Hostage (12 page)

Code

Holy shit.

I’m not even sure what it is that I’m supposed to do because, right now, I don’t even feel like myself. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never had a girl tell me no before, but this is the first time that I actually encouraged it.

And yeah, I could’ve jerked off in the bathroom—Wren probably thinks that I did—but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. No. I wanted her, and my hand was a poor substitute. It never was before. Only now.

Since Wren.

It’s dark, and I’m lying here, and can tell that she’s finally relaxed enough to let herself sleep. I was always aware that there were people as fucked up as I was—and I thought I was the poster child for fucked up. But listening to Wren and getting to know her¸ I can see that what’s going on inside her is far deeper than anything I ever imagined.

And now I feel like a complete dick for all of the things I’ve done to add to her troubles.

I know that letting her go would be what’s best for her in some ways, but the reality is that I’m not ready to. And for completely selfish reasons. I mean, there’s Deke and all that, and I really do want to keep her safe, but I’m kind of feeling a little…something for Wren.

I want to fuck her again—that goes without saying. A lot. Hell, if I wasn’t in such a damn rush to get to Mexico and be done with this part of my life, I’d keep us locked in this room for days just so that I could keep fucking her.

As if she senses my thoughts, she wiggles her ass against me, and my cock instantly gets hard. Not that it’s anything new. Ever since the first time in the basement, she’s had the ability to make me hard. Fast.

But for now I just want to hold her. It feels…different. And it kind of feels…good. I’m not holding her because I think she’s going to fucking bolt or anything. I’m just holding her because, well, I think she needs to be held.

And to be honest, I’ve been such a selfish prick for so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to just give rather than take.

I wait a few minutes and let that sink it.

It feels pretty good, too.

It doesn’t make me a pussy or anything. I know people who would argue that point but…fuck them. I don’t care who you are or how bad-ass you pretend to be, every once in a fucking while you just need to…feel.

And Wren makes me feel.

Right now? A little too much.

She was just supposed to be a way to get out of a bad situation, and now she’s the only thing keeping me fucking sane.

Beside me, she lets out a soft snore, and it makes me smile. An actual fucking smile. I feel protective of her, and I’m so damn tired that all I can do is kiss her temple and let myself fall asleep.

 The next time that I open my eyes, the sun is shining through the crack in the curtains. I don’t know what it is—whether it’s because of what’s happened between me and Wren or something else—but I haven’t slept this good in years.

“Hey,” I whisper in her ear and nudge her a little to wake her up. She turns sleepily to face me, and I say the first things that comes to mind. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Not the most eloquent of compliments, but there it is.

She blushes—almost as pink as her hair—and looks up at me. Uncertainty is written all over her face, and I know her well enough by now to know that she’s thinking about last night and what didn’t happen.

I reach up and cup her face in my hand. “Hey, it’s still all right.” She seems to know immediately what I’m talking about, and she visibly relaxes.

“So what’s the plan for today?”

“More driving,” I say. I have no idea what time it is and I don’t really care. As long as we hit the road and get some driving under us, we’ll be fine. “I’m thinking…” And then I stop. Her hand is on my cock, stroking me, and I can’t help but hiss out a breath because it feels so fucking good.

“Wren,” I say roughly, but she tries to keep me quiet by placing a finger over my mouth. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to.” She curls up next to me, her hand never letting me go.

And the thing of it is, I can tell that she does. She’s not just going through the motions. She’s not waiting for my command, she’s touching me—jerking me off—because she wants to.

Because she wants to.

“Christ, baby, your hand feels so fucking good.” My hips are pumping in time with her movements, and her hand is so small, so soft, it’s almost as good as fucking her pussy.

Beside me, she moans a little and leans forward and gently nips at my neck and I just about come out of my skin. I’m normally the one in control. I’m the one giving the orders—taking what I want.

And what I want right now is to come.
“Harder,” I tell her. “Grip me harder.
And faster.” Her hand does as I command until I’m covered in sweat and wound as tight as I can be. I think about how she looks when I’m fucking her, how her mouth felt when she blew me and suddenly it’s like sensory overload. “Oh, shit…yeah…that’s it…yeah, Wren…” And then everything in me stiffens as I come harder than I thought possible from a hand job.

She makes a throaty sound beside me, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. My body is still shaking from coming, and I’m a fucking mess and maybe just a little embarrassed. Before I can say a word, Wren gets up and gets a towel and hands it to me.

I have no fucking words. Not one. I didn’t expect her to jerk me off—hell, it never even crossed my mind to ask her to. The fact that she did it on her own tells me that some of what I said last night got through to her.

Throwing the towel to the floor, I stand and reach for her. Roughly, I cup a hand around her nape and pull her forward and kiss her as if my life depended on it. My tongue damn-near crams down her throat, and she whimpers and pulls me closer.

We pull apart, naked and gasping for breath. “We leave in an hour,” I say and head to the bathroom to clean up.

Wren

Maybe I really am a snob and a spoiled brat.

Money has never been an issue for me or my family, and I know that’s not the case for most people in the world. But I’ve never really considered myself spoiled. I’ve never demanded extravagant gifts or pouted when I didn’t get the designer shoes or car I wanted.

But maybe I’m a snob after all because I really hate putting on the cheap, tacky clothes we bought at Walmart.

Having pink hair is one thing. But putting on a skin-tight, fake-leather skirt is something else entirely. But I’m doing it anyway, as part of my disguise. Not to mention the halter top and stripper heels.

Code gives a wolf-whistle when he sees me fully dressed.

I jerk my head over to glare at him, but he’s leaning against the door waiting, half-smiling in a way that proves he’s just teasing. He’s dressed differently too—in cargo pants and a wife-beater that emphasizes the impressive muscle-development of his arms. With the blond streaks in his hair, he really does look a lot different.

But not as different as I look.

“Okay, let’s get going,” I say. “I don’t want to wear this any longer than I have to.”

“I don’t think it’s too bad.” He straightens up and smiles again as he opens the door.

He really should smile more often. I do my best not to smile back. “You wouldn’t, since I look like I should be pole-dancing in this outfit.” I walk out the door in front of him.

“Your ass looks particularly good.”

I make a surprised sound and look over my shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the part in question.

He pats my bottom and says, “Just trust me.”

I really shouldn’t feel like smiling again. I mean, what the hell is wrong with me? It’s one thing to decide it’s better to just cooperate with your kidnapper, so you don’t get yourself killed. It’s another to start to have softer feelings for him.

Surely that’s not what’s happening here.

I feel different after last night, though. Like something has changed. Not just between me and Code, but inside
me
. I have no idea what it is.

“Can we stop for coffee?” I ask, since I need to distract myself from this line of thought. Quickly.

“I guess, but it will have to be quick. If we don’t run into any detours, we should be able to get to Laredo before noon.

We stop at a fast food drive-through for coffee and breakfast, and then hit the interstate again.

I really think we’re going to get all the way to border without running into any problems. I have no idea what the cops have been doing, but they don’t seem to be really on the ball. We haven’t seen any of them much at all, and there have been no signs of danger except my face plastered over the newspapers.

I look quite different now. I don’t think anyone is going to recognize me. The pink hair is so diverting that I doubt anyone will even notice my face.

It’s fine. I don’t really care if Code gets caught or not now. I just want to get through this alive. If he gets away, I don’t really care. He can set up a nice life for himself in Mexico and screw as many pretty senoritas as he wants.

I don’t actually like that visual, so I wipe it from my mind.

Since it’s morning, there’s not much traffic on the highway as Code starts to accelerate.

“Don’t go too fast,” I say, glancing at the odometer. “You don’t want to get stopped for speeding.”

“You’re not one of those naggers, are you?”

I’ve been sipping my coffee, but I stiffen at his dry question. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t take you for one of those women who nag.”

“I’m not nagging. It’s common sense not to speed when the cops are trying to find you anyway. If you want to get stopped by a cop for being stupid enough for going over the speed-limit, then you go right ahead and do it.”

“I’m not going to get stopped for speeding.” As if in proof, his speed levels out at just two miles per hour over the speed mile.

“Okay then. Then what you were getting all pissy about me being a nag?”

“I wasn’t getting pissy. I don’t even think this cheap-ass car can go over the speed limit without falling apart anyway.”

“Now who’s being a snob? You’re really complaining about not having an expensive car? You’re the one robbing banks, you know.”

“You think guys who rob banks drive cheap cars?” His voice is wry again, and he slants me an almost teasing smile.

I really like that smile. Damn, I have to pull myself together and not getting all swoony over my hostage-taker. “So why did you get into a life of crime?”

“I already told you.”

“You told me a bunch of vague shit about how you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But people don’t get roped into robbing banks for no reason. So how did it happen?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. I see him glance over at me a few times, as if he’s trying to decide what or how much to tell me.

I’m torn as I wait to see what he’ll say. I really want him to answer honestly—since I want to know more about him, understand how he’s gotten to this point. But, if he doesn’t answer, then I can start putting up my mental barriers again so he can’t get into my mind any more than he already has.

I’m really not sure which I hope will happen.

“I’ve been trying to get away from who I used to be for a long time,” he says at last, almost stiltingly. He’s staring at the road and not at me. “So I did a lot of stupid things to be someone different.”

I’m sure he’s telling me the truth. I can see it in the tension on his face. “What kind of stupid things?”

“I do a lot of odd jobs, and sometimes they’re not for the right people.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Odd jobs? Like putting up bookshelves and fixing leaks?” I make sure it’s clear from the sarcasm in my tone that I know that’s not what he’s talking about.

“I’ve done muscle-work and gun-for-hire work and shit like that. You get in this spiral, though, where the stakes get higher and the payoffs get higher and then you start to take risks you wouldn’t otherwise. I did one job with Deke and his crew, and then it was hard to get out.”

“But you want out?”

“Didn’t I already say that? Why the hell do you think I’m heading to Mexico?”

“I mean, do you want out because you’re in trouble now, or do you want out because you don’t like the guy you’ve turned into.”

I have no idea where I’ve gotten the courage to ask such a question. I just suddenly feel like I know him—really know him—and I want to know even more.

He turns his head and meets my eyes. His expression is utterly sober for just a few seconds. “Maybe both.”

I give a little nod and break the gaze because it’s just too disturbing. None of this matters anyway. He’s going to take off in Laredo, and I’ll never see him again. That’s a good thing. It doesn’t matter whether I know and understand him or not.

When I take a deep breath and turn back toward him, I see he’s focused on the road. He’s frowning, and I find out why when I look forward at all the brake lights lit up on the road in front of us.

“Is there any accident or something?” I ask, trying to look behind the double line of slowing cars. “Or road construction?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds worried, and my heart starts to speed up too in response.

The traffic is still moving for another mile, but it grows increasingly slow.

Code is in the left lane, and he edges over onto the shoulder so he can see farther in front of us.

“Do you see what it is?” I ask, unsuccessfully trying to peer around the car in front of us.

“Looks like a lot of police. Maybe a road block. They might be looking for you.”

My skin suddenly grows clammy. “We just passed an exit, so there won’t be another one until we reach it.”

“We couldn’t get over there anyway without making a scene and looking suspicious.” He’s cool and totally in control—not like he’s nervous at all—but I’m sure he’s primed and ready for a crisis. I can just feel it in the vibes coming off him. “When we get up there, we’ll act like we’re just coming home after a long night partying. Got it?”

“Got it.”

If a cop stuck his head through the window, it will be easy enough for me to scream that I’ve been kidnapped. Then this whole thing would be over.

But Code has a gun, and I don’t think he’ll go quietly. He hasn’t threatened me, but who knows what he’d do if I act like I’m going to turn him in.

Plus, we’re only a few hours from Laredo. It will be so much easier and smoother if things just go as planned.

It is a road-block. They’re checking all the cars. We have no proof what they’re looking for, but it might be me.

They might recognize me, if they look closely.

When we pull up to a waiting police office, he leans over and asks for Code’s license and registration. Code hands him the fake ID, and I wait, twisting my hands together to keep them from shaking.

I don’t know why I’m nervous. It’s not like I want Code to get out of this all right. I don’t care if they catch him.

Do I?

Code is as cool as a cucumber, waiting as the police officer checks his license. Then the cop hands it back to him and glances over at me. “What have you all been doing?”

“We hit the clubs in Austin,” I say. “Now my feet are killing me, and I have a raging headache, and we have to sit in all this traffic.”

The cop gives me a half-smile. “Sorry to hold you up. Y’all can go on through. Be safe.”

And so we just drive through the road block.

“Shit,” Code breathes, after rolling up his window. “Shit, shit.”

“I can’t believe we just got through that. Your friend must have done a good job with the fake ID.”

“That was too close. I’m not sure we should stick the interstate.” Code is accelerating again, and I can see he hasn’t yet come down from his earlier crisis-mode. “I can’t believe you didn’t try to rat me out.”

“We have a deal,” I say, flushing and feeling strangely self-conscious.

The truth is, I’m not sure why I didn’t say anything. I could be with the good guys now, on my way back home, and not in a car with the bad guy.

The bad guy who I’d jerked off this morning because I was feeling so soft about him.

Fuck, I sure hope I didn’t make the worst mistake of my life back there by not saying anything.

“I know we have a deal, but I still thought you’d throw it out the window for a chance to get away from me.”

I stare down at my hands. “I’ll be rid of you in Laredo. It’s just a few hours away.”

He reaches over and lifts my chin with his hand, holding my eyes with an intense look that takes my breath away. “Yeah, but don’t you want me to be thrown in jail for what I’ve done to you?”

I can’t look away from him, and I also can’t speak.

I definitely can’t tell him the truth, although I have to finally admit it to myself.

I don’t want Code thrown in jail. I don’t think he’s as bad a guy as he seems.

If there’s a way for him to get through this safely, then that’s what I want to happen.

Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, but it feels like something else.

It feels like I know him, and he’s the first person in my entire life who has really known me.