Hotel room?
HOTEL ROOM?
“What fucking hotel room?” I demand, blood raging through my veins so hard, I can barely fucking hear straight. “Let me make myself very clear, Mark. Listen closely. If you touch a single hair on that girl’s head, I won’t just kill you; I will slice you open and strangle you with your own intestine.”
“Jesus,” he says, a little taken aback. “I—” He hesitates a second, then says, “It was just the first place—”
“The first place, my ass,” I shoot back. “You could’ve taken her to a fucking Denny’s. You could have kept her in a car. You took her to a hotel room. I know your name, Mark. I know you have a little crush on Mia. Let me assure you, that’s a crush best left unexplored. I’ve had a minute to think it over, and I’m not sure strangling you with your own intestine is actually a painful enough end. If you’ve hurt Mia, I’m going to make you wish for the peace of that death.”
“Jesus Christ, I haven’t hurt Mia. I’m not going to hurt Mia. Aren’t you the one that hurts Mia?” he asks, a bit slyly, for someone I already want to kill so badly.
“Not compared to what I’m going to do to you,” I assure him, calmly.
“Look, man, you’ve got this all wrong. I took Mia from the bakery so she didn’t get hurt. Antonio sent someone to take her out; I knew what he was there for, so I intervened. I brought her to the hotel room—where we have sat on separate furniture, and I swear, I have not so much as looked at the delicate curve of her fucking ankle, let alone anything else—so I could protect her until you get here. I’m being straight with you, here.”
“So am I. Keep your fucking hands off her.”
“You know, I could’ve called her boyfriend if I wanted to have my ass chewed out. I thought cooler heads would prevail if I called you.”
His ass chewed out—that’s another good possibility. Throw him naked into a container full of hungry rats. They could pick all the flesh off his bones while he screamed in terror. I think I’d light a cigar for that.
“What fucking hotel?” I ask, so I can get there and see for myself that Mia’s all right.
He tries to tell me how to get there since he didn’t get the address. Then he realizes we don’t live in the fucking Stone Age and he looks it up. I put it into my navigation system and get the number of their hotel unit.
Their hotel unit.
My blood boils in my veins.
I hang up and call Adrian, but the fucker’s busy on his covert mission and he can’t meet me at the hotel.
All I can think about is killing Mark. Didn’t even know who he was ten minutes ago, but right now he’s at the top of my to-murder list—even above Vince, and that little bastard usually owns the lead.
I guess he still should. While Mark insists he hasn’t touched Mia, Vince gets to touch her every goddamn night.
Well, not every night. Last night she was in my bed.
Ha, fuck you, Vince.
I suppose it would be more of a “fuck you” if she had been naked and full of my cum instead of curled up in a pair of soft pajamas, snuggling with Meg. Though… well, I can’t complain about that sight, either.
This is not the time for thoughts like these. I shake them off and break every basic traffic law to get to the hotel faster.
The sight of a cheap hotel door with peeling paint has never filled another man so completely with equal parts eagerness and dread. I want to rip the door off the hinges. I want to storm in and shoot a single bullet into Mark’s forehead without losing stride on my way to Mia.
I suppose that might traumatize her, though. I’ve done enough to traumatize her for this year, at least. I should tell her not to watch.
Before I can further debate how to go about killing this asshole without giving Mia nightmares, the door open and she stands there, looking like a fucking angel. An intact angel. The wind blows her sundress and she regards me anxiously. Who is she worried for? This asshole baker, herself, me? She’s never worried for herself; it’s probably one of us.
As pleasant a sight as she is, I need to see what I’m dealing with inside. Just because Mark said he was alone doesn’t mean he is.
“Move,” I tell her.
She tries to halt me, her eyes going all soft and concerned. She holds a hand up, like she can hold me off. Her gaze drops to the gun I’ve already drawn and her discomfort grows.
Why am I distressing her? Is she really this worried about the asshole inside? Why don’t I know about this asshole if he’s someone Mia cares about?