Pinups and Possibilities (8 page)

I pulled off the final pearl and shoved the bobby pin into the handcuff lock. It fit perfectly.

Just a few more seconds,
I prayed silently as I wiggled the latch.

“You’re saying I have a choice now?” I asked sarcastically.

I could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“You’re an exasperating woman.”

“You do have choice, though,” I argued in a pleasant voice. “You could choose
not
to take me to Cohen.”

“It’s not my
choice.
It’s my
job
.”

“You could just leave me here. Or better yet, take me home and pretend you never found me.”

Painter sighed so loudly I could hear him through the door, but he didn’t reply. I dug the bobby pin in further, willing it to catch.

“What kind of hold does Cohen have on you?” I asked. “Is he blackmailing you?”

“What motivates me is my business.” He sounded bitter, but I didn’t think it was directed at me.

“You’re right,” I agreed. “But I lived with that man for almost seven years, and I’ve seen first-hand how he operates. Two kinds of people work for him. Assholes and people who owe him something. Or think they do. You claim you’re not a thug, so…”

I trailed off as his feet began to smack along the floor. I pictured him pacing back and forth in front of the door with his hand running nervously through his hair. The image made me pause, and I twisted the bobby pin firmly, angry at myself for feeling any sympathy for this man. The cuffs popped open. I stared down at them dumbly.

I’m free.

Painter’s pacing stopped.

“What Cohen has on me…I can’t change it,” he said, his voice brittle. “Which is exactly what I’m talking about when I say I have no choice. If you know him as well as you claim to, you have an idea of what he’s capable of, and of the kind of control he demands.”

I did know. But it didn’t change a thing about our situation. I had to get back to Jayme.

“Polly?”

“Yeah?”

“What
aren’t
you doing in there?”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve heard jangling and clicking and rattling and I’m pretty sure you dropped your purse, but you know what I haven’t heard?”

“What?”

“Peeing.”

“I can’t go with an audience.”

“So come out then.”

“No.”

“Then I’m coming in.” He rattled the doorknob. “Are you going to unlock it?”

“Are you going to kick it down if I don’t?” I retorted.

“Probably.”

I debated letting him do it.

“Polly?”

“Fine,” I sighed.

I put my wrist back into the cuff without closing it and stretched to unlock the door. I stepped back, getting as close to the rear wall as I could. Painter came in warily, taking in the mess on the floor and my fully clothed state. He held the handcuff keys in his outstretched hand and I had to force my eyes not to linger on them greedily.

“I’m sorry about the lap dance joke,” I offered.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I feel bad about teasing you like that.”

He stepped closer. I grabbed his shirt in my fist and yanked him toward me. He was startled enough that he didn’t resist. I brought my face up, tilted my lips toward his and closed my eyes. He made a sound, deep in his throat, and let the kiss happen. The tension between us ignited something in my chest, flaming a seemingly impossible heat. I slid my hand to his legs, then up to his hips. I dragged my fingers to his belt loop, pausing just above his pocket. He inhaled sharply. He pushed me up against the wall, one hand wrapping around my waist and the other around the arm suspended by the handcuffs.

It required real effort to pull away.

“Painter,” I whispered.

“Mmm.”

In a deft manoeuvre, I slipped the tiny keys from his hand, twisted my hand free, and snapped the cuffs onto his wrist before sliding out of his embrace.

“I feel bad about this, too,” I said.

His eyes widened and he took a frantic step toward me. But I’d spent the past year and half dodging drunken, handsy men, and I was quick. I slipped away easily.

“Are you serious?” Painter growled.

His green eyes darkened. I watched him for a minute, feeling an inexplicable guilt for locking him there. He strained futilely against the cuffs, making his muscles pop, and the other emotion that had been plaguing me for the past twelve or so hours threatened to overwhelm me.

Desire.

His arms flexed again and I had to shake my head to clear it.

“Sorry, Painter,” I stated with true regret. “Like you said. Sometimes we just don’t have a choice.”

I smacked the back of my head into the bathroom wall for about the tenth time, then winced. My frustration had got the better of me, and I’d hit it a lot harder than I intended.

You’re going to give yourself a headache.

As if I didn’t have one building already.

I was annoyed at Cohen for sending me on this assignment with no warning as to what he was getting me into. I was doubly angry at the girl for manipulating me. Repeatedly. Most of all, though, I was pissed off at myself for being tricked by a pretty face and a pair of soft lips.

Perfect lips.

“Shut up,” I growled at my inner voice.

I mentally scrolled through my options once again.

One. Scream and yell to get the gas station attendant’s attention. An undesirable alternative at best. A humiliating one at worst.

Two. Call Cohen directly and admit defeat. My cell phone weighed against my thigh like a brick.

Three…I couldn’t even come up with a number three.

I closed my eyes and willed myself to think of a better option. I breathed in and out slowly, and my mind drifted to the last time I’d been held against my will, feeling just as angry and helpless as I did now.

I’d woken in a cold sweat, and tried to roll over, only to find my hand stuck in place.

“What is this?” I muttered.

I shook my arm, and the zap strap there dug into my flesh.

“It’s come to my attention that you’ve been examining your escape options.”

I cringed at the unexpected voice. Until that second, I hadn’t even realized Cohen Blue was in the room with me.

“What do you mean?”

The other man shrugged. “Each night since you’ve been able to get out of bed on your own, you’ve walked over to that window there, and checked the integrity of the bars. Believe me when I tell you they will hold.”

I shivered. I hadn’t told him—or even the doctor who was attending to me for the past month—I was able to stand. I was weak, and every excruciating movement required me to hold on to the furniture to do it, but it was still true. I had been doing just what he’d stated.

“How’d you know?” I asked.

“You’ve seen the TV show…the one about getting caught in the act by a secret camera?” He smiled coldly when I nodded. “Right now that’s your life.”

“That, plus a guard at the door, twenty-four hours a day,” I added bitterly.

“Painter, I didn’t choose this for you.”

I wanted to say that I didn’t choose it for myself, either, but I couldn’t. It brought up too many doubts. Because even if I hadn’t made a conscious decision, it didn’t absolve me of responsibility for my actions.

“I don’t want to be trapped here,” I said instead.

“I don’t want that, either,” he replied. “And that’s why I’d like to provide you with an option. One that will keep you out of this room, and also out of jail.”

“What kind of option?”

“One that starts with me helping you get stronger instead of chaining you to a hospital bed. I’d like to provide you with the tools to so you can
really
get out.”

I gave Cohen a nod, knowing that what he was offering me wasn’t really an option at all. Whatever he gave me, I’d be paying back times ten. And whatever it was, it would be a far more fitting punishment than sitting in a jail cell.

“Good,” Cohen said. “As soon as the doctor says it’s okay, I’ll give you a job.”

Dread seeped in, and it was more painful than all the wounds on my body.

“Hey, man!”

I jerked my eyes open at the gas station attendant’s hesitant greeting through the door. I shoved my self-pity to the back of my conscience along with the unwanted memory.

“You there?”

“I’m here!” I called back.

He eased the door open a crack. “You…dressed?”

“Completely.”

He stepped into the washroom with my handcuff keys in his hand, and eyed my aching arm. “Your girlfriend does have some strange predilections.”

I was too worn out to even crack a smile at his use of a four-syllable word. “What did she ask you to do?”

He shrugged. “Just to wait an hour or so and then come and unlock you. Gotta admit, man, I was a little curious, but she told me if I waited the full sixty minutes, you’d pay me another hundred.”

“Of course she did,” I muttered. “Did she happen to mention where she was headed?”

The guy shook his head. “I figured it was a part of your game, or whatever.”

I sighed. “It probably is. Did she say anything else?”

“Not really. Just asked to borrow the phone, then called her mom.”

“Her mom? Are you sure?”

“That’s what it sounded like,” the cashier confirmed. “She wasn’t on there long, but she was talking extra cheerful and saying she’d be home soon. It’s the exact way I talk to
my
mom when I probably won’t be home soon, but don’t want her to worry.”

The boyfriend.

I sighed. “Buddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you unlock me now, please?”

“Oh. Sure.”

He scrambled to fit the key into the lock. When my arm finally dropped to my side, pain shot through my shoulder, down to my elbow, and into my fingers.

“Jesus that hurts,” I swore.

I rubbed the sorest parts, willing the blood to start flowing.

“We sell pain meds,” the cashier offered.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you have gas to pump or something?”

“Nah, man. To be honest, you guys are my first customers in three days. Aside from the buses that come in from the depot thirty clicks from here, I hardly get anyone in.”

“Bus depot?”

“Yeah. All the drivers gas up here. S’what keeps us open.”

Hmmm.

“Where do the buses go?” I asked.

“I dunno. They come from the bigger cities, but most of them just head out to all the nowheresville towns around here. It’s kind of a substation of a substation.”

“What about the Trent Falls area?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, probably. That’s about as nowhere as you can get, isn’t it?” he laughed.

“Pretty much,” I agreed. “Can you walk to the bus station from here?”

“Why would you want to? Your sweet-ass Mustang will—oh.” Understanding flashed across his face. “Yeah. If you followed the road, it’d take forever. But if you cut across the stretch of land behind the store, I bet you could do it in four, maybe five hours. Practically desert, though, in some parts.”

I considered what I knew about Polly. She was tough. Cool, calm and collected.

And probably just crazy enough to try it.

I yanked my wallet out of my pocket and handed the clerk two fifties. I hesitated a second, then pulled out a twenty, as well.

“Can you point me in the right direction and keep an eye on my car?”

“Sure, man,” he replied eagerly. “And for what it’s worth, I hope you win whatever game you’re playing. That chick is hot.”

* * *

I started out a brisk walk, and worked my way up to a light jog. As per the guy at the gas station, I headed due east toward the bus station. The air was still cool, and the sky was dim. True dawn would come soon, though. Then it wouldn’t take long for the heat to build.

I figured I had few advantages. I had two bottles of water tucked into a small bag on my back, and I was accustomed to jogging. I’d switched out my dress shoes for my runners, and put on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. I doubted Polly was as prepared.

It had been fully dark when she’d left, and even if she had flashlight of some kind, she would still be forced to move carefully. The gas station clerk hadn’t sold her any water, and I didn’t think she was the stealing kind. She was wearing a dress. She was wearing heeled shoes. She’d scooped my bag, full of her—
Cohen’s—
cash from the car.

Her gorgeous legs were lightly muscled, but they weren’t the kind of toned that came from running eight miles a day, five days every week.

Yeah, I would catch up.

I picked up the pace a bit, and actually let myself enjoy the feeling of my feet hitting the rocky terrain. It had been a few days since I moved like this. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I enjoyed that, too.

I kept going until I crested a small hill, then I slowed. My heart pounded solidly in my chest when I reached the top. I took a deep pull of my water and surveyed the horizon. The sun was just barely visible in the sky, and I guessed that I’d been going for near to forty minutes. From my vantage point, the sliver of orange light afforded me a view of the area. It was dry, uneven land, with little to see other than the occasional scrubby-looking bush. Then I spied it—a slow-moving figure in the distance.

Polly.

“Hey!”

My voice echoed, but I was unsure if she’d heard me or not. I yelled again. She whipped around, caught sight of me, and then turned to stare at her feet for an oddly long moment. Hesitantly, she pulled off her shoes, then started to run.

“Are you kidding me?” I muttered.

I shoved my water back into my bag and sprinted after her. The gap between us closed quickly, but she kept going anyway. Where did she think she was running? I would catch up to her in a few hundred feet. Still, the pace made my blood move through my body at double time and in seconds, I was drenched with sweat.

“Polly!” I hollered.

My voice came out in a harsh-as-hell rasp. She finally paused. I was almost close enough to reach her.

Why had she stopped so abruptly?

By the time I figured out the answer, it was too late. We had reached the top of another slanting hill, and I had no time to put on the brakes. I skidded through the rocks, kicking up a cloud of cough-inducing dust.

Polly’s hand shot out to grab my elbow. Rather than stopping me, however, it gave her no choice but to follow me down the hill.

Ass over tea kettle.

The phrase, borrowed from my grandmother, tumbled to the front of my mind as we bumped along and finally landed at the bottom in a heap of dirty arms and legs. We stayed that way for a few moments, completely still except for our breathing. I opened my eyes to find her blue gaze inches from my face.

“Barefoot running,” she gasped. “Gets me every time.”

“Where were you going?” I asked softly.

“Home.”

“Home,” I repeated. “Over miles of desert, in the dark, with no plan to keep yourself safe.”

She reached up and pulled on a piece of my dirt-caked hair.

“You’re filthy,” she stated, and I sensed an evasion in her words.

I brought my own hand up to grip her wrist. “Polly, why are you in such a hurry to get back?”

“My life is there.”

“So pay Cohen whatever you owe him.
Then
go back to your life. Don’t endanger yourself like this. I’m just going to chase you down again.”

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve run from him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Me neither.” There was a quiet desperation in her voice. “The first few times I didn’t get far. A few blocks. Then the next city. He kept coming after me,” she explained.

“Why?”

Polly shrugged. “When I actually got more than a hundred miles away, I thought maybe he’d stop following me. But he just sent someone else to do it for him instead of coming himself.”

She guided my hand to her face, and my breath caught in my throat as she opened my palm for me and rested her cheek against it.

“So stop running,” I suggested.

“I can’t. Stop chasing me instead.”

“
I
can’t.”

“Any man with any kind of decency would let a woman escape across the desert in peace.”

I couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Any man with any kind of decency would
save
a woman from her crazy-ass desert run.”

“So now you’re not only calling yourself decent…you’re also saying you’re my saviour?”

“I wish I knew what I was to you,” I admitted candidly as I moved my fingers to her lips, parting them gently, then stroking them lightly. “And I wish I knew what you have that he wants.”

I could feel her wavering, wanting to tell me. I could sense it in the slight shift of her body and the clearness in her eyes. In the dawn light, with her body pressed against mine, it would be almost too easy to forget she was my prisoner. I wished I
could
forget it. I wished I liked her a little less.

I seemed to be doing an awful lot of wishing, and very little following through.

I pulled my hand away with more reluctance than I wanted to cop to and waited for her answer.

“Me and Cohen…it’s complicated,” Polly said.

“So
un
-complicate it.”

“Six years,” she replied.

“What?”

“That’s how long I got away for this time. I felt safe. I felt happy. It made me sloppy.”

“Feelings are
always
sloppy,” I agreed.

“How would you know what feelings do or don’t do?” Polly asked defensively.

For some reason, her question genuinely offended me. “Do I really seem all that heartless to you?”

“You’re not exactly soft.”

“You think this is easy for me, Polly?”

“It’s clearly easier for you than it is for me.”

“That’s bullshit. You’re used to running, used to hiding.”

“So?”

“So…I’m not used chasing women.”

“Why? Because they’re always chasing you?” she snapped.

“Jealous?”

“Why the hell would I be jealous?”

“Why the hell would you be?” I agreed. “Feelings are just a game to you, after all.”

Colour rose in her cheeks. “What does
that
mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. Every time you want something, you ramp up the charm,” I told her. “I can’t do that. I don’t just turn my emotions off and on at the drop of a twenty.”

“Fuck you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Tell me it’s not true,” I challenged angrily. “Tell me that ninety percent of what you’ve said or done to me hasn’t been manipulation. Tell me that night in the hotel wasn’t just par for the course with you.”