Free Hostage Page 4

  I’m down to the dregs when Collin glances over and possessively snatches the bowl from me. “I told you not to eat it all!”

  Through a mouthful of flakes and granola, I grumble, “Boo-hoo, poo-woo. Why so aggressive? Can’t you just go get more?”

  Almost angrily, he brings the bowl to his mouth and drains every last bit of what’s left, as if afraid I might ask for more.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turns gray eyes to me, sculpted lips tipped in a half snarl. “I never share my Honey Bunches of Oats. With anyone. I trusted you with it, and you ate it all. For that, I’m never sharing my Honey Bunches of Oats with you ever again.”

  The laugh that bubbles up from me cannot be helped. “You sound like a bloody ten-year-old. It’s just cereal.”

  His expression is aghast, as if I’d just told him Santa Claus isn’t real. “Honey Bunches of Oats is not just cereal. It’s magic.”

  My eyes circle wide. “Nuh-uh. That’s Lucky Charms.”

  He takes a sharp breath. “Nope, you can’t be my roommate. One of the others has to take you.”

  I’m even more confused. “Your roommate?”

  “Despite our votes to let you go, Jaxon insists on keeping you here for a while. Unfortunately, there aren’t any spare rooms, and no one wants to room with the chatty nerd, so I volunteered—purely out of guilt for drugging you.”

  I blink. “Meaning…you all live together?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  A shrug. “Reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  He runs a hand over his jaggedly trimmed platinum mane and mutters something to himself before saying, “We work together, for one.”

  “Is it mandatory in America for people who work together to live together?”

  Collin expels an exhausted breath and slides down from the headboard to the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. “And so my watch begins.”

  I laugh at the reference. I’m a fan, too. “If I’m to be your roommate, you should know I have sedatephobia.”

  His eyebrows pinch together. “What’s that?”

  “A fear of silence. Which means I’ll always be talking to fill it. And we’ll need to sleep with the TV on.”

  “Wow,” he says with a resigned sigh. “I really screwed myself.”

  “There’s traffic outside,” I say with sudden recognition. “And the kind of noises found only one place in the world. Are we in filthy New York City, perchance?”

  “Correct.”

  Okay. What are the odds I was kidnapped all the way over in Paris and brought right back home?

  I looked around thoughtfully. “How am I a hostage if I’m not tied up and free to climb through those open, unbarred windows if I want?”

  “Security’s pretty tight here, Nerd Girl,” he mumbles as he hops off the bed and heads for the bathroom. “Trust me, you won’t get far if you try to run.”

  I could point out that there’s no security too tight for me to defeat, but I don’t. Mainly because I’ve no intention of escaping. I have a feeling Jaxon knows I won’t attempt to run. I’m too intrigued. And I do fancy the frequent hot-male contact.

  A normal person with a normal life would be having a more dramatic, tonsil-vibrating reaction to my current situation. They’d be screaming bloody murder, and most definitely would not be reclining so causally in a complete stranger’s bed, no matter how obscenely handsome that stranger is. A normal person would be screaming bloody murder because they’d probably have a job, a doting boyfriend, an inseparable friend, and a family who values them, to go back home to.

  I, on the other hand, am not screaming bloody murder because, one, I’m not normal, and, two, I don’t have a job or a doting boyfriend, and, three, my inseparable friend will be here soon enough.

  As for family, a car accident in England took my negligent, alcoholic parents. I have an older sister and brother who are perfectly fine with my absence from their lives. They never could tolerate my eccentricities.

  My brother is the oldest, but he’s somewhat mentally challenged, so when our parents perished, my sister took over. To chase her music career, she packed us up and moved us to the States—specifically, San Francisco. Through hard work, perseverance, and a Good Samaritan, she became famous and successful—the Saskia Day, world-class pop-rock superstar—and thus able to provide for us in ways we’d never dreamed of.

  Growing up, I was always the straight-A student, the know-it-all smart-arse, the pesky, annoying critic and corrector. I started college at thirteen. Which is where I met Melanie, who’d started a year before me at just twelve. She, too, was a Brit relocated to the States.

  Instant connection. Kindred spirits. She was everything I was. I was everything she was. We understood each other.

  We got teased and pranked quite a bit throughout our adolescent college years. We were too smart and obnoxious for our ages, and the “normal” kids didn’t like that.

  Our only other friend was our physics professor, Dr. Brookbanks, a fifty-two-year-old Star Wars fanatic. Eventually, he convinced us we were too cool for school, too advanced for nuance, and went about teaching us a whole new set of lessons, training us, exposing us to some of the most exciting yet unimaginable opportunities.

  We became even bigger geniuses.

  Intelligent criminals.

  Soon, Mel and I were traveling the world on contracts and missions, all while balancing our college studies, acing our exams like they were nothing but minor inconveniences.

  I was an engineer. I was a hacker. I was a part-time liar.

  We were artists. Artists of every kind. Young, and overly capable.

  About a year ago, we chose to settle in New York—much to my dismay, as I loathe this tightly packed city. But Melanie insists this is where we need to be to achieve all our dreams. And though I disagree—my suggestion was Silicon Valley—I let her win.

  Ma—which is what I call my sister, since she’s more of a mother to me than our real mum ever was—and I keep in touch and see each other as often we can. But we both travel and move about a lot, so sometimes we can go months between visits. Therefore, I don’t have to worry about her panicking and sending out a search party if she doesn’t get a ring from me for a while.

  “I need to shower,” I tell Collin as he returns from the bathroom. “I’m starting to smell like this city. And by the way, who’ll be feeding me?”

  “Go on. There’s a pack of new toothbrushes in the cabinet. Jaxon will be feeding you. I’ll share my bed with you, but not my food.” He scowls.

  I roll my eyes and climb off the bed. “Because I ate your cereal?”

  “Because you dissed it.”

  “Seriously, how old are you?”

  Collin pulls on the strings of his pajama bottoms, peels back the waistband, and peeks down at his manhood before flicking a lascivious gaze back to me. “Sure you wanna know that, Nerd Girl?”

  With a gulp, I turn and sprint for the bathroom.

  Chapter Four

  Fresh from a long and thorough shower, I stand in front of the mirror and wipe away the fog with my palm.

  My glasses are off, a burgundy towel wrapped around my damp body. The glasses are not needed, but they are wanted. I’m nearsighted. I can see mostly without their aid, but everything appears slightly blurry.

  In order to be on top of my game at all times, I need perfect resolution and clarity in all things, therefore I keep my glasses on at all times. Contacts are not an option. Too itchy and uncomfortable.

  Normally, I have tumbling, wayward waves of blond hair and unruly, flyaway bangs that conceal my slightly high forehead. At the moment, however, my wet hair is flopping down my shoulders in limp, soggy curls. The only time my bangs obey is when wet.

  I look in the mirror and two wide, silver saucers for eyes peer back at me. Big and blatant. My nose is small and my mouth even smaller—with twin dimples when I smile. Which I don’t.

  I’m five-foot-four, one hu
ndred twenty-five pounds—although I’m pretty certain my copious breasts take up at least six of those pounds.

  I might be a nerd, but I’m a comely nerd. I know that.

  Despite being called mocking and sometimes disparaging names throughout my life, I’m no victim to low self-esteem. In my reflection I see beauty, strength, and independence. I see a woman who’s complete because she’s content with who she is, inside and out.

  I’m who I was meant to be—Timberly Day.

  And I see no reason to be displeased or unsatisfied with that.

  It hits me in that moment of nakedness that I have no habiliments or accouterments other than that frilly, silly dress.

  I pick up my glasses from the vanity and slide them on before returning to the bedroom. Collin sits in the middle of the bed, clipping his toenails.

  “Eww.” I’m repulsed. “You clip your toenails in your bed?”

  Without looking up, he replies, “I do everything in my bed. It’s my favorite place.”

  “And I’m supposed to share it with you?”

  “Hey, I’m not crazy about it, either. What with your sudokuphobia, and all.”

  “Sedatephobia.”

  “Whatever. Look, throw some clothes on. Kav said breakfast is ready.”

  “It’s noon.”

  “We have our own rules. Get dressed.”

  “Um, about that…”

  Collin looks up from his clipping. His mouth opens, as if to say something, but then it just stays open, while his eyes roam my body. Around mid-thigh, where my towel stops, his gaze lingers for a moment, then moves slowly downward before coming right back up again. He appears to be trapped in a speech-impeded limbo.

  So, I press, “Will your boss, Jaxon, be providing apparel for me, too?”

  That snaps Collin out of it. He scowls. “He’s not my boss.”

  “Well, he told you to drug me and you did it, so I’d say he is.”

  “Think whatever you want.” Collin scrambles off the bed as if his arse is on fire and hurries over to the dresser, rummaging through a couple of drawers before selecting a pair of red striped boxer shorts and a plain white T-shirt. He chucks them at me. “Here. Put these on for the time being.”

  As I take them and head for the bathroom, I hear him curse under his breath. Don’t know what that’s about.

  My nipples poke against the T-shirt when I put it on, but it’ll have to do.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, Collin’s gaze goes straight to my rack, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “On second thought…” He disappears into a walk-in closet and returns with a red hoodie that bears the Flash symbol on the front. “Put this on, too.”

  I pull it over my head, shove my arms in, and tug it down. “Big Flash fan, huh?”

  With an absentminded, “Uh-huh,” he moves to the nightstand and scoops up his cell. “C’mon. Let’s get you fed.”

  He leads me out the room and into a wide hallway, then down a flight of steel stairs.

  Collin walks me through a large loft, industrial in design. Rugged. Rustic. Brick walls, exposed beams and woodwork, thick columns, stainless-steel doors, reclaimed-wood flooring, and huge windows providing lots of natural light. It’s capacious, sparse with furniture, and airily open.

  Very manly. Not the kind of place a normal woman would enjoy for long.

  The aroma of pepperoni sausage and ham dances on the air to music of clinking utensils and groggy grumbles.

  We pass through an archway that leads into an enormous—no joke—kitchen/dining area designed of oak and stainless steel.

  Jo and Eduardo are sitting around a large wooden table, sipping big mugs of coffee. Kavon is at the stove ladling food onto dishes.

  He turns with two platefuls of eggs, sausages, ham, and French toast. A grin splits his face when he sees Collin and me. “Morning, hostage. Nice of you to join us.”

  At that, Eduardo’s and Jo’s heads swivel to where Collin and I are standing just inside the archway.

  Jo scowls.

  Eduardo smiles.

  Kavon sets the loaded plates down in front of them.

  With mischief in his smile, Eduardo pats the empty chair beside him. “Here, mami. Have a seat. Let me share my sausage with you.”

  I move to go sit beside him, but Collin throws an arm around my neck and pulls me into his side. “She sleeps where I sleep, so she sits where I sit.”

  “Whoa, now,” Eduardo says through a chuckle, palms up in defense. “Was just offering her a piece of my sausage, mi amigo. But I’m guessing you already fed her yours, eh?”

  Collin ignores him and walks over to the table, choosing two chairs down from Eduardo, across from Jo.

  As he kindly pulls out my chair for me to sit, Jo narrows a glare at us, her top lip curling in disgust. “Whatever’s going on with you two, you better not let Jaxon catch a whiff. She’s his hostage, not yours, Collin.”

  “Then maybe she should be sleeping in his bed and not mine,” Collin snaps, and takes the chair beside me.

  Pursing my lips, I stare at Jo across the table. “Out of sugar, sweetie?”

  Her tone is irritated when she replies, “What?”

  “Well, you are annoyingly bitter. I can only assume there’s no sugar. Perhaps it’s that time of the month? Or maybe pissy is just your natural disposition. If so, there are steps you can take to fix that. I have a degree in psychiatry and can help. Bitterness is not a comely trait. The great Solomon once wrote that it’s better to live in the corner of an attic than with a quarrelsome and complaining woman.”

  Jo full-on glowers at me, her pierced brow twitching. Jet-black pixie hair sticks out every which way, black eyeliner smudged all over her eyelids from sleeping in her makeup. She looks wild and lethal.

  Blimey, this girl needs a triple-dose injection of Happy. She’ll indubitably get wrinkles from all that scowling.

  “Another thing. You shouldn’t sleep in your makeup. Do that, and you risk aging your skin earlier than you’d like. Also, it widens your pores in an unflattering way and you can get rashes and infections. In fact, those little pimples gathering along your chin are a sign of an impending acne breakout. When dirt and dead skin cells clog your pores, it induces environmental oxidative damage. Makeup and dirt accumulation also contributes to the deterioration of elastin and collagen, which will ultimately have you looking like an old bag twenty years too soon.”

  “O-kay. Time to eat up, hostage,” Kavon breaks in, setting down two full plates before Collin and me.

  “I’ll cut her, Kav,” Jo grinds out through gritted teeth. “I swear to God, I’ll cut her if she doesn’t keep her mouth shut.”

  Kavon chuckles. “And I won’t stop you. But then you’ll have Jaxon to deal with. So—” He shrugs. “Your call.”

  “Hey, no one’s cutting anyone,” Collin interjects. He nudges me. “Eat up, Nerd Girl.”

  Don’t have to tell me twice. I’m famished. Not too fond of pepperoni, but I could eat a raw cow right now.

  Kavon lowers into the seat beside Jo, across from us, and digs into his overloaded plate. Instead of OJ and coffee like the rest of us, he sips premixed protein shake from a liter bottle.

  While I eat, I furtively observe his big, venous muscles. They look hard and impenetrable. He has the height of a basketball player, so the muscles don’t leave him disproportionately bulky or thick-necked. He’s just…built. Big, tall, and astonishing, with his dreadlocks groomed neat and clean, and a goatee framing his mouth.

  “How big is your penis?” I blurt out.

  Kavon chokes on his protein shake while Eduardo grins in delight.

  “W-what the— What?” stammers Kavon.

  “Well,” I say around a mouthful of scrambled eggs, “there’s this myth that men with big muscles have small penises. Not that I believe it, or anything. But you’re huge, and learning the size of your penis will give me factual ammunition to use should I fall into another big-muscles-small-penis debate in the future. See, that myth is u
ttered only by brainless dimwits. If a man’s build is larger than the average bloke in terms of muscles—big arms, big thighs—then, obviously, his penis will appear smaller. A skinny bloke’s penis, next to that of a bodybuilder’s, will, indeed, have the more prominent appearance. It’s simple logic.”

  Kavon pushes to his feet, walks over to the tap to fill himself a glass of water, and quaffs it. He looks at me, blinks twice, then returns wordlessly to his seat.

  “So, Kav?” Collin throws his arm over the back of my chair, grinning. “How big are you?”

  Kavon daggers Collin a glare, then shifts his eyes to me with a small smirk. “Tell you what, instead of taking my word for it, why not bring a ruler to my bedroom later on and measure it yourself?”

  Heat caresses my cheeks at the thought of placing a ruler alongside Kavon’s penis. But, hey, I’m all about knowledge, so I’m game. “Flaccid or erect?” I ask.

  With an eye roll, Jo mutters something nasty under her breath.

  “Flaccid,” Eduardo interjects before Kavon can reply. “Definitely flaccid. The only thing hombre, here, gets erect for are hot dogs and buns.”

  I’m confused. “He gets aroused by food?”

  More eye rolling and under-the-breath muttering from Jo.

  “Nah, mami. I’m saying he’s a fruit.”

  Even more confused, I pinch my eyebrows together. “He has fantasies of being a fruit who gets aroused by hot dogs and buns? Wow, that’s, um…a particular kind of kink, isn’t it?”

  Kavon bites his lip to hide a smile while Collin shakes with laughter beside me. “No, Nerd Girl. He’s tryna tell you that Kav scores for the other team.”

  I finally get it. “Oh! He’s gay.” I cock my head at Eduardo. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  Eduardo just leans back in his chair and sips his OJ, amusement in the crinkles at his eyes.

  “You’re very macho for a queer,” I say to Kavon. “I never would’ve guessed it. I bet you’re the plower, huh?”

  He makes to reply, but then his deep-brown eyes shift to above my head and stay there. Jo’s and Eduardo’s do the same.

  I’m about to turn to see what they’re all looking at when I feel a sudden heat at my back, lifting the hairs on the nape of my neck.