Chapter Nine
In which introductions are made and Sloan is never drinking again.
Sloan…
I’m never drinking again, I swear to god.
Waking up with a hangover from hell, I groan, squinting and ignoring the bolt of pain while I try to focus.
I was out on stage… that auction… a million Euros? That can’t be right… Drifting off to sleep again, I’m soothed by the low hum of the jet’s engines.
Jet engines!
I’m on a jet. That rat bastard bought me, made me come three thousand times, and then kidnapped me! Oh, god who is he? He’s taking me back to my asshole stepfather.
This can’t happen. I’ll die first. I won’t let him find Nate.
I’m wrapped up in a silky cashmere cocoon in a comfortable leather chair, the swivel kind you see on a corporate jet with a low table in front of me. There’s a bottle of water sitting there and I am suddenly aware that my mouth feels and tastes as if a rodent crawled in there to die.
When I try to reach for the water, I’m yanked back by a handcuff around my right wrist that’s fastened to the seat. Resting my head against the seat, I look up and force myself not to cry.
After everything I’ve done, all the running, it’s over.
My only comfort is that I’d already transferred the money to Carmella right after the auction because I’m pretty sure I’m never going to see her or Nate again. This bastard’s going to give me back to Gavin and if my stepfather can’t get Nate’s location out of me, he’ll kill me himself.
“Ah, you’re awake already. Stubborn wee thing.”
“You fucking son of a bitch bastard face motherfucking evil bastard!”
“Ya already said bastard,” he says, seating himself across from me.
“It bears repeating,” I hiss. “Why are you working for a piece of shit like my stepfather anyway? Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”
He smiles pleasantly. He’s changed into a tight pair of jeans and a black sweater and still looks amazing. His sleeves are pushed up and I can see an elaborate scrollwork of tattoos up both muscled, veiny arms.
“Sloan Masters. Twenty-three, graduated with honors from Columbia University in Literature. Only child of Marilyn and Gavin Masters-”
“That piece of shit is not my father! He’s my stepfather.”
“-fluent in Italian, Spanish, German, and French,” he continues, unperturbed. “You’d just started a job at the United Nations in New York when ya disappeared fourteen months ago. You’reworking as a barmaid, so I’m thinking ya don’t have millions of dollars to back up that promise of yours.”
He’s lounging in that chair like he’s a dark lord of the underworld, fingers linked as he looks me over, an unsettling visual examination that makes me feel stripped bare. His eyes are such a dark brown that they’re almost black, like the pits of Hell.
“Now why would a nice girl such as yourself, an accomplished lass take a runner? Your Da-”
“He’s not my father!”
“-your stepdad is sounding all kinds of worried about ya.”
“You’ll have a better chance of converting me to Scientology than convincing me he’s filled with fatherly concern,” I say bitterly, “but I guess if he flashes enough money in front of a man like you, it really doesn’t matter, does it?”
His head tilts, still conducting that visual circuit, lingering on my face. “Tell me lass, if it’s not fatherly concern, why is your Da- ah, your stepdad wanting ya back so badly?”
“Why don’t you tell me,Michael, if that’s even your name. How you are suddenly sounding all ‘wee and begorra’ on me now?” My accent is terrible and he laughs.
“That’s Irish, lass. I’m Scottish.”
Rubbing my forehead, I curse my dry mouth and what feels like a thousand hornets attacking my cerebellum.
