Free Loaded: A Bad Boy Romance by Roxie Noir Page B

say. “Coke’s expensive, and I thought my heart was going to explode, so I prefer to just get high on life .”
    “I’ve done it more than once, but I’ve never been a fan,” he says. “Too many people fuck their lives up for that shit.”
    On screen, two men are gunning their engines at each other and making serious faces. I haven’t been paying enough attention to this movie to know who they are.
    “What’s your deal?” I ask, my eyes still on the screen.
    “My deal?”
    I glance at him from the corner of my eye, and he’s just looking at me, his perfect face closed. I can’t quite articulate what I’m trying to ask, so I give it up.
    “Never mind,” I say.
    There’s a long stretch of silence, and I start getting mad at myself.
    You’re not friends , I tell myself. And doing what you did at the wedding doesn’t make you lovers, either.
    You’re kidnapper and kidnapped.
    He isn’t forgetting that and you shouldn’t either.
    “I grew up in a dangerous place, and I have a dangerous job for a dangerous organization,” he says, his voice low and serious. “And I’ve survived it longer than a lot of people I knew. That’s my deal.”
    “Does that make you dangerous?” I ask.
    That’s the thing: I’m not an idiot. I watched him beat someone to a pulp, and I have no doubt that he’d kill someone in a heartbeat.
    I know he’s not a nice person. Nice people don’t kidnap others .
    But in spite of everything I know about this man, it doesn’t feel dangerous to be around him. If anything, it feels oddly safe.
    I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome , I think.
    “Danger is my middle name,” he says, trying to lighten the mood again.
    “I thought it was Felipe.”
    “Good memory, tiger.”
    I roll my eyes, but a prickle travels down my spine as I remember him growling those words into my ear.
    “I forgot the rest,” I admit.
    “Everything but my first name was a lie anyway,” he says.
    I look at him, skeptical.
    “I doubt your real name is Alex,” I say. “Or Alejandro, or whatever.”
    On screen, two cars scream down a straight stretch of road. I have no idea who I’m supposed to be rooting for.
    “I swear on my life it’s true,” he says.
    “Why would you tell me your real name?” I ask.
    He crosses his feet on the coffee table and goes silent. After a long moment, I turn my head from the screen and realize he’s looking at me.
    “What?” I ask.
    “You really want to know?” he asks. “Or you just gonna get mad again?”
    “Tell me and we’ll find out,” I say.
    “I thought I could get you in bed before I had to nab you,” he says. “I didn’t want you screaming some other fucker’s name.”
    It’s weirdly possessive, and it’s hot , but it also makes my stomach turn. I don’t need the reminder of what I was dumb enough to do with him, so I stand from the couch and take my soup bowl into the kitchen, even though it’s only ten feet away.
    “You kidnap me and leave a man for dead in a parking lot, but you didn’t want me getting your name wrong?” I ask. “That’s a weird place to draw the line.”
    “I didn’t want you thinking someone named Brent made you come as hard as you did,” he says, his voice low, barely audible over the TV.
    I look out the window over the sink, trying to get the wild beating of my heart under control. He’s not wrong, and that’s the worst part: that, for years to come, probably, I’m going to be fantasizing about the man who kidnapped me.
    Trauma makes people do insane things , I think. It’s not really me who feels this way .
    “Would you feel better if I told you it was a lot harder than I thought it would be?” he asks.
    “If what was harder?” I say, still not looking at him. “Getting my panties off?”
    “You don’t give it up easy, tiger,” he says.
    I look over my shoulder, hands gripping the counter, bowl forgotten in the sink. He’s stretched out, feet on the coffee table, hands behind his head. The end credits are