I slam the door shut and I’m just about to walk around and get in the driver’s side when I spot the shoes on the ground where I dropped them after she ran.
“Fuck,” I say, walking over to scoop them up. I get in the van, open the little window to the back, and throw them through. “There’s your fucking shoes.”
Wild thing.
I sigh. Blood running down my face from her scratches. My jaw aching from her punches. My balls definitely unhappy, even with the protection of the cup.
And my cock is hard.
Because I’m a man and I can’t help it.
That shit was hot.
CHAPTER FOUR – LYSSA
I sit there in the dark after he slams the door closed. A few seconds later a window opens above my head, and he says, “There’s your fucking shoes,” as he tosses them through. One of them hits me in the head and the other drops into my lap.
I really didn’t need that. My head is already pounding and my vision is blurry. I reach down into my lap to push the shoe away and realize I’m naked.
I knew that.
I just forgot.
How? How did I forget that?
Oh, yeah. This charming bastard drugged my drink.
What a total fuckup I am. I know better than to drink anything at a club that I didn’t buy myself and didn’t have eyes on the whole time. I know better.
But he charmed me. Those eyes, and that smile. And his body.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I daydreaming about the man who just abducted me?
I try to turn around, intent on banging on the window. Demanding that I be let out. But I’m too tired. Too wasted.
My body slumps instead of sitting up and that’s when I realize I’m on a mattress and there’s a blanket. It takes me whole minutes to rearrange my body so I’m not only underneath the blanket, but lying down in a position that doesn’t make me feel like I was just dumped in a van.
For some reason my ass is stinging.
The motion of the drive is sorta soothing and I find myself nodding off. Too sleepy and groggy to keep my eyes open or even try to come up with an escape plan.
Besides, he said he wasn’t gonna hurt me.
Oh, Lyssa, that still-sober part of my brain says. You’re delusional.
No one abducts a pretty, young girl with no intention of hurting them.
“Yeah,” I hear him say on the other side of the window.
Mason. His name is Mason. I remember that much.
“I got her. I’m on my way now.”
Who is he talking to? Where are we going?
“A little bit,” he says. “Not much.”
Pause.
“You know. Typical girl fight.”
Girl fight? Did he just insult me? I think I did pretty good considering he’s like eight inches taller than me, seventy pounds heavier, and he drugged me.
I kicked fucking ass, is what I did. That was not a fair fight.
“She’s fine. We should be there in about three hours.”
Pause.
Three hours. I force my brain to think about what’s three hours away from Billionaire Beach and then I gasp. “Oh, no,” I moan.
“What?” he says. And for a second I think he’s talking to me. “That wasn’t the deal.” Then I realize he’s not. He’s talking to whoever’s on the phone. “Mr. Baylor—”
“What?” I gasp.
“—I told you my terms. I’ll be there in three hours and you had better be waiting. I’m a bounty hunter, not a goddamned babysitter.”
I make myself get up on my knees. And that’s not easy. I’m very drugged, but it’s not getting worse. It’s not getting better, it’s just not getting worse. So either he gave me something that isn’t supposed to completely knock me out, or he gave me a very low dose of something that is.
I pound on the window. “No!” I yell. “No! Let me out!”
“Yes,” he says. “That’s her.”
Pause.
“I didn’t give her much. Just enough to throw her in the van.”
Pause.
“Dude,” he says, clearly irritated with my stepfather. Because that’s who’s on the other end of this phone conversation. That’s who hired him to abduct me. “I’m a fucking professional. I think I know what I’m doing.” He hangs up after that. Mumbles, “Fucking asshole.”
Yes. My stepfather is a fucking asshole. Because this isn’t about me. This is about him. He’s forcing me to marry his business partner’s son. Dickerson Worthington the Third. Can you believe there are three fucking Dickersons running around this country?
I refuse to marry a man named Dickerson. I don’t care if my stepfather’s partnership depends on it. How does that even make sense, anyway? How could me marrying Dickerson the Third fix his business? It makes no sense. And who names a baby boy Dickerson anyway? It’s like his parents said, “I think we’d like our son to grow up to be a dick.”