Jagger
Mere moments ago, I felt like grabbing Mikayla Bryant by the neck. The side of my truck looks like it was scratched by a fucking T-Rex. The instant she’d broken down, I accidentally called her uthando lwami. And it sure wasn’t to decipher her awareness of our native tongue.
I saw her life pass before her eyes, when I came to the driver’s side door and slammed my truck remote against the glass. It was the look of hopelessness, one I know all too well. It jump-kicks powerful men off their thrones. That look. She remembers all the good times and every little good deed she’s done. And unlike the men I’ve murdered, her life is worth something.
Well, those good deeds don’t go unpunished. She believes I’m the big bad wolf. I have no intention of anything more than leading her to the slaughter. The Prince of Zihula is waiting. Now, we have no way to get there. The cargo plane flew over when I murdered the African with my Magnum. He was there for her. The Armenians were there for me.
But why?
Well, I can pretty much guess the Armenians are riding my cock because of a family of theirs I recently murdered. I thought I’d shaken them on the flight here.
As for the African, he’s a disgrace to hitmen around the universe. No professional training with the sniper rifle he had. There’s not a moment to spare. I’ll have to figure out why he had a death wish at a later time.
That damn cargo plane wouldn’t descend. The pilot is spooked. Mikayla and I must get out of the area. I get into the driver’s seat, and stomp on the gas. We need to clear the general vicinity before the cops find us, again.
Never have I crossed paths with authorities on so many occasions. I’m a master at murder.
Kidnapping?
Not so much.
Mikayla keeps to her side of the truck as I head toward the 710 freeway.
A deep silence settles between us for a while. She then asks, “Where are we going?”
“Well, uthando lwami, I—”
“What does that mean!” Mikayla snaps. “Where are you from? Your voice is … different.”
I smile over at her. “Won’t tell you what that means, if it burns your bones that I call you uthando lwami. I’ll save that for later.” Shit, she’s beautiful and I want a touch. I gulp down the desire filling my cock and tell myself to think before I act. I can answer her question to clear my mind from lust. “And I’m from—”
“Why save it for later? Is that necessary?” Mistrust narrows her gaze.
“You’re gorgeous, girl. I love a woman unafraid to ask questions. Albeit, you are asking them faster than I’m able to answer them.” I slap down the signal to turn left next to a Winchell’s Donut shop. We’re traveling North East. By process of elimination, we must pass by the freeway.
“Answer me.”
I shoot her a quick glare. ‘Don’t confuse my kindness, uthando lwami’, I want to tell her, but the look in my eyes says it all. “The word means something in our language. We are headed to Las Vegas, the original plan was South Africa, which we also have in common.”
There’s no tit for tat from Mikayla now. Once at a red light, I reach past her and pop the dashboard to grab a bar. My blood sugar level is low. There’s a gash on my left bicep from pushing her over earlier and taking the shot from the first Armenian. Unlike the African, those fucks were there to kill anyone that had anything to do with me.
“Hungry?” I ask, just as I see the sign for the freeway.
“No.”
“You didn’t eat supper, Mikayla. You should have a bar.” I merge into the right lane and reach over again to grab another bar.
“Fuck off.”
“I’ll shove this down your throat if you refuse to eat it yourself, Mikayla, I will not have you starving.”
“Humph, why are you concerned?”
“I’m hungry. You have to be.” I pick up speed, and then decide to keep it at a respectable rate.
She glances at me, and then her eyes widen. “Oh, you’re bleeding. Will you do me a favor, Jagger?”
I glance at her lips, perfectly capable of keeping my speed behind the car in front of me, while gawking at the beautiful woman beside me. Is that worry in her voice for me? “Anything.”
Her tone is titillating and sexy as she says, “Bleed out and die.”
My lips bunch into a line. I shove my hair behind my ear and toss the other half of the power bar into my mouth, only to chew in anger. “You’re a doctor, Kayla. You gave an oath to save me! I’ll allow you to do it without that sexy candy striper outfit, too. There’s a first aid kit in there.” I nudge my chin to where I just grabbed the bar. “So, get to it.”
She scoffs. “You took away my rights, Jagger. Now, you’d like to treat me as a slave, ordering and allowing me to follow your commands! And you keep calling me a doctor. What sort of evil shit is that? I have the feeling you are aware that I’m not a doctor, yet. I bet I won’t have the chance to become a doctor, will I, Jagger?”
I shrug my shoulders, reach over and grab a bottle of whiskey. Here we go again, me cleaning my own battle wounds, and there’s a perfectly capable woman at my side.
“Don’t you dare drink and drive. I won’t have you inebriated, too. You’re psychotic enough as it is.” Mikayla reaches over. Like a snake with a lethal strike, I grip her hand before she has the time to discern her error.
“Mikayla, don’t underestimate my capabilities.” I open the whiskey, toss some on the wound and then taste about a shot and a half’s worth of it. Takes much more than that to get me drunk, and contrary to what Mikayla Bryant believes, I wouldn’t jeopardize her life… in that manner.
***
It’s almost midnight when I fuel up at the 138 Highway right off the 15 Interstate. After hearing Mikayla’s stomach growl, I stop at the McDonalds drive-thru across the street.
“What would you like?” I ask.
Her silence as response is infuriating enough that my Magnum is miraculously out and at her temple.
“Do it,” she demands.
With the gun still in my hand, I rub my face groaning heavily. “Alright, I’ll order for you, Kayla.”
I order a Big Mac for myself and a grilled chicken sandwich for her. While tossing change into the window, I almost gag at the scent of old frying grease. This sure as hell has nothing on the private chef in Bali or the master chef in Italy that I frequent when given the chance to murder someone in those locations.
I grab the bag, place it between us and reach over to grab the drinks, when what do I hear?
Mikayla chewing.
She’s eating my Big Mac. My eyelid spasms as she grabs the coke and slaps a straw into it. “You say obey, Jagger. I say this is a little foreshadowing for your ass! I’m taking back my liberation, slowly but surely. You wanted me to cry, to cave. Well, you don’t deserve my tears, you’re a murderer. So, I’ll obey, bide my time, and then checkmate your ass.”
She shark-attacks my damn burger, while her chocolate diamond gems for eyes are on me.
“Have at it, uthando lwami.” My boot slams onto the gas, as I merge into the intersection, leaving tire smoke in my wake.
“I’ll refrain from arguing about you calling me that, whatever it is. Because this is war, Jagger.”
I offer a little chuckle and glance over. Yeah, that little monologue she just did was pissed on. Fire extinguished.
“There’ll be no more deaths on my hands, but I will get away from you. I’ve been through more than I know–uh, you will ever comprehend. Don’t underestimate me.”
I head toward the onramp. “I won’t. You’re sophisticated, smart, beautiful.”
“Where are we going?” she asks, squirming a bit, obviously uncomfortable with the compliment.
“We were on our way to South Africa. The plans changed. We’re en route to Las Vegas.”
“Why change courses? I’ve never been to Africa. My parents own a timeshare, so Vegas is nothing new to me.” That inflection in her voice indicates she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. Shit, we both know me taking her to South Africa isn’t for a holiday. But just as I suspected when arguing with Ava, Mikayla thinks I’m a nut case. Well, I have one on Mikayla Bryant.
“You’ve never been to South Africa?” I match her disbelief. Although, I’m aware she’s trying to get into my head.
“No, Jagger.”
“You are an innocent, uthando lwami.” My hand instinctively reaches over to grip her thigh. She slaps at me; my hands sink into the thick flesh at the inside of her thigh.
“Stop. Please,” she cries out.
Reluctantly, I let go, and let my truck coast at an easy 125 Miles an hour. The grilled chicken feels slimy against in my mouth, but I’m a diabetic. My only fucking weaknesses!
“Back to Vegas,” Mikayla speaks up.
“You should really finish your food,” I shoot back, unsure to what extent I should tell her about the contract. About her. “No tears, I can agree with that. A challenge? Shit, me being challenged by a beautiful woman–I love it!” I glance back over at her.
“You know about my past?” she asks.
“Apparently, I know more than you do. When I mentioned South Africa, it didn’t register in your mind,” I state, matter of fact.
“You’re driving too fast,” she complains, ignoring my statement.
My boot eases off to a cool 100 miles per hour.
“Thanks, I guess,” she grumbles. “So, why Vegas?” she questions.
“I’m not ready to let you go yet,” I tell her, deciding, for once, to be upfront about my reasoning.
***
We arrive at the Aria Hotel and Casino a little past 1:30 AM. There are orchids streaming from the ceiling and placed inside ten-foot tall vases. Mikayla is out cold in my arms. She’d fallen asleep the instant we hit Barstow.
Her head snuggles into my neck, right next to the tattoo of my favorite gun. I’ve covered the lower half of her body with my leather jacket. As I walk toward the concierge, my pace falters. Her heartbeat is at peace and is strumming the same beat as my own. I brush a kiss along her forehead and then continue to the front of the desk. For the city that never sleeps, there’s only one other person ahead of me, with a rollaway.
The casino area is as active as ever, though.
“Welcome to Aria,” a Latina grins at me.
“I have a reservation for Jace and Alisha Windhoek.”
She types away at her computer. “Oh, you have the suite that includes concierge service. There was no need to stand in line.”
I shrug my shoulders. “We don’t want to be bothered this evening. But I’d like uh…pajamas for myself and my wife brought up to our room. And toiletries.”
“As you wish,” the Latina says, taking down my size. I guess Mikayla to be about a medium.
Mikayla murmurs against my neck. Her eyelashes flutter open.
I have never known such peace. Earlier, I said I wasn’t ready to let her go. It’s true. Princes and kings get what they want.
I’m usually the man in position to take my fill. What I want is to take Mikayla Bryant back, so she can become a doctor, to continue the life she’d started. Damn, I might even crave her happiness over the Lamborghini Ava Sinclair had offered. It had to have happened the moment I noticed her life flash before her eyes, a few hours ago, while trying to get away from me in my own truck.
I blame it on my morals. No murdering women and children. Sending her to Zihula is not murder to the fullest extent of the word, but it’s the end of the world she is aware of. And yet, I know the consequence of letting Mikayla go is my death.
So, I’ll keep her for now. I’ll complete my Las Vegas assignment in four days. If I was right about the reason for that African man’s willingness to try to pick me off with a sniper rifle, while at the trucking company, then I will probably end up dead, anyway.
Something about Sinclair’s request isn’t right. And if I had the contract, then what was with the African?
The Armenians were there for my blood. Not an oath but vengeance.
The African…I cannot figure out his reason for crossing paths with me. I’m the grim reaper. He neither had the training to take me out physically nor did he excel at marksmanship.
Mikayla glances around, her eyes shading to take the edge off the bright lights.
“Hello, Mrs. Windhoek,” the Latina says while creating two key cards.
“Mrs. …”
My arms tighten around Mikayla. I wasn’t able to warn her while scooping her up at the valet. But that’s okay, my glare reminds her of the consequences of disobedience, easy enough.
***
“So, you’re Jace now? And what’s with Alisha,” Mikayla asks. Moments ago, she was enchanted by the 360 views of Las Vegas, and I suspect that having been here many times, she never saw the city from this vantage point, while at the tippy fucking top. Now, she’s back to questioning me and looking at me with pure attitude with her hand planted on her hip, while standing in the middle of the extravagant living room.
“Yes, Mikayla, I’m Jace Windhoek and you’re Alisha Windhoek,” I answered in exasperated annoyance.
“Humph, I knew an Alisha once. She wore box braids and always had on big hoop earrings. And…” Mikayla’s voice fades as she yawns. Removing the fake Tiara from her head, she tosses it onto the couch and then begins to untwine the ball of hair on top of her head. Her dark brown hair is like spun silk. On the graduation photo, I was captivated with a few days ago, it was thicker, a little puffier…
Why the hell am I contemplating Mikayla Bryant’s looks?
“I’m scared, Jagger. When I’m afraid, I argue. When sleepy, I’m prone to argue, as well. But, all that aside, I need to know what you are planning to do to me?”
There’s a knock at the door. I remove my Magnum and place it on the coffee table, before going to answer. I glance back at Mikayla, who has disappeared into the bedroom.
The concierge is at the door. He’s a Caucasian male with a weak jaw and one of those perky, feminine grins that I want to punch. I grab the clothing from him as he greets me.
“Thanks,” I snap, irritated.
“Anything else–” he begins to ask.
“We have a lot of shopping to do tomorrow–” I say, not letting him finish, but he returns the favor, and interrupts me.
“Might I suggest–” he starts to say, but I’m not in the fucking mood for these games, so I cut in, again.
“No, you may not. We will need accommodations to and from Caesar’s Palace. That is all you may help us with.” I close the front door in his face. Tomorrow morning, Mikayla and I will spend a small fortune. We are the Windhoek’s after all. And we need attire for our time at the high roller tables. That’s where we’ll need to be once real estate developer, William Freedman, arrives in town. He was the mark I told Ana Sinclair about to get out of this. This, being the current cluster fuck assignment, with Mikayla, I was dealing with.
While moving into the living room, I call out to the princess who has no idea of her royal lineage. “Mikayla, I have–”
My gaze brightens as I glance down the barrel of my beloved 357 Magnum Revolver; the black pearl handle is nestled neatly in her palm. She’s standing at the door to the bedroom. Her knees are all scraped up, and the dress she’s wearing is no longer a prize I’d earlier wanted to peel off her, because it is sporting oil stains from the asphalt. That gorgeous hair of hers is like a lion’s mane around her shoulders.
God, she is beautiful.
“You’d shoot me, uthando lwami?” I question, wanting to see where she’d take this.