The driver starts heading up the busy street. “Where to?” he calls through the small slot in the Plexiglas.
“Just keep heading up here,” I say. “Head to Bleecker.” If the bitch won’t tell me where she’s hiding Kaitlin, she’s coming home with me until I can break her resolve. I groan inwardly. I really, really can’t be bothered torturing someone today. It’s Friday, I’m hung over as fuck, and there’s a very real possibility that there’s still a naked woman in my bed at home.
“You’re sweating on me,” she remarks, wriggling away on the plastic-covered bench seat. I tut, pulling her even closer. Has she got a problem with sweat? I mean, it’s not pouring off me—I’m just perspiring a little underneath all these clothes. “It’s summer, baby. We all sweat. I bet you’re sweating right now under that sack you call a dress. And if you’re not,” I give her a sidelong grin, “we can certainly fix that.”
God, I’d like to get her hot and sweaty.
“Don’t call me baby,” she says, clearly unimpressed. “I’m not your baby.”
“Sorry, Petunia.” I roll my eyes, snickering. I look up ahead, my phone vibrating in my suit pocket, the Game of Thrones theme song sounding obnoxiously through the cab. It’s been ringing on and off since we first got into the cab.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Scarlett asks.
I smile condescendingly. “The only way I’m taking my attention off you is if you’re face down in my lap with your mouth open, and somehow I think we should wait until our fifteen-minute anniversary for that.”
Bitch doesn’t even bristle. “You know, you could just silence it before I shoot myself in the face over here.”
I shrug incredulously. “It’s the Game of Thrones theme music. Who doesn’t like Game of Thrones?”
She stares at me angrily, and it suddenly slams home.
“I didn’t fuck you at all,” I exclaim. She’s not one of those broads I wined, dined and sixty-nined before kicking out of my house. She’s Scarlett fucking Winchester.
“You wish,” she mutters under her breath. I’d normally snap off a witty retort, but she’s Scarlett fucking Winchester.
“You’re that chick out of that show!” I say excitedly. I don’t add the fact that I’ve jerked off to the image of her character more times than I can count. This is just fucking bizarre.
She takes a deep breath and stares straight ahead. I frown. “You look … different than you used to. Hey, what the hell happened to you? You just disappeared. Did you stop sucking the director’s dick or something?”
She presses her fingers to her closed eyes. “Are you going to kill me?” she hisses, low enough that the cab driver can’t hear. “Because if that’s your plan, can we skip the small talk and get to the killing part?”
Shit. She’s not joking. Her words leave me reeling for a moment. Not only have Theo and I just lost the bitch we were supposed to kidnap, crashed our limo, and probably earned ourselves each a bullet in the skull, but I’ve also managed to take a hostage who’s suicidal.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood. This is not good. It’s so far from good, we’re not even in the same realm as good. We’re not good, we’re not OK, we’re not anything except completely screwed. We’re dead men.
I’m too young and pretty to die.
“Cat got your tongue?” Scarlett asks, her hands back in her lap and her eyes on me. My cock stirs in my suit pants. Oh, your pussy can have my tongue, Scarlett fucking Winchester. Meow.
Down, boy. My cock’s timing is terrible. I don’t dignify her retort with a response.
Peering out of the window, I see a familiar sight. “Pull into this driveway,” I urge the cab driver, tapping the glass that separates us. I turn to Scarlett, whose attention has pricked up as she studies our path. Looking for an escape? Jesus. I can’t handle her and the cabbie at the same time. The numbers aren’t matching up.
“You gonna behave?” I ask, jabbing her with the gun again.
“Bite me,” she replies. I’d definitely bite her nipples if I could just get my mouth near them. But I need to stop thinking about nipples right now.
Great. Well. This is happening.