SAMSON’S BABY: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance Page 10

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay, good.”

  It’s a relief. If I called him, he’d only shout at me over the phone. Twenty-five years old, and scared of your dad! Shameful, but true. But I’m relieved for another reason, too. If I called him, I’d shout at him just as much as he’d shout at me, and I don’t have the energy for that. A shouting match with Dad always drains me, makes me feel small and deflated. Circumstances are straining enough as it is without adding that to the mix.

  “Make sure you do,” I say. “He’ll freak otherwise.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I leave it there. I trust Samson, trust his promises, trust him with my life.

  ###

  The driver pulls up outside of a detached log cabin raised on stilts and sitting atop a high, oval rock formation. Stairs lead in zigzags up the side of the rock and to the cabin, around thirty yards above the parking spaces. The cabin is directly beside the ocean; you could stand on its roof and hurl a rock into the Atlantic. The air is colder here without the buffer of New York’s buildings; wind blasts us. The ocean sprays its waves and the air dances with drops of water. I wait for the driver to climb from the car, but he doesn’t.

  “He’s shy,” Samson says, when he sees me looking. Then he opens the door, reaches in, and offers me his hands.

  I hand him my bag and together we climb out of the car.

  “This is yours?” I ask, the awe plain in my voice.

  “This is mine,” he says.

  We walk up the stairs and I’m constantly craning my neck, looking up at the cabin, until we’re in the middle of the stairs and the rock formation blocks my view. I feel as though I am in a James Bond movie, on my way to one of his hideouts. My legs are aching by the time we get to the top, and I know it’s from the sex yesterday. Sex that was harder and more passionate than any I’ve had before. The cabin looks bigger from up here, no longer framed beside the large mound of rock, but standing on its own. Wind whips at us, my hair flying around my face. I find myself wondering how strong the wind would have to get for the cabin to simply fly away, but its foundations seem strong. Apart from a low creaking, it sits silent, still.

  We enter the cabin, walking through large oaken double doors, and into a wide open hallway. I’d expected mounted heads and paintings and couches and beds and all the rest of it. I’d expected a living space. What I’m met with instead is a barren hallway leading to barren rooms. No pictures hang on the walls and cobwebs coat the corners. The place is dark, dim. Samson turns to me, a sly smile on his lips.

  “This isn’t it,” he says. “Follow me.”

  He leads me through the living room, the fireplace empty, not even the charred remains of wood or coal in there, just empty as though waiting for somebody to move in. I’m staggered by Samson’s wealth. A man who can afford to buy a place like this—a place which must’ve costed at least a half a million dollars—and leave it resting, not renting it out, must be very rich indeed. I wonder if he’s a millionaire. He certainly dresses the part, and he moves around the cabin without glancing at its wonder, its high roof and spacious walkways, as if it’s completely natural for a man who’s not yet thirty years old to own a place like this.

  Down hallways, around corners, he leads me until we enter a small bedroom. This room is almost empty, apart from a bookshelf which rests against one wall. The shelf is empty, but Samson walks straight up to it all the same. He rests his hand on it, and then takes it away and turns to me.

  “You trust me, Anna,” he says.

  It’s not a question. He knows I trust him. He knows what’s happening between us, this strange, inexplicable affection, intensified by Eric’s death, his protectiveness, our closeness, the heat between our bodies.

  “I do,” I reply.

  “Good. Because I need you to agree to this. I guess you could say we’re going to play a game.”

  “A game? What sort of game?”

  “You could call it you’re-going-to-be-my-hostage-for-a-few-days.” He laughs. “Or maybe that sounds too scary. I just need you to understand that I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I know that,” I say. “But why are you telling me?”

  “Because I’m going to take you underground now, and I don’t want you to be scared.”

  “Underground?”

  He turns back to the bookshelf, grips it, and then shifts it to the side. His immense body moves it easily. A small tunnel opens up behind the bookshelf, a tunnel carved from rock. Samson leans forward and flips a switch, and lightbulbs which hang from wires in the ceiling of the tunnel bloom into life, bright and yellow.

  “This is the real safe house,” he says. “A base within the rock formation.”

  “Ah,” I say.

  I try to think about this logically. Do I know Samson? No, I met him yesterday. If a man you’ve only known for a day invites you into an underground bunker, should you say yes? Definitely not; you should run as fast as you can. Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate plot to get me to come here, with him. Maybe he’ll keep me here forever now. Now I’ve been duped.

  But then I look into his eyes, and I’m sure he’s not tricking me. I’m sure he would do anything to protect me. Logic falls away and is replaced by instinct, and it’s my instinct that Samson would never do me any harm, would never let anybody else hurt me. I can’t fight the instinct. I think of Red Paw, never shying away from me, hopping straight into my hands without the slightest hesitation. I’m not so different to that rabbit, I think, not when it comes down to trusting Samson. I’ll go to him with the same confidence Red Paw came to me.

  “Be your hostage for a few days?” I say. “Strange, but that doesn’t sound so bad.”

  He smiles and steps into the tunnel. I don’t think. I just follow.

  ###

  Samson turns the bank-vault-style handle, and the large bunker door swings open, squeaking on its hinges. I flinch at the sound, despite myself, despite knowing that Samson would never allow anything to hurt me. It’s a reflexive response. My heart begins to thump. Down in the deep dark, a vault door creaking, lit under bright clinical lights . . . It sounds like the start of a crime novel.

  But when I step into the underground bunker, I’m taken aback. It’s one huge room, divided into sections by wall partitions. The bulk of it is taken by a large living area: a couch, a TV, an exercise bike, weight lifting equipment. Beyond that is the kitchen, fully fitted with a refrigerator, and an oven. And in the opposite corner is the shower and toilet, the shower cubicle clouded glass, the toilet surrounded by a curtain. Everything is lavish, the couches plush, the floor covered with rugs upon rugs of soft fur. I walk into the room, my eyes drawn to the pictures hanging from the walls. Abstract art, all squares and circles or sprays of paint, overlapping.

  “Wow,” I say.

  I turn to Samson and he tilts his head at me.

  “Impressed?” he asks.

  “Impressed?” I laugh, turn in a full circle, taking all of it in. “More than impressed. This is incredible.” Chandeliers hang from the ceiling and electric sconce lights are imbedded within the wall, chucking up orange light, fire-like. I face Samson again, and now he’s grinning openly. “I’m more than impressed,” I say. He beams.

  “Good,” he says. “I know I said you’re my ‘hostage’, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to treat you right.”

  “Treat me right . . .” My voice grows husky, and as if from nowhere I’m gripped with lust, lust which will not be ignored, lust which moves through my body like something alive, burning, demanding.

  He drops my bag and walks right up to me, our bodies almost pressed together.

  “You need to get out of those clothes,” I say. “They’re dirty.”

  Without saying a word, he strips. First his jacket and shirt and then his shoes and socks and pants and underwear, until he stands there like a sculpture, muscles tensed, cock rock-hard and resting against my belly.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he sighs.


  He doesn’t wait for me to undress myself. He reaches down and yanks at my top. He tears at my clothes; soon they’re in a bundle on the floor. Both of us are hot. I can feel the heat rising from his skin. Drops of sweat slide down his muscles, between his pectorals, and to his tight abs.

  “I have to leave after,” he whispers. “I need to see someone. But you’ll be safe here.”

  “Don’t think about that now,” I say. I reach down and grab his cock, hard in my hand. “Just think about us.”

  He leans down and buries his face in my neck, kissing, biting, and for a time both of us forget about everything.

  Chapter Twelve

  Samson

  I get out of bed while Anna sleeps, go to the dresser and get some new clothes—a hoodie and some jeans, some clean boots—and leave her there to her dreams. She isn’t in any danger of being stuck here. I’ve arranged for Jack to come by and let her out if I’m gone for longer than I should be. Failing that, I’ve left a piece of paper on the bedside table on which I’ve written three numbers and passcodes: numbers of my associates and passcodes to prove it’s really me who gave her the number. As another backup, I’ve written another note, this one containing instructions on how to shift the bulkhead from inside; there’s a lever secreted behind a false sheet of rock within the wall. Whatever happens, she’s not stranded here, not alone.

  When I’m outside, it is nighttime and the wind attacks me violently, hissing around me. Ocean spray rides on the wind and spatters against my face. By the time I’m down the stairs and into the car Jack left for me—an old junk car, but serviceable—I’m thoroughly wet. I turn on the meager heating, take out my cellphone, and dial Anna’s father.

  Ian Hill answers after a few rings. His voice is thick, and I guess he’s been drinking. His tone is short and somewhat arrogant, as it always is after he’s had a drink. My mafia contacts informed me before I took the job that he could get irate after one too many. It doesn’t matter. I can handle him.

  “Uh?” Ian grunts.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  “Oh, where’s Anna?” he barks. “She’s not at her apartment.”

  “I know. Don’t worry. I’m with her. She’s safe. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Can we meet?”

  “Fine,” he grunts. “Geno’s bar.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  “Fine.”

  I hang up, and then dial Jack.

  “How’s it going?” Jack says.

  “Cold and wet. Listen, I need you to come by and watch the place while I’m gone. I should only be a couple of hours, but I’d feel better if you were here.”

  “I thought you might ask,” Jack says. “Look up.”

  “Look up?”

  I do, and then I see him, sitting in the black sedan on the other side of the parking lot, obscured by the misting ocean water.

  “Good man,” I laugh.

  Jack starts the car and drifts forward until he is level with me, and then he lowers his window. I do the same, and he gives me a short nod. He’s a military man, that’s for sure: thick-muscled, crew-cut, stern expression. But he also smiles and laughs with ease.

  “How long are you going to be?” he asks.

  “A couple of hours. Need to go back into the city.”

  Jack nods. “And I expect a—”

  I laugh, reach into my pocket, and take out a bundle of notes. I’d placed them in there without even thinking. In my business, having cash on you at all times is a necessity.

  “Here,” I say, handing them over. “Now be a good boy.”

  Jack winks at me. “Fuck you, Samson.”

  “Bastard.” I grin.

  We both raise our windows. I feel more secure now, despite all the precautions. No matter what, Anna has to be safe, must always be safe. Part of me wishes I could just talk with Anna’s father over the phone, but I need to meet him face to face, need to look into his eyes and see if he’s telling the truth, if he knows anything about River. Because who knew about the hit apart from him? Who knew when and where it would happen? If anybody could’ve directed River to me that night, it’s Ian Hill.

  ###

  The bar is owned by the husband of one of the crime family’s sisters. A brother-in-law whose bar has seen increased business ever since he tied the knot, even if that does come at the price of gangsters running up tabs they’re never going to pay, fights breaking out every other day, and having to replace more bottles and glasses than ever before as a result of the constant smashing. This evening, though, it’s quiet. I enter the bar and glance around. Two old men sit in the corner, smoking pipes and nodding at each other as they talk. Smoke swirls up toward the ceiling. The barman is squat, with a flat face and a perpetual sneer. He waddles over to me, but I wave him away, and continue to the nearest booth, waiting for Ian Hill.

  I watch the entrance closely, aware that every minute I spend here is another minute I’m not with Anna, protecting her. Jack is there; I’ve taken precautions. Even so, the fear that some harm will come to her when I’m away is almost unbearable.

  ‘Turn your mind off, you know the score,’ Black Knight says. ‘When you’re on a job, you’re on a job. Your head is not up in the clouds. You’re not thinking of others things. Focus, boy, or you’ll miss something.’ I try to push Anna from my mind, but it’s impossible, like trying to dislodge a splinter that’s already buried deep within my skin. I manage to push her down a little; she is an undercurrent instead of a dominant wave.

  The barman watches me with beady, suspicious eyes, and the two old men in the corner whisper loudly about that strange man. I ignore them all, watching the door, urging the rich businessman to walk through. The client whose daughter I now hide in my vault. Strange, the turns life takes. I was never supposed to see Ian Hill again, or, if I did, it would’ve been about work, another client. Not to look into his eyes and test if he knows anything about River. I wonder if the old man and River are together, and I find that I can’t assume no. River is not above using sex as a weapon. At least, she wasn’t when we knew each other.

  I remember trying to leave her once before, picking up my bag and making for the room of the motel. The air reeked of sex and sweat and shame, and all I wanted was to get the hell out of there and forget that I’d ever been with her. I told her as much when she gripped me by the elbow, half-turned me, told her that I couldn’t go on with her. It wasn’t right and I wasn’t enjoying it and neither, secretly, was she. We were just playing a charade, pretending to be people we weren’t. I told her this and then she dropped to her knees and without any words brought her mouth to me. At first, I was sickened, I stepped away. But then my animal nature gripped me, and I was lost for a time. Weak, I cursed myself. Weak and pathetic. Weak and stupid. Weak, weak, weak. It’s true. I was weak. And if I somehow couldn’t resist her, even for that moment, how the hell is an old, lonely man like Ian meant to?

  But I’m jumping to conclusions. He may well know nothing. He might be less involved than that and still know a little. He might be completely involved. I wring my hands, trail my finger over the back of my hand, caressing my knuckles, waiting, itching, restless. I find myself wishing that a fight would break out, just so there would be something to do.

  Then the bell above the door rings, and a man who could’ve walked straight from the twenties Jazz Age enters. He wears a suit with a waistcoat beneath the jacket, pale blue, with a handkerchief stuffed in the front pocket, a shirt of white silk and a blue bowtie, pleated trousers, shiny black shoes. His mustache is combed, impressive, and his eyes are wide and seem angry with everything and everybody they come to rest on.

  He paces toward me, turning as he walks to shout at the barman: “Whisky!”

  I don’t stand up. I sit there, looking at him, and intentionally stay seated. I know that Ian Hill is used to people—his employees—standing up when he enters a room. I know that he has let his minor mafia contacts go to his head. And I know that he thinks of himself as a very dangerous
man, a man not to be messed with.

  When he reaches the table, he scowls down at me, and I can see the rebuke in his face, angry I don’t stand up.

  I smile up at him. “Howdy, Ian,” I say. Not Mr. Hill, but Ian. “How’re things?”

  “Howdy?” he grunts. He drops into the seat opposite me and strokes his mustache. When his whisky arrives, he takes it with a low snarl, drains it, and barks, “Another!”

  ###

  After four whiskeys, Ian interlocks his fingers and rests his chin on his knuckles, leaning forward. He is a large man, fat around the middle, but the kind of fat which clings to a man’s body and makes him look muscular. Hard-packed fat, round, strong fat. His gestures and his demeanor remind me of a silverback gorilla.