SEIZED Part 2: Steamy Romantic Suspense (Seize Me Romance Fiction Series) (7 page)

Blake

I’m breathing and trying to tell myself to think rationally. I stare at the paint on the ceiling of the hallway outside the apartment. They must think I’m crazy. I’m standing out here like a loser, but it’s better they don’t see this. Better for me and for them.

Brenda doesn’t need to be reminded of where we came from. George is already going through enough with whoever broke his arm—he’s only going to blame himself more with this shit that went down.

I don’t have proof yet, but the look on his face was one of guilt and shame. I can tell the look of a liar, and this is the first time he’s kept something this serious from me. Whether it was actually a bully, or a fight with other kids that was his fault, I have no idea, but he ended up with a broken bone and that’s on me. I swore I’d protect him.

The thought of his pain makes the snake start to slither again in my gut. I sink down to the ground and put my head on my knees.
How dare someone hurt my little nephew? How dare they
? A picture of Danny Lombardi’s mother comes to mind right then. The mothers of the other boys cried when their bodies were found mutilated, but she got angry. She was fierce, spitting and righteous. She kept whispering, ‘How dare they, how dare they?’ over and over. Right now, I understand her righteousness.

The way their soft flesh was corrupted was abominable. The burns and the marks, I try to push the picture away again, but it’s here with me. As I crouch on the cold linoleum, I want to cry—for George and Brenda, and for those boys. I let the feelings wash over me and the urge to drink is so strong.

I slide my phone from my pocket and hit the speed dial code for my sponsor. It’s been too long since we spoke. I need a drink—but I need a meeting more.

“Hey Blake,” His voice comes through loud and clear after only two rings and the relief brings tears to my eyes.

“I’m in trouble man. So much has happened. It’s been too long.”

I listen to him. I trust him. My brain and my body are going off the edge. He’ll give me some perspective.

“Blake,” he says, “Set your fears aside for a moment. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s a case that I’m working on, a kidnapping. I used to know the prime witness back in high school, and there’s something between us. I’m obsessed. I’m angry all the time. I don’t know what to do. Now I think someone is bullying George at school. His arm is broken. I just saw red and punched a kitchen cabinet door.”

The words pour out my mouth. I hardly pause to breathe between them. He listens, and listens some more, as I go through all the things that have been on my mind. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken, but already I feel better. I need to do this more. I’m sure he agrees, but he doesn’t say it and I appreciate not being told what to do.

The elevator dings and I quickly get to my feet. I don’t want Ryan to see me like this so I tell my sponsor I’ll call him back, and I fix my face. I delete the emotion and assume the role of detective without effort. That’s what I have to do on the job. There will be time to share more with my sponsor later. For now, I squash the feelings down until no one’s life is riding on what I have to do.

Ryan follows me inside. George is no longer on the Xbox, but Brenda is still in the kitchen. She looks at me, and says a pleasant hello to Ryan. I know we’ll be having a word later on. She won’t put up with my shit, and I wouldn’t expect her to have to. Neither of us deserves this after the childhood we had. The aggression is one thing we always swore we’d keep out of this house, and I just broke that rule.

I show Ryan upstairs and point out the areas I need him to cover. I want to keep this process away from George’s eyes, so I bring the downstairs phone, Brenda’s laptop and the iPad upstairs. He’s ready to start tracing. Ryan will find out exactly what Carrie has been doing. I can trust him to be discreet until I’ve told Jacob what’s happening. I leave him to work and go to my room.

I lock the door behind me. It’s time to call Jacob. I get her on her cell phone, and share that Carrie has refused police protection. I tell her the measures I’ve put in place with the hotel manager. I tell her about the elevator lock, closed-circuit cameras and the round the clock doorman. Then I sit back and listen to her yell. It’s not like I didn’t expect this. She told me to watch over Carrie and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep her here, and it’s my fault, but I don’t say that part to Jacob.

“She’s turned out to be more strong-willed than I thought, Lieutenant.”

“Detective, I don’t give a shit about her strong will or what she wants. I care about this case. You need to get your eyes back on her today, and keep her close until I tell you different, or you’re off the case. Say whatever you need to. Buy her dinner, charm her, arrest her, follow her, I don’t care. Just keep your eyes on our witness and I’ll be happy. I don’t want you coming back in here until it’s done!”

The woman is angry. She’s fuming and I know why. I would never have this issue with a witness I wasn’t attracted to. It’s all this history between Carrie and me that’s coming back to bite me in the ass.  She left because of me. Carrie James would rather put herself in danger than deal with my mood swings anymore.
How can I blame her for that?
I can’t.

The thought sinks in, and with it, I feel myself slip into a fucked up, depressed state of mind.
Am I ever going to be free of this disease? This anger
? It’s years down the road and my drinking is still following me. Living with no alcohol makes life unbearably intense at times. I can’t come home, kick back and relax with a beer like the other Detectives. I can’t go out on a pub crawl with the boys to celebrate. We can’t share a bottle when we mourn the loss of a colleague.

I’m feeling the pain of the urge to drink. Escape is impossible. Well, actually it’s very possible but I know where it’ll take me—right to the bottom. If I drink, I’ll lose everything. George, this job, Brenda’s respect. Everything. I had hoped Carrie James would be different, but every time I get too close to a woman I care about, I fuck it up. My anger takes over, or my jealousy and now it’s happened again.

Carrie’s going to think I’m insane to show up at her door again. I could tell her I’ve been ordered to place her in witness protection. That will mean not having her with me, but at a safe house somewhere. If I’m honest with myself, I’d admit I want to be around her. I want to see her face every day.

Ryan’s work will take the next couple of hours, so I decide to head back to the hotel. I’ll monitor Carrie’s movements without telling her I’m there. It’s clear she wants to get away from me, but I need to know why else she wants to be alone. Doing surveillance on her will be following orders without driving her crazy. She never has to know that I’m watching, and I’ll be able to see once and for all what she gets up to.

Traffic is flowing freely and I make it there in decent time. There’s a mezzanine restaurant on the second floor of the lobby. I position myself on a balcony table with my laptop. I alert the hotel staff to let me know if she makes any requests for room service or orders a driver. I feel like a stalker, but I’m doing this to protect her.

As I wait, I’m reading an opinion piece in the New York Times online. It’s by a journalist who claims to have put herself through a top east coast college by working as an escort on the side. She’s arguing against the unnecessary stigma of being a sex worker; for a women’s right to earn money with whatever assets she has, without judgment.

If only it was like that for every woman in the game. This girl spent her time escorting wealthy clients and secured herself an Ivy League education. She’s neglected to cover the millions of others who are forced into the sex industry and don’t see a penny. She ignores the ones who don’t choose the path, but are taken against their wills. She forgot the ones who are forced to take drugs so they can be addicted and controlled; the ones abused by clients, used and then discarded like rubbish. What about the children being forced to have sex way too many times a day?

I feel like responding in the comments section of the article. Not to criticize her, just to draw attention to the stratification of the industry. Her experience of being a working girl is rare. The sweeping generalizations she’s made are simply not true for most. Her thoughts are her own. It’s ironic—this woman is taking the sex trade with all its horror and atrocity, and thinking it can be so neatly packaged and delivered as a tool of women’s empowerment.

This is just the type of article that could hurt the funding budgets of the few women’s support services and shelters that
are
doing good work. That’s what I’d say if I had the chance, but not here, not in the public comments section. Just to myself. I shake my head and decide again how fucked up society is.

Carrie

The room of my hotel door shuts closed behind me. I lean back against it, with relief. Reception was really helpful. I kept it simple and explained my purse was lost. They gave me a spare keycard once they verified my identification on file. Thank God.

I can’t stand snobby service staff—including waitresses and kiosk attendants. I’ve done my time in hospitality and the least a hotel staff member can do is smile and be friendly. It makes everything seem better when you’re away from home.

These inconsequential thoughts fill my head for a second before I come crashing back to reality. The last time I was in this room, April and I were getting ready to go out on Saturday. She never made it home. It’s now days later. I feel like a lifetime has passed. I’m a different woman entirely. A tiny part of me wants to drop to my knees and pray for her safety but really, what will that do for the situation?

I mean really, it’s the same question I’ve been asking myself since I was attacked, and I’m likely to ask it for the rest of my life. Bad things happen and I just can’t buy that they happen to good people as part of a pre-determined plan.

I see that my makeup and the runner-up heels I had brought along have been lined up neatly in the closet. I’m grateful for the hotel cleaning staff. Somehow, not walking into chaos makes this whole thing a little easier. We had a few drinks in the room before we left for dinner. I even shared a cigarette with her out on the balcony. Now, the plate we used for an ashtray is also gone. Our empty wine glasses have been cleaned and lined up beside the mini bar.

Living in a hotel feels so orderly. I imagine it must be like this to have a maid, a life where everything gets put back together, wiped down and refreshed at the end of each day. No reminders of the night before. No need to take care of mess because someone will do it for you. I guess that’s what really rich people do. I’m sure their maids will be dressed in those cute black suits with the white aprons.

God.
I have to pull it together. I’m still sitting on the floor at the door. Being back here is harder than I thought it would be. I feel empty and shocked. I feel like crying. Instead I get up, head over to my suitcase, and see that all of my stuff is still there.

I pull out a comfy t-shirt and some yoga pants. I lay them on the bed before heading in to shower. I can finally wash my hair with my own hair products. My stuff is all around me. It’s so comforting knowing that at least my hair won’t frizz up. The world might have gone to complete shit, but at least my hair will look good. Yes. I’m clearly a girl with her priorities sorted.

Priorities or not, the water feels amazing. It’s hotel quality pressure. I stand under it for way too long, thinking, and then trying not to think. My mind is relentless. I can’t help wondering what April is doing now. I stop myself and my mind turns its attention to Blake. Back and forward between them, the two people I’m closest to in the world right now. Both of whom I have no control over, both of whom I suspect are in deep, deep shit.

I rub the soap over my body and pay special attention to my neck and shoulders. The water is cathartic, pounding down on my neck and back. I can’t help being reminded of Blake’s hands as they kneaded my sore muscles last night—or as they held me on his cock less than two hours ago. Every part of my body responds to the cellular memory he’s left behind. I don’t think I’ll ever get the sense of him off me. I don’t want it off either.

After years of lust, I’d rather hold on than let go of that feeling. The way our bodies fit together was so beautiful. We were like cogs in a machine—made to move together flawlessly. His mouth and his hands and everything about what happened makes me stamp my foot with desire. I’m impatient to be touched like that again. I wish he was here in this shower with me now. I wish I could replay the night and do things differently.

For one thing, I’d make it more about him, even knowing what I’ve come to know about his temper, I don’t care. I’d be a more generous lover. I’ve always been kind of selfish in bed. The internet tells me it’s just another symptom of my fear of intimacy.  I think the truth is I just haven’t been inspired to give that type of pleasure to a man before.

I’d take control of the situation and tease him some more before we begin. I’d rub oil into his strong back and thighs. I’d make the most of that beautiful body before he took over. I’d show him that he’s not the only one who can take charge. And I’d make him growl. Imagining it makes my nipples hard under the hot water and I take care to rub soap over them.

My hands are slippery. They tease the sensitive tissue, cupping my breasts and tweaking the firm flesh on every pass. I face the flow of the water and let it pour down my chest. My nipples peak even harder now. The water arouses them as I position my chest under the stream pretending it’s his mouth on me.

The steam starts to fog up the bathroom, but I don’t care. Instead, I lift my leg and pretend he’s fucking me. With one hand on my clit and the other holding on for balance, I imagine his cock driving up inside me. It’s so deep and thick, penetrating me like no other man has done before. I let myself groan out loud—there’s no one here to be shy around. I take a flat finger to the cleanly waxed lips of my pussy, and give myself long, luxurious strokes.

I wish I had something to fuck myself with, but I make do with three fingers. I buck my hips and slide them in and out of my sopping pussy, and feel myself begin to clench around them. I’m whimpering now, whispering his name as I start to get closer.

I drop slowly to my knees under the hot water now. I’m imagining the way he held my pelvis while I rocked on his cock on the sofa. I feel his thick velvety head bury itself into my softness. It nearly has me screaming, begging him to plunge deeper, and in my fantasy he ignores me and keeps going.

I leave the shower running and open the glass door. I spread a fresh towel on the floor and lay my wet body on it. I’m sopping wet, writhing around, moaning and panting with how close I am to exploding. I picture last night; the exact moment when I looked down and saw him change from a gentle lick to a fevered suck on my swollen clit. That’s what sends me over the edge.

All the pressure of the last forty-eight hours is released and I come like a burst of light, my body jerking under my own hands as I fantasize that his mouth is once again on me. I think I must black out with the intensity of it, because when I finally get some focus, the steam in the bathroom is so thick I can hardly see. I climb back into the hot water, rinse off and turn off the faucet.

My body is still throbbing and I can’t help feeling a little self-assured. I hardly ever make myself come, but something about being with Blake has ignited the most intense desire. I don’t know why. He’s supposed to be a distraction. I’m not supposed to fall for him. He’s a hot, angry guy from my past who is clearly trouble. He can be the perfect distraction from all of this—as long as I don’t get emotionally involved. But something tells me it’s already too late.

I rub moisturizer into my skin and slip back into the room to put my fresh clothes on. It’s so good to start feeling like myself again. My head is clearing and now I can decide on the logical next steps. My purse was taken by those thugs, I think, but I do have a little cash tucked inside my suitcase.

The hotel still has my credit card stored on file downstairs. I’ll be able to charge food to the room, and front desk receptionist said she can arrange a cash advance. It’s a good thing I didn’t go all crazy yesterday and cancel my cards.

I blow dry my hair and rub product into it. I check the mirror and revel in the shine. I also notice the afterglow on my face from the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever given myself. I feel guilty for a second, but April would be happy for me. She knows how much I’ve struggled to accept sex in my life as something to be enjoyed, rather than something to be endured. I hope she’s ok.

God I hope she’s ok. I think again that there’s one person who cares as much as I do about her safety—her uncle. Whether he’s guilty or not, she’s his family, and I know he’ll take care of his own. He probably doesn’t even know she’s missing yet, so my first order of business is to change that.

I head over to the hotel phone. I’ve already got those two numbers memorized, and if Blake says they’re both registered to Jessup, I’ll keep trying until someone answers. I’m about to dial the first one when I realize Blake has probably already contacted the hotel to have all my calls traced. If the police are after Jessup, April’s uncle does not need Blake Anderson listening to our conversation. And neither do I.

I remember there are a few shops downstairs in the lower lobby. There’s also a mezzanine restaurant on the second floor. It’s not my type of place at all. I’d rather eat somewhere small, where they have bigger serving sizes than somewhere that’ll place a tiny little plate in front of me and keep me starving. I’m hungry just thinking about it.

I’ll have to find dinner soon. For now, I’m heading to the hotel kiosk to pick up a prepaid phone. It will do until I get back to Iowa. I’m refreshed after my shower. I order myself a burger and fries with a soda, and room service tells me it’ll be thirty minutes. I have time. I like the plan, so I grab the room card and head downstairs.

As promised, there’s an envelope of cash waiting at the front desk for me. I’ll probably pay massive credit card fees for the withdrawal, but I don’t have another choice. I go directly to the kiosk and choose the cheapest phone I can find. When they give me the sim card, I see my phone number is impossible to remember, but who cares. It’s just for now.

The phone comes with a charger, so I head back upstairs to give it some juice and wait for my burger. I’m not disappointed when it arrives. I swear, NY burgers are better than the ones we get back home. It’s just one more thing that doesn’t make sense. But I won’t worry about the world of big city fast food until after I’ve finished dinner. It’s so good. I drown my fries in ketchup and gulp down the ice cold soda. I’m stacking on the calories right now, but I sort of don’t care. I’m in the mood for food, and healthy eating can take a back seat for a while.

The phone beeps and there’s already enough charge to make a call. I go out to sit on the balcony and phone Jessup. This time it rings for only a short period before cutting off into total silence. This man is officially the hardest person to contact ever. If only I had his cell number—but I don’t.

The only other option is to go back down to Caliber and ask one of the staff members to get in touch with him for me. Going in person is not a smart idea—I know it—but April is worth it. It’s the least I can do. I want to take a shot at speaking directly with Jessup before giving up and letting the Police do whatever they’re doing. April would do it for me. But the thought of the dressing up and wearing heels again to go back there is torture.

It’s getting late; the sky gets dark quickly here and there’s hardly any sunset at all tonight. I watch half a movie on the flat screen in my room before giving into my Caliber plan. If I’m going to see Jessup there, I’m going to look good. I use my tried and tested combination of products on my face and slip on the spare outfit I brought along.

I think I’ve lost weight in the last couple of days, despite pigging out. It’s probably the stress. I’m not complaining, though, because it’s always nice to feel lean and limber. I’m not fat in any way, but my curves have gotten pretty curvy over the last couple years. Now I need to work hard in the dojo to keep myself in fighting form.

Too many soft bits, is what my sensei said when I first started. Back then, he was talking about the inside more than the outside. Judo was what helped pull me out of my depression after the attack. I could probably claim that it saved my life without exaggerating. My heart was a mess, and the idea of ever enjoying sex again was ludicrous. I’ve come a long way.

I call down for a cab, and again, the grief hits me. I remember the cab April and I called only a few days ago from the same phone. There has to be something that Jessup can do. I put the burner phone and some money in a small clutch purse. It’s actually a makeup bag, but my real purse is somewhere out there and it will have to do. I don’t take all the money, because I learned my lesson when those thugs threw down with me.

There’s nothing worse than that feeling of mental restlessness and crappy memories. The room starts to feel suffocating all of a sudden. The conversations April and I had are echoing in my mind. It intensifies the loneliness I feel, having lost my best friend. I decide to wait downstairs for the cab. This time I take the stairwell down. It was too quiet going up in the elevator, and I won’t have to remember one more aspect of the night April was taken.

When I arrive at the reception desk, the staff person tells me the cab is already waiting for me. I walk through the lobby floor and the restaurant is busy. It’s weird for a weeknight, but I remind myself this is downtown New York City. I scan the tables and there are all sorts of well-dressed New York socialites and men in suits, sitting around with small plates of salad in front of them.

I’m happy I had my burger now, and happier I lost those few pounds. It means my dress isn’t too tight at the waist. But I desperately need a minute to digest this burger. I’m about to meet Jessup, hopefully, and if I need to, I’ll put on show.

The taxi driver is a sweet old man, and he gets lost immediately. We end up taking a tour of Central Park. I would be angry, but he stops and turns off his meter to save me a huge cab fare. I don’t mind at all. It’s not even ten at night, and I’m out a little too early to be heading to Caliber. The streets are still busy of course. This city is so alive. I understand why April would consider moving here. Beautiful restaurants, schools, fashion—there’s everything a twenty-something single girl could want. The problem is it all comes at a price.