Mikayla

 

 

I’m not mad yet… Jagger had said those words while cracking Aram’s neck. He’d glared at me with disappointment. I can’t even fathom how Jagger believes he can harbor such feelings of discontentment with me. He’s the damn murderer!

I get it now. Aram had Jagger murder his own brother for a seat at the throne. He had Armenian Power tattooed on his chest.

Shit, I wanted Jagger to allow the man to live. Not for such a disgusting man who’d have such ill will for his blood. But because I’m falling for Jagger Johansson and I desperately needed to witness his willingness, his capabilities of conjuring even an ounce of humanity.

Now I know the truth.

He doesn’t have the ability of sparing a life.

Jagger placed all the men into the tub of our suite. He promised that the people he worked for owned a company around the nation…world? Maybe he said world.

The company cleans up places, making them shiny and new again. The company rids all signs of bodies, and I mean, they’d preview the security cameras around the hotel, and disposes of the virtual footage along with the bodies.

Now, the warm September night air breezes onto my face as I ride in the passenger seat of Jagger’s truck. If he’s not ‘mad yet,’ then I have to shake this temptation for him from my body.

Jagger is not a good man. I warn myself, again. How good am I with internalizing my beliefs these days? Heck, if I can finally be honest with myself, I was completely unable to numb myself from his touch.

We pull into the same flea market that houses the sleazy strip club from earlier. This time, Jagger has to park near the laundromat, which is almost half a mile away. Go figure, it’s the middle of the night, so the strip club has packed out the parking lot.

The neon sign of a woman’s shapely figure, jutting first one hip and then the other, keeps my attention as we walk up to the same door Jagger had a hard time opening not a day earlier.

“Can we just go back to the hotel.”

“No. The team takes a few hours, Mikayla.”

“To wipe up blood and trash dead bodies?” My voice breaks with the question.

As I wait for an answer, the doors open to the strip club. A crew of horny men walk out. They’re loud drunks, talking openly about other strip clubs they plan to enjoy tonight.

Jagger stands before me. “You have to trust me.”

It hurts, but I say, “You’re an assassin, I believe you.”

“At times, you might not understand my reasoning, but I will always do what’s best for you.”

“Like steal me and murder a twenty-year-old boy. The brain has yet to fully develop at that age. Heck, my brain has yet to fully develop. Will you murder me? And was Aram’s son even that old?” Okay, so here comes my onslaught of questions. I am angry enough to argue. A moment ago, I was scared and livid, too much of both to utter a single word.

Jagger grabs my arm and heads to the door of Trick’s shop. He reaches for the door handle, and I place myself in his way.

“You’re here to murder Trick,” I gasp.

He offers a slow, deliberate nod.

“You think he did this–”

“He did,” Jagger barks

“Then explain Long Beach? How was Trick aware of the trucking company, Jagger?” I cross my fingers, hoping that the organization they work for is discrete, and each assignment is delegated as such. Why am I attempting to save the life of another murderer? Well, for one reason, I have the feeling that Trick isn’t as vile and evil as Jagger seems to be. “Answer me, Jagger!” I demand.

His eyes are a dark storm. This asshole is not in the right frame of mind. He’s hell bent on revenge, and the closest person will do.

I have to do something. Taking a chance, I ascend to my tippy toes and brush a kiss against his lips. The fire we make each time we’ve kissed in the past is volcanic, burning us both until I’m ready to run away from his crazy ass! I’d rather just tell him that he’s murdered too many men tonight, but instead I murmur, “Take me to the hotel, Jag, fuck me.”

Lust softens the hard angles of Jagger’s face. The wind pushes locks of hair into his eyes, and I brush them back. “Fuck me, Jagger,” I moan. And not just because I want to save a life tonight…

My body is aching with unknown desire, and my pussy throbs in ways it never has before. It’s just that, Jagger has murdered men to protect me right before my eyes, and damn it, he did so with such finesse that any women with eyes would have to be dead not to be attracted. Maybe, the high of such danger is just…sexy. Or perhaps, I just want to save a life. I think, once again trying to fool myself.

Still, I’m getting myself hot and bothered, my hard nipples glide against my shirt as I say, “Jagger, you can do more than eat me, baby. I want your cock inside of me…”

The growl ripping through his abdomen and vibrating in his throat is pure tiger. My hands reach for his cock–

Jagger reaches behind me, places his hand on the door handle and this time doesn’t have to reposition his fingers for it to click open. “You were put in harm’s way tonight, Mikayla. This has to be done.”

I huff as Jagger pushes inside the pitch-black room, where, just yesterday, Trick almost annihilated us with a fountain pen. Since I stepped back and ended up inside first, Jagger is thoughtful enough to set me behind him. It’s the little things that keep me falling for him.

“Who the bloody hell is in my house!” Trick’s voice travels through the dark.

Light spills across the virtually empty room. Trick is standing in the center of the room, as the chain of the ceiling fan clanks against the light attached, from being pulled so hard. The suit and spiffy vest have been replaced with silk pajamas.

“Jagger, I’m not hardly complete with your rush order. Bollocks, but I actually need a few winks to survive too–” Bam!

They’re against the wall in seconds. Jagger’s bulging forearm constricting Trick’s throat. In this instant I notice just how much Jagger has on the Britt in size. Trick is much leaner than him.

“How did the Armenian’s know I’m in Las Vegas?”

“Stop, he’s your friend,” I pummel Jagger’s hard back with punches. The sides of my hands hurt, it’s so solid. “At least allow him to speak and defend himself!”

Trick bends over clutching at his throat when the beast who owns me releases him. Instead of a democratic debate, Trick headbutts Jagger, sending his jaw clicking shut.

I stumble back on the heels of my feet as Trick pushes Jagger into another wall. This one caves in with them. It’s the room I woke up in, with the shelfs of guns! The lights automatically turn on as Trick climbs onto Jagger. The beast blocks the other man’s punches and slams his fist straight into Trick’s face.

It’s the type of hit that some people don’t recover from. I expected his spine to dislocate but Trick spits out a mouth full of blood, front flips to his feet, and grabs a sword from the rack at his side.

“Stop!” I shout. Jagger has no weapons, and he left his two Magnums inside the dashboard of his truck.

Trick welds a second sword. “Don’t fret, gorgeous, I’m not that angry to be awakened from my sleep and accused of bullshit by some barmy arsehole.”

“Do not call her gorgeous.” Jagger’s stormy blue eyes glance around for a weapon, but the rows of custom cabinets are behind Trick.

“I get no respect in my own establishment, Juggernaut?!” He weighs the two swords in his hands. “I had a mission last week.” Trick charges forward, jutting both swords outward, but Jagger has now jumped over the steel table I slept on. “Then I get a call that you require a whole new wardrobe,” the swords clank against the table, conjuring sparks, “because you don’t have time to return home from kidnapping Gorgeous here. Sweetheart, you put Sinclair to shame,” he glances me up and down, in my shimmery tee and skirt, while thrusting the swords out again. “Now you’re accusing me of… what? I do not know! Gorgeous, the best of the British to you for sticking around this blinkered fucker!”

“Yeah? And I’m going to fucking kill you, now, too,” Jagger grunts, slapping his hand down onto the flat side of the blade. Trick swings his other arm, Jagger ducks and growls while blood pours from his hands.

“St…stop!” I screech.

The men stare at each other, Jagger holding tight as the edge of the blade twists within his fingers. Jagger finally lets go. His hands are a crimson mess, I can’t tell the extent of the damage.

So far, my bet is on Trick. What he doesn’t have in solid muscle, he makes up for in speed and accuracy. Add that to the fact that he’s slicing at Jagger, who is unarmed, injured, and now pressed against the wall.

Jagger grabs and yanks at the curtains. I taste blood, now realizing the fact that I’ve been anxiously gnawing on my bottom lip, for how long? I close my eyes, what the hell is Jagger going to do with curtains? We’re not in Spain, and Trick is not a bull!

The sound of clanking forces my eyes to pop open. Jagger’s holding a stainless-steel curtain rod.

“Oh!” I jump.

“I thought you and I were on the same team, Gorgeous?” Trick sounds rather disappointed.

“I was until I realized you don’t even know my name!” I shout, having been called ‘gorgeous’ too many times. “It would be nice for you all to stop and chat,” my voice increases as Jagger’s rod forces one of Trick’s swords from his hands.

The blade zips in my direction. Jagger’s frozen as he stares at me. Or is he telling me to duck? His mouth is moving in slow motion. His eyes dark with rage. Trick is screaming in sequence with him, yet I’ve gone deaf.

“Duck,” they have to be shouting for me to, “Duck.”

My legs root to the ground. With my eyes locked onto the sword, I can only watch. The sharp, long blade zips over my shoulder. It takes Jagger a fraction of a second longer to recuperate from the shock of my entire head almost being sliced off.

Out of nowhere, Trick is holding another sword. This one with a curved edge. He presses it against Jagger’s abdomen.

“Oh, you want to accuse me of bullshit, Juggernaut?” Trick taunts as Jagger grips his neck. His leather house shoes rise from the ground. While Jagger chokes him, he holds the knife steady.

Why doesn’t Jagger snap his neck! My stomach churns as I figure that there’s another trick up Trick’s sleeve. “Just stop, please,” I beg.

“Gorgeous, this blade here, is coated in the venom of the Indian Taipan, deadly enough to murder 100 men, or one barmy fucking Juggernaut. You might always be victorious in battle, but it’s been years since I was so wrongfully accused of something!”

Rage radiates from Jagger as he holds the collar of Trick’s pajama shirt. No amount of begging on my part ever worked before. Once again, the odds seem in Trick’s favor. But, he’s got to be worse off than Jagger, in fact, Trick is turning gray.

A spark of defiance lights in Jagger’s eyes as he slams a stiff hand onto the side of Trick’s neck, which forces the knife to slide into the left side of Jagger’s abdomen. His friend’s face brightens with shock—as if he actually was just calling Jagger’s bluff—before he falls, with Jagger going along with him.

Trick is knocked out cold from the blow to his brachial cluster, located along his neck and shoulder.

Jagger’s muscles tense like a sports car revving its engine.

“You are too crazy,” I say, seething, eyes prickling with a fresh onslaught of tears as I cling to him. His usually hot skin is clammy.

“Get the…” Jagger’s large frame is breathing heavily now, “medicine cabinet…” His face falls into my lap. With no idea what to do, I brush my lips across his bristled jaw, and then I’m crawling. Standing up, my hands shaking, I search around the room for any sign of a drug box or some type of antidote. A rapid succession of anxious questioning flood through my soul:

How long do I have to save him?

I’m not that level headed. After all the years I’ve dreamt of becoming an emergency physician—

Where would I hide the anti-venom!

I was four years old, and rivers streamed down my cheeks as I sat watching the vast golden land before me from the grain and potato crops behind Lulami’s home. Singing and dancing surrounded Lulami, the beautiful Naviean who cared for me when my parents would be away, dealing with the South African Government or working with our people. Lulami was being adorned with a tall furry hat on her head. Women dance around her, calling on the spirits.

“That is an isihokolo (headgear). It helps center the mind.” A familiar, strong voice whispered in my ear. My father wrapped his arms around me, and kissed me on the forehead, telling me not to cry, in Xhosa. He was still learning the language, so his clicks weren’t as defined and swift like the rest of our people. He stumbled over them at times, especially with the ‘c’. Some of the elders—who didn’t make my spirit feel uncomfortable—laughed when saying father and daughter were learning the language together. I didn’t care, because they were right.  I was sitting, clinging to the strength of him, my head is nestled on his chest.

I looked up at him. His face was upside down due to my position, but man, was he handsome. Silky hair, a goofy smile that made me stop crying and start to giggle. And women would turn their heads to watch him, not in respect like any of the other Kings, but with a look I didn’t understand. They did it so much that I’d narrow my eyes and frown. My father had lighter skin, like me, actually lighter still. The King and princess didn’t look like the rest of the Navieans. And Lulami told me that it was okay. That my father was an Austronesian from Madagascar—whatever that meant—and that the elders and King Regent consented to this union when my mother met him at college. So everything was okay…

“Utata,” I cry out ‘father.’ “I don’t like this,” I say, though the singing was soothing, good spirits were here. I usually loved the spirits, but not now. Lulami was leaving me.

“Lulami has an ubizo (calling). She is one of the youngest, uthando lwami, it is an honor for Lulami to be called as a young woman. I am sorry, beautiful, but she can no longer care for you, she is becoming the umkhwetha (trainee) as a amagqirha (diviner).”

My cheeks puffed out. Abayomi, my best friend, had tried to explain it, but I wasn’t having it, so I asked again, “What is an amagqirha?”

He sighed as if he’s grown tired of repeating himself, and then smacked another kiss on my forehead. “As a amagqirha, Lulami no longer only keeps you safe, but all our people as well. She protects everyone against enemies and evil forces.”

“But we have fighters. She doesn’t need a spear.”

“No, she doesn’t use a spear for fighting but to dig for medicines and herbs,” his laughter contracts his abdominals and I shake in his lap. “If you keep asking questions, we cannot be a part of this ceremony. Your umama (mother) is waiting for you.  MamNcozo, our principal healer will be very sad that you—”

“MamNcozo,” I straighten up. Looking at MamNcozo, a plump woman with thick, long white hair that contrasted perfectly with her black licorice skin. She was respected by all. She held an ishoba (traditional stick). Aside from my umama and Lulami, MamNcozo was my favorite person. I was just a toddler, but I could remember having earaches so badly and only she could heal me. But Abayomi taunted me about Lulami not being able to watch me any longer. Abayomi said that he would keep me safe. Even at the age of four, I knew he couldn’t. He was a warrior’s son, but Abayomi’s head was big and he had straw for arms and legs. He was the skinniest of all his brothers. I didn’t believe Abayomi, because he said we’d marry and that he’d make the perfect King. I began to sniffle again.

“Lulami, can’t keep me safe anymore…”

And once again, I’ve stalled my father, the king, from joining in on the ceremony. He rubbed my shoulder and kissed my head again. “MamNcozo calls upon our spirits to guide us, she sees visions that have kept us alive. Lulami is becoming pure right at this very instant, she will help keep us safe too…”

The memory is dashed from my mind in seconds, taking away every image and young conversation I’ve ever had with my father. I’d forgotten how much he loved me. How warm and unconditionally loved I felt in his arms. Every moment in my nation has disappeared from my mind. The King of Nivean, my own birth father, is unknown to me once again. And my mother, I didn’t even glimpse the queen in my vision. But what’s left from the shedding of that one single memory is an urging from the spirits.

‘The antidote is not in the cabinet with the guns…’ It’s not spoken in words or a thought in my head, but a pull that moves me.

I hurry to where Trick stood when the curved knife appeared in his hand. He was standing parallel with the steel table. I reach my hand beneath the steel table, where Trick must’ve pulled out the venom laced knife. My hand drags along the smooth, cool material, and then over a lump. My fingernails tear at a piece of tape, and I grip a small, tiny syringe. On the side of the nozzle is a snake head.

“Jagger,” I scurry back to the floor where Trick is moaning. Jagger must’ve attacked a pressure point. If Jagger dies, I’ll kill the sneaky bastard myself.

“Stab him in the heart,” Trick groans, “hurry, before you allow my friend to die!”

“Me?” I hardly get the scoff out as I position the syringe and stab straight into Jagger’s heart.

“That bloody wanker has a death wish,” Trick gets to his knees, with a grunt. “When the two of you are done, tell Jagger the clothing will be modified by late tomorrow night, and not a moment sooner. I’m going to fucking bed.”

My head tilts somewhat. Every time I cross paths with Trick the thought crosses my mind that this is a dream. He’s cute in an odd way, but also way beyond just weird, eclectic.

“Good night, Gorgeous,” he offers one last salute before leaving the room.

I must be asleep or stuck in a damn coma at St. Mary’s Medical Center, in Long Beach. Nowhere ever should people willingly tightrope over a pit leading to death, like these two just did. They have dared the hand of the Grim Reaper in a sick, morbid type comedy. Hell, moments ago, I considered murdering Trick over Jagger. Now, I rub Jagger’s blond hair away from his face, and allow my hand to glide down the stubble of his cheek. It’s rough, prickling my cheek. Reminding me that even as his heartbeat calms, Jagger is still a force to be reckoned with.

God, is this real? Because I’ve had visions in the past, and they disappeared before my eyes. I have never listened to the spirits. When I was seven and recalled a fragment of the past, I begged to forget them. And forget them I did.

I know nothing about my past once again. My oldest memory is Earl and Joyce Bryant. They are my parents. And Jagger orchestrates my future.