I toss my hair back and jut my boobs out. I can feel Bruno’s eyes on me from the shadows.
A hundred bucks for a ten-minute dance, and I’ve already gyrated away two minutes. Eight more to go. I can do this.
But evidently, Royal can’t. One more sway and both his hands clamp down on my hips. “No,” he growls. “Steve wouldn’t want this for you.”
I don’t have time to blink, to register his words. He’s on his feet and I’m flying through the air, my torso slamming into his broad shoulder.
“Let me go!” I scream.
He’s not listening. He carries me over his shoulder like I’m a rag doll, and not even Bruno’s sudden appearance can stop him.
“Get the hell out of my way!” When Bruno takes another step, Royal booms at him. “This girl is seventeen years old! She’s a minor, and I’m her guardian, and so help me God, if you take one more step, I will have every cop in Kirkwood swarming this place and you and all these other perverts will be thrown in jail for endangering a minor.”
Bruno might be beefy, but he’s not dumb. With a stricken look, he moves out of the way.
Me, I’m not so cooperative. My fists pound against Royal’s back, my nails clawing at his expensive suit jacket. “Put me down!” I shriek.
He doesn’t. And nobody stops him as he marches toward the exit. The men in the club are too busy leering and hooting at the stage. I see a flash of movement—George coming up beside Bruno, who furiously whispers in his ear—but then they’re gone and I’m hit by a gust of cool air.
We’re outside, but Callum Royal still doesn’t put me down. I see his fancy shoes slapping the cracked pavement of the parking lot. There’s a jingle of keys, a loud beep, and then I’m propelled through the air again before landing on a leather seat. I’m in the back of a car. A door slams. An engine roars to life.
Oh my God. This man is kidnapping me.
3
My backpack!
It has my money and my watch in it! The backseat of the behemoth Callum Royal calls a car is more luxurious than anything my butt has ever touched in my entire life. Too bad I won’t have time to appreciate it. I dive for the door handle and pull on it but the stupid thing won’t open.
My eyes shift to the driver. It’s reckless as hell but I don’t have any choice—I lunge forward and grab the shoulder of the driver whose neck is as big as my thigh. “Turn around! I have to go back!”
He doesn’t even flinch. It’s like he’s made out of brick. I tug a few more times, but I’m pretty sure that short of stabbing this guy in the neck—and maybe not even then—he’s not doing anything unless Royal tells him to.
Callum hasn’t moved an inch from his side of the rear passenger seat, and I resign myself to the fact that I won’t be exiting the car until he okays it. I test the window just to be sure. It remains stubbornly closed.
“Child safety locks?” I mutter, even though I’m sure of the answer.
He nods slightly. “Among other things, but suffice it to say that you’re in the car for the duration of our trip. Are you looking for this?”
My backpack lands in my lap. I resist the urge to rip it open and check if he’s taken my cash and identification. Without either, I’m completely at his mercy, but I don’t want to reveal a thing until I figure out his angle.
“Look, mister, I don’t know what you want but it’s obvious you have money. There are plenty of hookers out there who will do whatever you want and won’t cause you the legal trouble that I could. Just drop me off at the next intersection and I promise you’ll never hear from me again. I won’t go to the cops. I’ll tell George that you were an old client but that we hammered out our issues.”
“I’m not looking for a hooker. I’m here for you.” After that ominous statement, Royal shrugs out of his suit coat and offers it to me.
Part of me wishes I was just a little bolder, but sitting here in this super fancy car in front of the man I’d just used as a pole is making me feel awkward and exposed. I’d give anything for a pair of granny panties right now. Reluctantly, I slip the jacket on, ignoring the uncomfortable pain the corset is causing me, and clutch the lapels tight against my chest.
“I have nothing you want.” Surely the small amount of cash shoved into the bottom of my bag is peanuts to this dude. We could trade this car for all of Daddy G’s.
Royal raises one eyebrow in a wordless rebuttal. Now that he’s in his shirtsleeves, I can see his watch and it looks…exactly like mine. His eyes follow my gaze.
“You’ve seen this before.” It’s not a question. He shoves his wrist toward me. The watch has a plain black leather band, silver knobs and an 18-carat gold housing around the domed glass of the watch face. The numbers and hands are glow-in-the-dark.
Dry-mouthed, I lie, “Never seen it before in my life.”
“Really? It’s an Oris watch. Swiss, made by hand. It was a gift when I graduated BUD/S. My best friend, Steve O’Halloran, received the same exact watch when he graduated from BUD/S, too. On the back it’s engraved—”
Non sibi sed patriae.
I looked up the phrase when I was nine years old, after my mom told me the story of my birth. Sorry, kid, but I slept with a sailor. He left me with nothing more than his first name and this watch. And me, I’d reminded her. She’d playfully ruffled my hair and told me I was the best thing ever. My heart lurches again at her absence.
“—It means ‘not for self, but for country.’ Steve’s watch went missing eighteen years ago. He said he lost it, but he never replaced it. Never wore another watch.” Royal releases a rueful snort. “He used that as an excuse for why he was late all the time.”
I catch myself leaning forward, wanting to know more about Steve O’Halloran, what the heck ‘buds’ is, and how the men knew each other. Then I give myself a mental face slap and slouch back against the door.
“Cool story, bro. But what does that have to do with me?” I glance at Goliath in the front seat and raise my voice. “Because both of you just kidnapped a minor, and I’m pretty sure that’s a felony in all fifty states.”
Only Royal responds. “It’s a felony to kidnap anyone regardless of age, but since I’m your guardian and you were engaging in illegal acts, it’s within my right to remove you from the premises.”
I force out a mocking laugh. “I’m not sure who you think I am, but I’m thirty-four.” I reach into the backpack to find my ID, pushing aside the watch that’s a perfect match to the one Royal has on his left wrist. “See? Margaret Harper. Age thirty-four.”
He plucks the identification from my fingers. “Five foot seven inches. One hundred and thirty pounds.” His eyes flick over me. “Felt more like a hundred, but I suspect you’ve lost weight since you’ve been on the run.”
On the run? How the hell does he know that?
As if he can read my expression, he snorts. “I’ve got five sons. There’s no trick in the book that one of them haven’t tried on me, and I know a teenager when I see one, even beneath a foot of makeup.”