Filthy Beautiful Lies(#1#2)

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He stops outside the dressing room I used earlier. “Are your clothes in there?”

I nod and mumble an unintelligible reply.

“Get dressed,” he commands, his tone smooth.

I duck my head and push my way inside the small changing room. Once inside, I cannot keep my eyes from darting toward the mirror where I stood applying mascara just a short time ago. I can already see that the girl looking back at me is someone different. The black suit coat swallows me up, proclaiming me to belong to someone other than myself.

I shrug it off my shoulders, but not before taking a second to appreciate the fine feel of the feather light wool between my fingers and the crisp scent of cologne lightly permeating the fabric. There’s something masculine and evocative about the jacket and I can’t help but think about his deeper meaning behind dressing me in it. Like a dog marking his territory with his scent.

Shaking the thought away, I fold the jacket neatly and step into my clothes – a pair of jeans, and a long sleeved cotton top, paired with ballet flats. I feel marginally better once I’m back in my old clothes. Stuffing my makeup bag into my purse, I loop it across my body and turn toward the mirror. I take one last look in the mirror, mentally preparing myself to face him again, and say a silent goodbye to the girl standing before me.

I pause at the doorway, my hand resting on the knob. It’s now or never. I can either go and find Bill, beg to be let out of this contract, and deal with the consequences, or I can walk out of this room, and accept what I have to do. Either way, I know my life is going to change.

Straightening my spine and stealing an anxious breath into my lungs, I push open the door.

I meet Drake in the hall where he’s standing waiting for me with a bored expression.

I feel his eyes quickly survey my new ensemble and I suddenly feel underdressed next to this wealthy and powerful man with his expensive suit and shiny shoes. He takes the jacket from me and begins walking toward the exit without a word. I’m expected to follow, so I do.

Once in the parking lot behind the building, I scan the few cars left in the lot, trying to memorize their license plates just in case he turns out to be a psycho – at least I’ll have some piece of information to go to the police with, since I’m pretty sure his real name’s not Drake.

The motorcycle he stops beside is unexpected and causes a little ripple of fear to cascade through me.

Drake puts his suit coat in the compartment under the seat and removes an extra helmet for me. His thumb smoothes away the worry line etched across my forehead. “You’ll be safe,” he says, and places the helmet on my head. The weight of it against my scalp is foreign. This will be my first time on a motorcycle. Apparently I’m in for a lot of firsts tonight.

After securing his own helmet, he climbs on the bike and holds out his hand to help me. The warmth of his large palm against my own startles me. I swallow a wave of nerves, then I swing one leg over the seat and position myself behind him. The angle of the narrow seat causes me to slide forward until my chest is pressed against his back. There’s no room for anything but close contact between us. The intimacy is unsettling.

I briefly wonder if he’s designed it this way – bringing his bike rather than a car to show me right from the beginning that I have no control and to get used to close physical contact. Because surely a man who could spend one million dollars owns a car – if not several. Something in his quiet and serious nature tells me everything he does is deliberate and my mind is cataloging all of these things to piece together the puzzle of the man to whom I now belong to.

He kick starts the bike and my arms fly around his middle. I feel his chest rumble and I’m pretty sure he just chuckled at my response.

We pick up speed as he takes the on-ramp for the highway and the chilly night air rushing past my face cools the heat that lingers between our two bodies. I squeeze my eyes closed in an attempt to escape the panicky feeling rising in my chest, but all it does is make my motion sickness kick in and I open my eyes once again. He accelerates and I cling to him desperately, linking my fingers in front of his abdomen.

Just as I’m praying we don’t have a long trip on this bike, he begins to slow and I look up to see that we’re on a service drive in the middle of a dark field. My senses are on high alert as I wonder what we’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere.

I never imagined we’d fly somewhere, so when we pull up alongside a small private jet parked on an abandoned airstrip, bitter acid burns its way up my throat.

Panic zips through my veins at the thought of leaving everything I know behind. Even my zip code, which had never really meant that much to me, suddenly feels like something that defines me, is being ripped away.

Without so much as a carry-on bag, I follow him up the narrow set of stairs leading into the belly of the plane. It’s a small private jet with a sleek, sophisticated interior. A cluster of four leather captain’s chairs flank the center and Drake slides down into one near the window. Unsure of where to sit, I sit down in the chair across from him. The leather is inviting and supple under my fingers and I relax just a little into the seat and take in my surroundings. Night has fallen quickly and it’s almost completely dark outside. The interior of the jet is illuminated by little LED lights lining the pathway on the carpeting giving off a faint glow.

Drake lifts a glass decanter from a nearby table and pours a few measures of amber liquor into a crystal tumbler, then takes a long sip. He licks his full lower lip and closes his eyes, resting his head back against the plush leather seat.

There’s no overhead announcement, no safety demonstration, and no warning. All of a sudden the jet’s engines roar to life and we’re barreling down the runway. I fumble with the buckle on my seatbelt, latching it just as we take flight. I can feel Drake’s eyes on me, watching me curiously, but I don’t dare lift my gaze.

When I finally look up, Drake’s poured a glass of the alcohol for me and is holding it toward me. “It might help.”

I’m not much of a drinker – and especially straight liquor – but I know he’s right. I have no idea what he has planned for me, and this will probably be the only opportunity I have for pain management if I’m going to lose my virginity later.

He seems so calm and in control, it makes me wonder what might be lurking under the surface of that composed demeanor and expensive suit. A warm shiver races through me and I take a long sip of the drink, welcoming the burning path the liquor creates down my throat.