Caught by Emma Louise
Chapter One
Present…
The shuffling of papers is the only sound to penetrate the thick silence of the room. Serena stares down at each page with a blank, unimpressed stare. My eyes move around the stark white walls of my boss’ office.
Everything is white. The walls, the floor, the sleek, glossy desk. Even the small seating area has a white couch and table; the huge bouquet sitting in the middle are white roses.
“This is just ... dismal,” she finally says as she pokes a long blood-red acrylic nail through the papers. “Tell me why I shouldn’t fire you on the spot?” she asks in a bored sounding sneer.
Because I need to feed my kid. The thought bounces around in my head, but I don’t voice it out loud. Serena is a heartless cow and wouldn’t even blink twice if I did. In fact, I'm sure it would give her a sick thrill to know she holds that kind of power over me. Mustering up fake bravado, I paint a mock smile on my face before answering, “I’m just finding my feet here. I’ll do better; I promise.” I wish like hell I could get up and walk out. I detest this job. Not only that, but I absolutely suck at it. Until I can find something else, I’m stuck here. Her shrewd eyes tell me she’s not buying it. She sees right through me.
Once again, she’s silent for the longest time as she watches me, and I have to fight the urge to squirm in my seat. It's not for the first time that I’m grateful I’ve had plenty of practice at locking down my emotions. She drums her nails on the desk once, twice, three times before she pushes back the chair and stands. Her tight red dress looks like it’s been painted on her rail thin body. She’s an undeniably beautiful woman, but the hard expression etched into the lines of her face makes it impossible to call her pretty.
She drops a thin manila folder on the desk in front of me before she struts around to take her seat again. “What’s this?” I stare down at the blank page like it’s about to jump up and bite me.
“This is your last chance.” Looking up, I see what I assume is supposed to be a smile on her face, but the Botox she has way too often makes it look more like a grimace.
“You land this one,”—she taps a nail on the folder—
“not only will I let you keep this job, but I’ll also give you a nice, fat bonus too.”
I should have known by the evil smile on her face that I was going to regret saying yes to this job.
* * *
Pulling my car into a space under a streetlight, I shut off the engine and drag my bag onto my lap and take out the small photograph one last time. Whoever this guy is, he’s gorgeous. He has a boyish face, with two deep dimples in his cheeks, and slightly too long sandy blond hair. He’s wearing a tight-fitting khaki t-shirt that hugs his well-defined biceps. I don’t need the file I have memorized to tell me that he’s a military man. Even without the dog tags that are visibly tucked inside his tight shirt, he screams GI Joe. His wedding ring can clearly be seen on his finger as he grips the neck of a beer bottle. Once I'm sure I’ve memorized his face, I shove the picture into the folder and tuck it under my seat for safekeeping.
Checking my reflection, I make sure my makeup is still in place and my boobs are safely tucked into the ridiculously tight dress I’ve poured myself into. One wrong move and I’m going to be flashing everyone in here.
I make sure the rest of my equipment is in working order before I get out of the car, lock it, and make my way into the bar. This place is rough. The low, squat looking brick building is the only one on the run-down strip that has lights on. The rest are boarded up and look like they were abandoned sometime in the last century.
The doorman watches as I approach, trying to keep myself steady on the sky-high heels that are already killing my toes. Not a single part of the outfit I have on is mine, all of it borrowed from the other girls at work. I look like a stripper-turned-biker-babe. The hem of the bandage dress barely covers my ass. “Don’t think this is your kind of place, sweetheart,” he drawls as his eyes rake over me from head to toe. I should probably take that as a compliment. I'm not sure this is the kind of place any sane person would want to fit in, but still, there’s a part of me that bristles at his comment.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” I try to make my voice sound as seductive as possible as I jut a hip to one side. He’s a big guy, standing at least a foot taller than me in these four-inch heels, and with his leather vest festooned in badges, I’m going to guess he’s in a motorcycle gang. I’ve seen every episode of Sons of Anarchy, so I feel like I know these things.
Bruiser,one of the roughly sewn-on badges declares. Another with Sinners Souls MC around a skull filled with blood red roses; there’s a dagger stabbed through the top, and the tip visible at the bottom drips with blood confirms that thought. Serena really sent me to an MC hangout? Me, who can’t score a win at a coffee shop, in a damn motorcycle gang hangout? She must have lost her damn mind.
Despite the intimidating way he stands blocking the door, I don’t get a bad guy vibe from him. And I’m usually exceptionally good at spotting them from a mile away. After a beat of silence, he raises one eyebrow and lifts his mouth in a semi-smirk. “Your choice, sweetheart. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shifts to the side just enough for me to squeeze past. I have to fight the urge to cringe when my body brushes against his. Okay so he might not be giving off bad-guy vibes, but he’s definitely giving off pervy guy ones.
Once I'm inside and my eyes have adjusted to the dim, smoke-filled light, I’m almost tempted to go tell Bruiser that he was right. This is not my kind of place. Not at all. It only takes one thought of the little person waiting for me at home to have my feet moving toward the bar at the back of the room. Get the job done, and get the hell out of here, Darcey.
The place is packed; tables filled with men who look just like variations of the one at the door litter the space. The dance floor has two women gyrating against each other, and I have to look twice to confirm, but yes, they’re both topless. Between the show they’re putting on and the haze of smoke, I somehow manage to make it to the bar without drawing too much attention to myself.
Tucking myself into the corner of the bar, I climb up onto a stool and wait for the bartender to notice me. Taking advantage of my position, I look around to see if I can spot my target. Serena warned me the picture was old, but there’s nobody here that even comes close to looking like him.
It doesn’t take long for me to feel a presence at my side. “Well, lookey here. Seems tonight is my lucky night.” The craggy voice is accompanied by a puff of smoke that wafts over me. The face that appears at my side is surprisingly good looking, in a rough around the edges kind of way. He’s not as tall as the biker outside, but he still looms over me. He's big enough to block my view of the room. The playful smirk on his face doesn’t hide the fact that he could snap me like a twig if he should choose to. “Haven't seen your pretty face here before.”
“Give it a rest, Tike.” A deep, disinterested voice comes from somewhere nearby, followed by the sound of a chair scraping across the tiled floor. “She’s not your type.” The man mountain in front of me shifts to the side, and I see him. The man I’m here for. I’d been told the photo was a few years old, but I’d say it is more than likely over a decade old. He was built in the picture, but now he is massive; his muscles have muscles of their own. Even seated I can tell he is powerful. His body, with all those muscles, seems tense and ready to strike at any moment. I’ve feared lesser men than this, but there’s something about him that doesn’t scare me. His sandy hair is no longer just slightly too long; it’s now an unruly mop of waves that reach down to where they rest against the collar of his worn t-shirt.
“Come on, man,” my unwanted admirer gripes sullenly, sounding a lot like an overgrown toddler. Tike looks back at me for a second, eyes narrowing as he looks me over. He’s seemingly trying to work out if he’s going to stand his ground or not. After taking his time to look me over, he nods once.
“Yeah. Not in the mood to break in a new one tonight.” He looks at me dejectedly before he turns and stalks away, leaving me feeling that I might have just dodged a bullet. As I watch his retreating back for a second, I try to scrape together whatever dregs of confidence I can find within myself. This is the part I hate the most, trying to start a conversation with a strange guy.
If you would have told me six months ago that I’d be working as a honey-trapper, I would have laughed my ass off. To say I stumbled into the job would be a massive understatement. I answered an ad that was more than a little cryptic, but I was desperate. The hours were super flexible, and the pay was great. My first instinct was to leave about thirty seconds after the interview started, but Serena worked her magic and convinced me that it was easy. All I had to do was get a guy to act like he was going to cheat on his spouse. That was it. They’d provide recording equipment and the information on the client. All I had to do was show up, flirt a little, get him to either agree to leave with me there and then, or to meet me another time. Nothing had to actually happen, not even a kiss. Some of the others are willing to take things further to nail these cheaters, but I don’t have that in me.
It might sound simple enough, but when you have the flirting skills of a wet paper bag, like I do, it never seems to work out that way. It didn’t help that most of the men I was given were old and unattractive. The ones who were okay to look at ended up being worse somehow. There’s something about knowing a man is married and willing to cheat on his wife that makes him super unattractive to me, and I struggle to not let that show on my face. Shockingly, men don’t like it when you look at them like they repulse you. It isn't good for their ego or something.
Running a hand over my hair, I shift so that I’m facing the bar. Opening the zip on my clutch bag, I make sure the recording equipment inside is switched on, masking my actions by pulling out a twenty-dollar bill as if I’m ready to pay for a drink. Nerves bubble in my tummy at how quickly this is all going. I expected to see him here, but not to have him turn up right next to me so soon.
“She with you?” The bartender, a very pretty, very tattooed redhead lifts her chin in my direction but keeps her eyes on the man at my side. He looks over at me, the tumbler half filled with a deep golden-brown liquid hovering in front of his full lips. Hard eyes rake over me, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a stare so blank before. It’s too dark in here for me to tell the color of his eyes, but they look like stagnant black pools of nothing. For the tiniest moment, I swear I see a spark of something. Interest maybe?
“No.” His voice is rough, like gravel. The finality of that one word is distinct, leaving no room for doubt about whether or not he means it. Tipping the glass back, he downs the drink without so much as a flinch.
Ouch. I guess whatever spark I thought I saw was most definitely not interest. I get the feeling that cracking this guy is going to be a lot harder than I first thought. I wrack my brain, trying to think of what was in the file Serena gave me on this guy. I need something I can use to start a conversation because it’s obvious he’s not about to be the one to initiate anything. Unfortunately for me, the file pretty much said that he was a Navy SEAL, he had one brother, and had been married for almost five years. That was it. No hobbies, no interests. Nothing that I could use in any way. I notice that he doesn’t wear the same leather as the majority of the men in here; is he even a member of this club?
“You ordering? Or are you just here for the show?” The annoyed voice shouts out, interrupting my internal freak out.
“Oh, sorry. I’ll have a Bud. Bottled please.”
“On my tab, Laurie.”
“What?” the red head sputters out a disbelieving laugh.
“On. My. Tab,” he growls impatiently once again. The bartender clamps her mouth shut, yanks a bottle from the fridge under the bar, and slams it down on the scarred wooden bar top in front of me. The beer froths up, running up and over the neck of the bottle.
“Enjoy,” she sneers, sounding very much like she hopes I’ll choke on it instead. I don’t have time to say thanks before she throws us both a glare and stalks away to the other end of the bar where a few people are waiting to be served.
“What’s your name?” he asks without looking my way. I’m getting some seriously strange vibes from this guy. He’s taking the time to talk to me, but I get the feeling he would rather be doing quite literally anything else right now. There’s something about him that has me on edge.
“Carrie,” I finally manage to say, using the pseudonym I’ve started using when I’m at work.
“Carrie?” he repeats, tilting his head to look at me. His dark eyes are cold, assessing, and it takes everything in me not to squirm under his scrutiny.
“Yep.” I nod before picking up the cold beer and taking a sip. I hate the taste, but I panicked and asked for the first thing I could think of. Besides, I get the feeling I wasn’t likely to get my usual Porn Star Martini if I'd asked for it. “Thanks for the drink.” I use as my lame attempt to start a conversation. He doesn’t answer, just keeps up his unrelenting stare. I’m quite sure he hasn’t even blinked yet.
Relaxing my stiff shoulders, I decide it’s now or never. “Army or Navy?” I ask, nodding my head toward where his dog tags are showing through beneath his shirt.
“Pardon?” he asks, his voice still gruff. Feeling uncharacteristically brave, I lean over and tap his chest with one finger.
“I’m an Army brat. I can spot those a mile away.” I tell him something true about myself. My dad was an officer. I have no idea why I told him that, though. I never talk about the past. Not with anyone, not ever.
The loud music thumps from behind us, but we’re caught in a strange bubble of silence as I wait for him to say something, anything. “Army,” he finally says right before he pulls his stare from me and leans over the bar to grab the bottle of Jack Daniels. He tops up his glass, then hesitates before tipping the bottle in my direction. I shake my head and hold up a hand to say no thanks.
I’m not sure why I thought asking him what branch of the military he served would break the ice; it was a moment of desperation on my part. “Thank you for your service,” I add quietly, knowing that I’m about to get up and leave. I can kiss the bonus for this job goodbye. But at least this time I can console myself with the knowledge that it’s unlikely anyone could crack this guy.
He doesn’t say anything at my comment, but he does watch me for a seemingly endless amount of time. Eventually, his plump lips part, and a tiny hint of his pink tongue peeks out to run over the bottom lip I have found myself staring at. Heat rushes through me, and it’s such a foreign feeling that I have to bite back a gasp at the sensation. My brain misfires, and for a split second all I can think about is leaning in and pushing my mouth against his. I crave to know how he tastes. These feelings are dizzying, completely foreign to me.
I’ve never been so intoxicated by a man before. Never.
I’m so wrapped up in these thoughts that I almost miss him leaning in closer.
Oh shit. Is he going to kiss me? He’s going to freaking kiss me. The worst part? I’m suddenly wishing he wasn’t a mark, this wasn’t a job, and that I could taste him for real. Just once.
“Do me a favor.” He’s barely an inch away now, close enough for me to feel the words as they fall from his lips. From here, I can see that his eyes are in fact a deep mossy green. My breath seizes in my lungs as I fight like hell not to tell him I’ll do absolutely anything he wants me to. “Tell Serena she’ll have to try harder than this next time.”
His words don’t register for an embarrassingly long time. By the time they do, he’s pushed up and out of his seat, and all I can do is watch his back as he walks away from me.
I don’t know if the disappointment that hits me like a ton of bricks is caused by my failing yet again, or if it’s because he’s walking away from me.