Mikayla

 

 

What the hell have I gotten myself into? This asshole was in euphoric bliss during the entire process of not only murdering but with burying the dead bodies. We then transported Williams’s car to yet another location. The heat as Jagger started an explosion still burns my skin.

I’m Queen Petty when angry. I will argue and debate.

I’m Queen of Silence while livid.

Jagger and I are now in our rental traveling toward the hotel. I’m driving, and he’s playing with his phone. He’d mentioned something about re-activating the GPS and every so often he makes “small talk” if you count missions that we should complete.

“Are we not talking?” He pushes his cell phone in his pocket.

“I’m not in the mood. But if you like the sound of your own voice…”

An hour later, we’ve left the keys with the valet at The Aria and returned to our suite.

I reach for the zipper at the back of my dress, and my fingers graze Jagger’s.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

The sound of my zipper descending sends tiny ripples of desire through my body landing at the center of my nether regions. Jagger slides the material from my frame, brushing his fingers over the curve of my hips.

My toes move one step forward over the heap of silk material. Jagger snakes a hand around my waist, pausing my movement. He presses his hard body against my back and is ever so gentle as he kisses my neck. Each time his strong, yet gentle mouth landed at the nape of my neck, my anger dies a little. My knees are almost jelly, but with a final bit of resolve, I move away.

“Mikayla,” he huffs.

“Good night, Jagger.” I turn around, glancing up at him through my eyelashes so he can’t see how my eyes are burning, tears at the brink.

He bites his thumb. “I’m a killer, Kayla. That was evident from day one, right? I’m learning to be real with you.”

I nod.

The discomfort vibrating from him toward me is so brand new. This man who has only ever shown a confident, cocky invincible side is searching my gaze for reciprocity. And I can see an image of myself conforming to him and his murdering ways.

I should be unpacking in my dorm room and preparing myself for crunch time. I should be learning about the other side of the line.

Saving patients in the emergency room. Undoing catastrophes caused by rage, revenge, accidents, genetics... murderers like Jagger Johansson.

“We’ll discuss Nivean and Zihula tomorrow.” He lingers at the door.

I step inside of the bedroom and start to close the door behind me when Jagger places his hand against the center of the door, stopping my retreat.

He pulls out his cell phone. “It’s untraceable regardless of the duration of the call.” I take the phone from his reluctant hand as he adds, “Call your parents.”

I’ve read about Amanda Smart, watched the documentary, listened to her speak. And this is my moment. I could blurt my location regardless of his mention about his phone not being traceable.

I sit down at the lounger next to the vanity table. Jagger walks away from the bathroom, offering me an even greater opportunity to … what… I don’t know… be saved from him. Or more like this future he’s thrusting me into.

I dial home. With each tone the phone makes while connecting, I’m uncertain. I used to have nightmares of my past. My mom took me to the front of the church, they laid hands on me, and then—

“Hello,” Earl, my father, says.

My eyes close. His voice is one of comfort. He taught me to be strong through the night terrors until they eventually stopped in my adolescent years. “Dad,” my voice cracks.

“Mikayla, Kayla, Kayla, baby,” he stumbles at his words in shock. “Kayla, tell us where you are? Are you okay?”

My mother’s in the background, parroting his words, in a sobbing tone. “I’m here, Kayla,” she’s closer to the phone now, her tone is slightly muffled.

“I’m okay,” I respond, with more confidence than I feel.

“Are you safe?” Dad asks.

“Yes, I’m safe. I just don’t know where I am.” The lie flows easy enough.

There’s another unfamiliar authoritative masculine voice on the phone, “Mikayla, this is Special Agent Cartwright, we do not have much time. Have you gotten away from your abductor?”

“No. He left me… here… I don’t know how long.” My voice breaks with a sob. Crap, if anything I sound more convincing instead of guilty as I cry about my friends and family. “How’s Cree?”

“He’s stable, Mikayla,” The agent replies, with a note of sincerity before returning to a rigid, precise tone. “Time is of the utmost importance. Can you identify where you are? Anything that rings a bell, the sound of a train nearby. Smells, anything?” the man asks.

Chest tight, I start to see an image of Jagger in handcuffs flash before my eyes. Half of me is begging to do the logical thing, the half attached to my brain. The other continues to weave a tale with, “I’m in a padded room. I can’t hear anything at all. I’m sorry.”

My mother speaks up, “Don’t be sorry, beautiful. We will find you, just keep praying.”

“Oh, I’m not hurt, I’m safe, mom,” My voice begins to crack, My eyes are blurred with tears. I can’t lie—

The phone is taken from my hands, and Jagger hangs up. “You will see your parents again, Mikayla.”

We stare at each other in silence. His demeanor is one of contentment, as if the transference between us is normal.

“You tell me the first thing in your mind, huh?” I rub the tears away, hating Jagger for controlling me. My body craves him. And I just did the stupidest thing anyone could ever do. “Tomorrow, you’ll take me to Prince Fari. So, I’ll tell him how you stole me, Jagger. I’ll tell him, and you say my nation is depleted. Pft! The information on him shows a different story. His army, warriors, whatever they’re called, they’ll get you. I’ll become a Queen, and I’ll marry him with my parents there!”

This is exactly what I do not want.

I will not marry a man I have not had a decent conversation with. And you say I haven’t had one with Jagger. Hell, I’d refuse to marry his psychotic ass as well. Now, sex, that’s another subject entirely. I just have to stop giving him the most important piece of myself.

Jagger hardly glances my way. He isn’t reluctant like before. There’s no desire to continue the conversation and clear the air. He’s emotionless. I watch the broad muscles in his back as he walks out of the bathroom.

The door acts as barrier to everything I never thought I’d ever want. I turn around and lay my head onto the marble vanity countertop, weeping.

My cry turns into a curdled moan.  My hormones were in a frenzy from when I argued with Jagger. He just made me feel so damn small. He didn’t claim me or deny that tomorrow our worlds would part ways. What an idiot I just was on the phone.

Jagger Johansson is breaking me. Shredding me down bit by bit, and he hasn’t a care in the world about it.