggs makes my stomach churn but not in a good way. I swing my feet out of bed and am surprised to see a woman dressed in a chef's coat carrying a plate of food to the table in the room. She places the food on the table and pulls some packets of salt and pepper out of her pocket.

  "Where's Blake?" I ask as I rub the ache from my temples.

  "I don't know anything about Blake," she answers quickly before scurrying out the door.

  I get up and shuffle to the bathroom. My robe is still hanging on the door hook. Blake usually moves it to the chrome rack near the shower. My head feels heavy, but the terrible pain has subsided and the inner warmth that the nectar provides helps ease my mood. The fresh pin mark on my arm assures me my faithful assistant dosed me up while I slept. It seems I was sleeping like a bear in winter. I moved across oceans and continents and was swept back into the underground complex without raising a lid.

  I walk to the mirror and gasp at my reflection. A massive bruise covers one cheek. There are cuts on my chin that have dried to light scabs. I rinse my face with cold water to come out of the dozy trance that still grips me. As I reach for the towel, trickles of memories come back, first in slow motion then at warp speed. The guys in the truck, the abandoned building, the near rape. And Kane. He was there too. My throat tightens as every bit comes back to me in full color. He was filled with a monstrous rage, a rage that I'm sure was not satisfied until he choked the life out of my assailant. The last thing I remember was Oscar holding me as Kane shot nectar into my veins.

  My bedroom door opens. "Thank goodness," I sigh and rush out to meet Blake.

  "I worried that—" my words jam in my throat.

  Kane is checking out the plate of food. "You need to eat. Get your strength back."

  My gaze drops to the hand he keeps glued to his side. The knuckles are grotesquely swollen and crisscrossed with deep cuts.

  "Where's Blake?" My throat is suddenly parched.

  "He won't be your assistant anymore. I think you'll be all right on your own. I'll be in charge of your injections."

  I'm numb and frozen to the spot. It's my fault. I've done this to Blake. "You didn't send him away, did you?" My eyes ache.

  He doesn't answer.

  My stomach tightens. "Please. Tell me. It was all my fault. Just send me away and keep Blake. I'll walk away from here and never look back."

  His lip turns up. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? A free pass away from me? Blake is fine. And yes, it is all your fault." His cruelty sometimes seems to surprise even him, as if he doesn't realize it's there until it comes shooting out.

  The tight set of his jaw loosens, and he crosses the room to me.

  "I hate you," I say with a waver. "I fucking hate you." As I say it, I feel myself melting at the need to be in his arms.

  He pulls me against his chest.

  "I hate you," I say again. His mouth covers mine. The pajamas someone has dressed me in, someone other than Blake, fall away. And just like that I submit to him. I push the hatred, the shame and the guilt away and drop naked and willing into his grasp.

  His body is rigid with anger or hurt or betrayal, possibly a mix of everything. He carries me not to the bed but to the recess in the wall where he deftly binds me to the hooks. My arms are stretched up high above my head and my legs are spread wide. It's a position that generally sends a thrill of anticipation through me, but the dramatic shift in his mood sends a thread of fear instead. He knows I ran. I could have brought down his whole damn world and he knows it.

  I can feel the heat of him behind me. He paces back and forth like a furious animal. He steps behind me and pulls at my hair, bringing back a horrid flashback of the terrifying moments in the abandoned building. Kane has pulled my hair numerous times but this time is different.

  I hold my breath fearful that he is going to hurt me or kill me. His mouth comes next to my ear. "You betrayed me, Sweet Sin. All I've ever wanted is to please you."

  He releases my hair. Then in contrast to the wave of anger rolling off of him, he gently strokes my back. He growls and pulls his hand away. He paces again and stops in front of the wall. His arm pulls back and makes a fist of the battered, bruised hand. I sob as he plows it into the wall. His agonized groan fills the room as he holds the hand against him.

  I'm crying uncontrollably as I make a futile attempt to get free of my bindings. He catches his breath and returns to me. Gooseflesh covers my naked skin as his warm breath drifts over my shoulder.

  "I could have sent you off that first night," he says under his breath. He releases my feet and hands. I rub my wrists as I
turn to face him. He is a masterpiece even in anger. His blue eyes look like glass as he stares unflinchingly at me.

  I can hardly think over the pounding of my own heart.

  He steps toward me and tangles his free hand in my hair to bring my face to his. His mouth slams over mine and he kisses me as if this is the last moment on earth for both of us. Then, as abruptly as he grabs me, he releases me. He turns on his heels and walks out the door, slamming it shut sharply behind him.

  Standing in the small recess in the bedroom wall, I lick the salt of my tears off my lips.

  15

  Maddox

  The tennis ball bounces off the clean white wall. I catch it on the return. Being rich is a bore when the bank account is a fake. Especially when you're sitting around waiting. Waiting and not fucking knowing if any of your efforts are going to pay off. Rick Haverton's penthouse apartment overlooks the city, but gray clouds have muted the view. The gloomy weather goes right along with my mood.

  A knock on the door is followed by three quick knocks signaling it's Captain Clark. I open the door. He's dressed in a delivery man uniform and has a dolly filled with crates of wine. "I've got a delivery for Rick Haverton," he says with a wry smile.

  "Yep, about damn time too." I step out of the way and he rolls the dolly through. I shut the door, cutting off any view from the hallway security cameras. "And I hope it's the good stuff because I'm going out of my fucking mind."

  Clark stops the dolly in the center of the room. There are only a few pieces of borrowed furniture in the place. "It's wine bottles filled with water. You don't think I'd actually leave you up here with expensive wine." He points to my hand. "I'm already paying you a detective's salary to toss around a tennis ball." He walks over and sits on the leather couch. He rubs his hand on it. "Nice. You rich assholes know how to live. Anyhow, any word yet because I'm sure I don't need to remind you that we're living on borrowed time—and borrowed everything, for that matter."