“Yep.” He waves his coffee cup at me. “And it seems I’m on the apology list too. This is my third free coffee this week.”
“What’d she do to you?” I ask, setting the cup down beside my printer.
“Nothing. I guess she sees me as an extension of you.” He grins, and I like the easygoing nature of our relationship. I thought he might be embarrassed after telling me his story, but he seems almost relieved to have shared it, and an additional barrier has lowered between us.
Now, I just need to work on loosening Frank up. He’s as tight-lipped as they come but very mannerly and respectful. He’s sweet with Rowan, even though I can tell he’s a little uncomfortable around young kids. The most important thing is, Rowan likes him, and he has taken to having a bodyguard like a duck to water.
“She wants to get in your pants,” I tell him, smirking. And why wouldn’t she? Alesso is hot with his dark hair, dark eyes, and ripped body, and I’ve seen her drooling over his tattoos. He arches a brow, like it’s unheard of for a woman to lust after him. “Why do you look surprised? You can’t tell me women aren’t throwing themselves at you. You certainly got your fair share of admiring glances last weekend.”
“I don’t have time for women,” he says, sounding too much like his boss.
“You don’t have time for them, or you don’t like them?” I inquire, leaning against the doorway. “Are you batting for the other team and you neglected to mention it?” I probe with a teasing smile. “Because I gotta say, the idea of you being into men gets me hot.” I have watched some gay porn, and it seriously gets my juices going. There is just something about two men fucking that gets me all worked up.
“I’m not into men.” He rushes to reassure me. “I like women. I fuck women. But that’s all I’m interested in.”
I push on. “Lucille is pretty.”
“Don’t you have work to do?” he grunts, and I giggle. He’s right though. I’m procrastinating because I freaking hate admin tasks.
“You should ask her out. She’s a terrible receptionist, but she seems like a sweet girl.”
“Go. Work,” Alesso says before drinking his coffee and pulling the door shut.
I’m chuckling as I plonk down in my chair, hauling my mail in front of me as I pop my AirPods in and crank up “Sad Song” by We the Kings. I’ll sort my mail first and then attack the mountainous pile of files propped beside my desktop PC. I play “Sad Song” and “Without You” by The Kid LAROI on a loop, as they are feeding my mood today. I’m so engrossed in my work and immersed in the lyrics I forget all about my tea, only remembering it when it’s too cold to drink.
I’m singing away when the door to my room bursts open without warning. I swivel on my chair, and all the blood drains from my face as I lock eyes with the stranger standing in my doorway. The man is wearing faded black slacks, a black leather jacket, and a black turtleneck that barely fits around his wide neck, looking like an extra in a dodgy B-movie from the seventies. His cropped black hair is shorn tight to his head, and there’s an ugly scar running along one cheek, which gives me awful flashbacks of that night in the basement in Vegas with Scarface Salerno.
Behind him, Alesso is slumped on the floor in the hallway, and my pulse throbs wildly in my neck as fear races through my veins. I can’t tell if he’s passed out or dead. Panic jumps up and bites me as the man narrows beady eyes on me, cursing in a foreign tongue as he shuts the door and cracks his knuckles. His nostrils twitch, and his mouth pulls into a snarl as he rakes his gaze over me.
I’m momentarily frozen as we stare at one another, but the instant he moves a foot forward, I jump up, stumbling against my chair and almost losing my balance as I step away from him. Ripping out my AirPods, I discard them on the floor. “Stay back!” I shriek, raising my palms while my eyes flit to my purse at the far end of the desk. The gun Ben gave me is in there, and if I can get to it, I might be able to defend myself. Alesso and I have gone to the gun range a couple of times, and I know the basics.
“This would be much easier if you were sleeping,” he says, advancing with a menacing snarl. He has an accent. Clearly European, and I’m guessing he might be Russian. “Come with me now, and I won’t hurt anyone else,” he adds, as if I can believe a word that comes out of his mouth.
As if I would willingly go anywhere with him.
I lunge for my purse, and he jumps me from behind. Grabbing my wrist, he digs his nails into my sensitive flesh before twisting. His other hand comes to my mouth, stifling my scream of pain. My purse plummets to the floor, and potent terror whittles through me when he drops my aching wrist and his meaty hand grips my hip. His front is pressed against my back, and a deep shudder works its way through me. Bile travels up my throat, and I know I need to do something before all hope is lost.
I shove my elbow back, meeting soft flesh, but it doesn’t dislodge him, so I bite down hard on his hand, sinking my teeth into his callused flesh. A muffled roar is quickly followed by a slew of cursing as he yanks his hand back on instinct. Reaching around me, I grab his junk and squeeze it, hoping I don’t puke, while I simultaneously stomp down hard on his foot.
He staggers back with a loud roar, and I seize the opportunity, dropping to my knees and sliding under the desk to grab my purse. My fingers have just reached it when I’m yanked back by my hair. I scream as stinging pain rips across my scalp.
“Suka,” he hisses, dragging me out one-handed by my ponytail. Pain dances across my head as I thrash about, trying to pry his hand away. Lifting me by my hair, he throws me face-first against the wall. My face slams into the framed certificate, which takes a place of pride on the wall, and the sharp edge of the wooden frame pierces my cheekbone, drawing blood. A throbbing sensation radiates across my face, but I barely feel it over the adrenaline pumping through my body and the blood thrumming through my ears. I slump to the ground, automatically cradling my sore cheek, my fingertips coming away bloody.
He comes at me again, cupping his crotch with one hand. I kick his shin, and he stumbles. Leaning forward, I push him hard, and he takes a tumble. I crawl away, scrambling to my feet as I race to my desk for my gun, but he’s on his feet fast. His hands wrap around my neck from behind as he shoves me forward. The edge of my desk presses into my stomach as I claw at his arms, struggling to draw enough oxygen into my lungs.
I’m going to die.
That’s the only thought going through my mind as he grips my throat tighter. My hands wander haphazardly around my desk, looking for something I can use as a weapon, latching on to the silver letter opener under some papers. He hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy squeezing the life from my body, so he doesn’t see me lift it and drag the sharp point swiftly across his hand.
He yells, stumbling back, as blood pours from the wound.
I don’t hesitate.
I don’t stop to think.
It’s kill or be killed.
Adrenaline, instinct, and the will to survive drive me forward, and I do what needs to be done.
