“Quit talking. Get her naked right now. Ooohhhh.” The gunman made a face that could either accompany a bowel movement or an orgasm.
The girl began shaking her head. Gage pulled her closer and then spun her to face the man. He began an elaborate show of finding her zipper. She stopped fighting him, and he hated that. He wished he could tell her he would never normally get her naked here, even if she threatened his balls. But the gunman might really drop his guard if he saw some boobs.
Milla was frozen. The gunman was a horrible thing. Not even a person. She couldn’t even joke around in her head anymore. She was about to be degraded for someone else’s enjoyment. Gage Daxson located her side zipper and lifted her arm above her head. He seemed to be dragging out the process of undressing her—this forced striptease. He danced his fingertips from her raised hand down her forearm to her elbow. When he skimmed her arm, she was too scared to even be ticklish. Milla shook as he found the top of her zipper. The dress loosened as the teeth audibly released their tight grasp. She kept breathing in, but forgetting to breathe out. Daxson parted the opening of the cloth. He turned her again so her side was in full view of the pervert. She held the top of her dress up with her other hand.
“No bra. No bra. Agghhhh…” The Devil’s Fart was close to losing his shit.
Gage pushed her forward and lunged at the gunman. Just before she hit her head against the room’s standing lamp, Milla’s ears were filled to the brim with the sound of a gunshot. Then darkness wrapped around her as she lost consciousness.
Chapter 4
Words Like Knives
MILLA FOUND HERSELF in a horrible nightmare. Complete blackness surrounded her, and someone was pleading for medical care.
“We need to get her to a hospital. You don’t need murder on the list of charges the police already have on you.”
Hands felt around her neck. VAMPIRE! She was afraid of the giant mosquitoes, so she scrunched up her shoulders to save her neck.
“She moved. You’re a liar. A fucking woman-stealing liar! I own all the things!”
With that bizarre statement, Milla remembered everything: where she was, why her hands were clenched so tightly. She peeked at her chest where her fists were balled around fabric. Her dress barely covered her mounds of desire. Crap, don’t say mounds of desire. No one thinks of tits that way. The ridiculously handsome and frightfully frightened Gage Daxson hovered over her. She remembered the gunshot.
Gage looked disappointed she was alive and hissed, “Couldn’t you’ve played dead a few more seconds?”
“I was dead for a while!” Milla countered. “Up yours.”
Famous people were always smiling in pictures, leading you to believe they liked you. Gage Daxson clearly hated her.
“Stop talking! Next time I’ll shoot one of you.”
Gage helped Milla up while she held onto her clothes. He pushed her arm aside and zipped up her dress after she’d put it in the right place.
“Thanks.” Her head was killing her, and her slapped cheek still throbbed. She looked forlornly at the crumbled remains of her muffin on the floor. Life had been so much better when she’d been about to take a bite.
“I’ll shoot you!” The Devil’s Fart had done a lot of sweating in the time Milla was unconscious.
“Are you sure about that? Looks like your own foot was your target.” Gage motioned with his chin at the small hole in the floor.
“If I blow my foot off, I’ll replace it with yours.” Fart flared his nostrils.
Milla spoke out of the side of her mouth. “He’s crazy.”
Gage looked at her like she was the insane one. “You’re just figuring that out?”
“My head hurts.” She rubbed her scalp and winced. There would be a bruise for sure.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up! Kiss her again. Stop talking!” The Fart was intent on his forced porn.
“I think I might puke.” Milla moved her hands to her belly and groaned.
Fart bent down and screamed like a wounded animal. When he went silent, so did Gage and Milla. In the new quiet, they all listened intently as the ceiling and walls seemed to groan. Obviously, they were not alone in the building. Fart looked around frantically, as if the room was closing in on him. In his fear he farted. He expelled a long, sputtering cacophony of digestion-related noises.
All three looked at each other and then down at the floor. Milla willed herself not to laugh. This was so much worse than laughing at a church fart. In the desperate silence Gage’s phone’s vibrations were suddenly audible, sounding like a set of bees doing the samba in his pocket.
“You traitor! Give me that. Give me the phone!” Fart stood and pointed his gun at Gage. “You’re hiding the police in your critchy crotch! Girl! Get the police out of his pants!” Fart flung spittle from his lips like it was his job.
“What now?” Milla tried to focus on the gunman’s mouth. Between his crazy and her mild concussion, nothing made sense.
“Get the phone out of my pocket and toss it to him.” Gage was saying so much more with his eyes. He arched a high pattern with his line of vision. Milla had no idea why.
She reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You smoke? That’s horrible. Do you know the cancer rate for smokers?”
“Give me those!” Fart was excited. “Does he have a lighter?”
Milla shrugged and reached into Gage’s deep pocket. She flopped her hand around and squeezed. Something was in there, but it wasn’t coming out.
“That’s my dick. And it can’t start a fire—on a cig, at least.” Gage pulled her hand out and went into a smaller pocket just above the one that led to his genitals. He flicked a book of matches high in the air and to the left of Fart.
“Oh. I get it now.” Milla finally understood Gage’s eye commands. He’d wanted her to toss the pack wildly.
Gage rolled his eyes and turned his attention to Fart, who was angry because of the wacky throw.
“NO! YOU ARE DISRESPECTFUL! HORRIBLE WOMAN STEALER!” Fart lunged and wedged his gun under Gage’s chin.
The men joined in a tight, tense embrace, eyes bulging and necks straining. Milla scurried around them and dug her hand in Gage’s other pocket, where she encountered a phone that was still buzzing its ass off.
“Here, here! It’s for you. Answer the phone!” She held it toward Fart.
As if those were the magic words, Fart stepped back. Gage inhaled deeply and leaned forward.
“You will speak to me!” Fart screamed into the phone. It continued vibrating.
“Unlock it, Dickwad.” Gage glanced up with tremendous hatred glowing in his eyes.
He seemed to be coming down from an extremely testosterone-filled primal place in his head. Okay, fine, he looks hot. The gunman tossed the phone to Gage who ran a finger smoothly over the screen and tossed it back.
“Speak!” Fart growled.
Gage obviously had the phone preset on speaker or had really quick fingers.
“This is Detective Brun with NYPD. Sir, I’d like to talk to you. We know you have two hostages, and we’d like to find out exactly what you want.”
Fart seemed to try to find the button to quiet the speaker, but he was unsuccessful. Exasperated, he began shouting his demands at the phone. “I want one woman. She’s the reason I’m not owning all the things. She’s evil on this earth and needs to be silenced.”
“I understand. Maybe if you tell me what this woman’s name is I can get her on the phone.” Detective Brun sounded very calm.
“She’s supposed to be here—in this building, tonight. Milla Kierce. The woman who uses words like knives to cut me from the things I own. I want Milla Kierce at my mercy.”
Milla sat right where she stood because her knees gave out. Oh shit.
Chapter 5
His Moment
THERE WERE FEW THINGS Andres tolerated. Being the host of his inane late night show was one of them. He stretched his old legs in the back of the Hummer limousine. The
re’d been a time when he was the news. His aristocratic mannerisms and slight accent had been the trademark of expert journalism back when women were great at getting coffee and giving blow jobs and not having an opinion. He could smoke where he ate, fuck where he worked, and drink when he drove.
Then the goddamn Internet had usurped all his ratings like a gluttonous bitch. People had stopped tuning in for his glorious hour as the top-rated anchor in the business. Now they just clicked and got their news in little snaps on their computers or phones. No heartfelt delivery or hard-hitting questions necessary. Andres was on his fourth wife. She was ridiculously young. Really, he didn’t even have the stamina for her. She liked money and sucked hard to earn her keep.
When the meeting had come, the thinning of the herd, the trimming of the fat at MVP TV, Andres never saw his own career coming to an end—until some pompous little bastard had read off his name and handed him a generic-looking packet on severance pay. Andres had thought he was golden. Luckily his years in the business had taught him well. He always had a backup plan. He threw the packet back at the bastard and called a meeting with the studio bigwigs from his cell. A few well-chosen words and Andres had a crew of some of the richest men in television sitting in his office.
After airing clips from surveillance videos featuring each and every one of them, he was assured he would always have a job. Just to be a dick, Andres had demanded the move to the Late Night television show. A popular ginger-haired comedian was ousted so Andres could pack up his hard hair and sit behind a desk. His pay was tripled for far less work. And it was all okay. At his age, to have a job at all was probably stupid. He should be in Boca getting a tan. But Andres craved more. He wanted the attention back. He wanted to teach all the reality-TV-watching assholes what true journalism looked like, show them how it felt to be on the very edge of their seats, watching Andres’ lips as he announced news important enough for history books.
Asking questions of actresses and the occasional politician just wasn’t cutting it. His real dream now was to go out with style—to go out with a gut-wrenching, spine-tingling news story that would have the entire nation on edge for hours. Or even days. As the Hummer pulled up to the curb, Andres got out before the chauffer could make it to his door. His three assistants waited for him at the entrance of the building. They each held a different beverage because Andres liked to have a choice. Today he took a black coffee from Peter without thanks. As he and his entourage traveled to his office, he was fed details about tonight’s guests: a spunky blogger with a sharp tongue and a rock star. Typical day. Nothing to write home about. The guests were waiting in the next building over, along with the set for his show.
When Victoria ran breathlessly into the prep meeting, Andres looked up from his interview questions with a sneer. He hated being interrupted.
“There’s a gunman shooting up the studio!” she panted. Andres stood and swallowed his smile. He snapped at Peter, who quickly cleared the others from Andres’ spacious office.
“Boss. We gonna tap into the surveillance?”
Andres didn’t dignify the underling with an answer. Of course he would tap into surveillance. Watching people when they were unaware of a camera had proven so useful in the past. Using the remote, he flipped through the feeds until he found what he liked.
The dressing room held three people. In a bit of chaos, the girl was thrust forward and clocked her head soundly against the standing lamp in the room. She went down like a sack of potatoes. The gunman was holding himself, and the other man in the room hovered over the prone woman.
“Peter, get a camera up here right now. We’re going on air as soon as possible. And I’ll be reporting live the whole time.”
The assistant ran like a gazelle on fire. Like a newsman hot on a lead. Andres closed his eyes and patted his hair. This might be his moment. The old man smirked and bit his papery lip. It was almost as if he had planned it.
Chapter 6
What a Great Day
SYDNEY WANTED OUT of the building. But Gage was still here. And they were friends. Better yet, they were family. Their past cemented their bond. Officially he was a bodyguard. But the same could be said for Gage. They watched each other’s backs. And he wasn’t leaving without his friend. Which would explain why his huge body was jammed in a crazy old air conditioning duct. The police would find him soon, which might suck, if they mistook him for an accomplice. Sydney was trying not to get shot today if he could help it. He could see his friend through the slats in the vent. He needed a plan, and from the looks of things, he needed one quick.
Andres was in full newscaster mode. It felt like heaven to be analyzing, bravely reporting the incendiary events with the experience and deft touch no one had anymore. He was running deals with other networks, pulling up pictures and information on both victims. The rock star had plenty of material for them to work with, but the girl was harder. Peter eventually tracked down her yearbook picture. Though it was dated, it would suffice. Andres even had the pleasure of calling the girl’s parents to send them his condolences on air. The mother’s breakdown was a sound bite that would chill parents for ages. As of right at this moment, all the major networks were airing Andres’ version of the events going down in a dressing room in his studio. What a great day.
Milla looked up from the floor. Somehow this insane person knew her name. Something she’d written had set him off. Her first reaction was out and out fear. It pooled in her stomach like poison. She held her head in her hands and looked at her feet. Gage Daxson was trying to get more information out of the gunman. Maybe become his buddy? He had an angle, but on the floor, Milla couldn’t process him and the revelation that her words had hurt someone at the same time. She flipped through her blog mentally, trying to remember a moment when she’d been unkind. She’d been snarky. She’d been harsh at times, but she wrote from her heart. Coming up empty, she finally just asked the Devil’s Fart. “What column?”
The frenzied man turned to her. “You’re making talky noises at me? Shut up!”
Milla pushed herself to her feet. “What column cut like knives? You’re all excited about it, so you must remember it. Did you write in with a question?” She glanced at Gage who shook his head while biting his lip. Milla ignored him. Obviously he believed women should be quiet too.
“Milla Kierce! You know her? You know her! Of course I remember the question. My girlfriend loved her column. So she wrote in a question. And Milla answered. Then everything changed.”
Fart seemed to be cramming his shoulders into his face, his anger contorting him.
Milla narrowed her eyes. “I know who you are. Your girlfriend wanted out of your abusive relationship. I told her she deserved so much more than living in fear. And I suggested she get your balls pickled because only an asshole hits his girlfriend.”
She remembered that question, and she would never forget her answer. She just wanted to hug the woman. Milla had spent nights wondering how things had played out. Usually the questions were playful, but that one had been so serious. The stupid Internet had kept the question asker anonymous, and Milla had hoped the whole thing had been a prank. But there had been a real person on the end of the debacle.
“What did you just say?” Fart’s eyes grew larger and his nostrils flared.
Gage Daxson threw his hands in the air, his facial expression clearly saying, What the fuck?
Maybe it was a crazy time to take a stand on women’s lib. Possibly there was a better forum to speak her mind. But damn it all to hell, gun or no gun, this guy wasn’t going to boss her around.
“I said only an asshole hits his girlfriend.” Then Milla gave the gunman a strong, proud middle finger.
He responded with a sneer and leveled the gun at her head. “Did you say you were Milla Kierce?”
Milla’s mouth went dry. “And if I was?” She tried to avoid seeing Gage pulling at his own hair.
Fart smiled. “If you’re Milla Kierce you’re going to wish I’d killed you ho
urs ago.” He waved Gage over closer to Milla. “Get her naked. I want a show.”
Chapter 7
White Hot Heat
THERE MUST BE WORSE THINGS than being naked in front of two strange men. Milla was sure of that. Well, pretty sure. But at the moment, nothing seemed worse. The rock star bit his tongue and moved slowly to where she stood. Fart went for his pants again.
“You couldn’t stop talking? Now look what we’ve got to do.” Gage pulled her against his chest.
She stared at his throat, contemplating fighting him. She watched his Adam’s apple as she explained herself. “I hate bullies.”
Her hair moved as he replied. “I get that. But if we work together, we might live. Do you like living?”
She nodded.
Gage tilted her face toward his with his knuckle. “Then pretend to like this. A lot.”
And then he was all over her. His hands, his lips. He pushed her against the wall and became her boyfriend and semi-gynecologist with a few masterful moves. Making love to a woman was a sport for this guy, obviously. Milla did her best to keep up, to match his enthusiasm, but she couldn’t stop taking peeks at Fart. The man was working hard at his belt with his one available hand. She tried to feel Gage’s chest, to touch something on him, but her joints had rusted over. Every forced move was jagged. She almost punched him twice: once by misjudging where his cheek was and the other when he touched a part of her body that was hard wired to her ovaries.
Once he was dry-humping her, she realized he was being as pornotastic as he could without actually causing her to be naked. And she hated him a little less. He kissed her neck and licked his way to her ear.
“I’m trying to hold out for the police. Kiss me back.”
She took her eyes from Fart and looked at the man who might very well be the person she would die with. At least he had a plan. She stilled his feverish antics and cradled his face. She smiled at him. It sort of made sense—if the boat was sinking, might as well slam a few cocktails and turn the music up loud. She explored his familiar face with her fingertips. His full lips, sharp cheekbones, she just cherished him for being a guy who wasn’t trying to kill her. She went to her tiptoes and pulled him down so she could kiss his forehead. Then she kissed the tip of his nose.