Lance: An Alpha Male Romance

3. Lance

3LanceShe stands next to the bed, watching me with the eyes of a woman about to either cry or scream. I know those eyes, have seen them enough times. The eyes of somebody torn between being a victim and being a hero. Often, that’s when people are most dangerous, because they act bullet-fast so they don’t lose their nerve and go back to victimhood. I reckon the look in her eyes—the look in all their eyes, all the people caught up in the whirlwind of the life—has something to do with Bear backing out of the game. Bear, my mentor, my friend, the toughest bastard alive . . . I sigh. Focus, I tell myself.

“Fiona,” I mutter.

I don’t move from where I’m standing, just close the door behind me and watch her. Her arms are at her sides and despite the lingerie, she doesn’t look used-up or broken.

“Alexander,” she says.

“You’re scared of me,” I comment.

“Am I?” Her face gives me nothing. She brings a mask down on it, covering her emotions. Even her bright green eyes are glazed over.

“It looks like it,” I say. “I just want you to know, there’s no reason to be.”

“And I should just believe that, should I?” Her voice gets higher in pitch, cracking a little, and I wonder if perhaps I’m wrong about her. Maybe she does feel the cold prick of these mad, absurd events more than I can tell. Maybe I’m not as expert at reading women as I think. Watching her is like watching a kite in the wind. One second it’s carried to the west, so strongly you think it’ll never come back. The next, it ducks and dives and whooshes to the east. One second her face is hard; the next it is panicked.

“It’s the truth,” I sigh.

“I was told otherwise,” she says, watching me closely.

“Is that so? By whom?”

I take a step into the room, but she holds her hand up, palm flat. “No closer.” Her voice trembles and her face, almost impassive, tics: at the corner of her lips and her eyebrows. “I was told by one of the bouncers that you’re a sick man who enjoys sick things.”

Well, that’s true, in a way, I think. A sick man who enjoys sick things. I can’t deny that when Mr. Black sends me to tool up a pedophile or a woman-beater or a kid-strangler I get a certain thrill from it. I can’t deny that when I leave an evil man’s apartment, I sometimes whistle a tune. And, yes, I can’t deny that I haven’t sometimes wondered if that makes me a sick man. Smashing another man’s face in with a knuckle-duster shouldn’t bring somebody pleasure, should it? And it doesn’t to me, not usually. But if the man you’re beating is also an evil man, you can’t help it. I return to Bear again. That’s why he left. He wasn’t a sick man and he didn’t enjoy sick things. Then I push it all from my mind. I know they’re not the sick things she’s referring to.

“You’ve been lied to,” I sigh.

I take another step.

“No closer!” she hisses.

“Goddamn, one second you’re talking about pole-dancing, trying to get me to buy you, the next, this . . .”

“That was before I was told what you were. I misjudged you.”

“If I was what you say I am—let’s be blunt, a sadistic r****t—do you think I’d just be standing here?”

“Maybe that’s how you work.” She looks me dead in the eye. “I won’t be r***d, never. I won’t let that happen.”

“I have no interest in that,” I say.

I make to take another step forward. The room is so small I’m closer to her now than I am to the door. She throws her hands up. “Get back!”she screams. All around us, similar screams rise into the air. Some are wordless. Some contain words just like Felicia’s. Others are filled with terror in languages I do not understand. All have one similar thread. They are repulsed and depressed and indignant that this is happening to them.

“Don’t. Come. Any. Closer.” Her voice oscillates between ice and water, which is my not-very-philosophical way of saying between frozen calm and flowing anxiety.

“I don’t know what you think I am, Fiona.”

“Listen,” she says slowly. “I thought I’d make you bid on me because you seemed better than the others. You didn’t grope me or call me names or slap me or anything like that. But then the bouncer said something disgusting to me about you and it got me thinking. Why would a good man be on this boat? What purpose could a good man have of being on this boat? So, you can’t be a good man. And if you’re not a good man, you must be a bad man. And you’re f****d in the head if you think I’m letting a bad man anywhere near me when I’m dressed in this ridiculous goddamn outfit.” As she speaks, her cheeks become red and her hands quiver. She clenches her teeth and stares daggers at me.

“We’re in one tiny room with one tiny bed and the Russians don’t expect us to come out for some time,” I say. “I’m not standing here like this for that entire time. Why don’t you just let me sit down? I’m not going to do anything.”

I see indecision cross her face. Then she sets her jaws firmly. “No,” she says. “Just stand there.”

Fine, I think. I’ll have to tell the truth. My version of it, anyway.

Holding my hands up in a sign of peace, I walk toward her, meaning to calm her. “Listen,” I say. “My name isn’t really Alexander Smith and I—”

She doesn’t hear my words. She doesn’t hear anything. She only sees, and what she sees is the man who just bought her walking toward her with his hands raised. Stupid, I think, as she dives under the bed and springs back up like a jack-in-the-box, waving the knife at me. She doesn’t hold it like most amateurs would, limp at the wrist like they’re scared they’re going to hurt themselves. She holds it like her life depends on it. She swipes at my head. I duck. She stabs at my belly. I hop back. She jabs all over; I dodge easily. Dancing aside, I dart my hand out and grab her wrist. She swings at me with her other hand. I catch her fist and push her up against the wall.

“No!” she roars, spitting at me. Unfortunately, spit in the face is an occupational hazard. The globule which sticks to my cheek doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is the stab of shame I feel at the sight of her fear. She really thinks I’m going to r**e her and it makes me uncomfortable. Me, Lance, a man mentored by Beast, a man with more kills under his belt than most veteran soldiers.

“No! No! No!” Her body is like a fish plucked from the water and set onto the deck of a boat, one solid muscle flopping madly without care for its surroundings. She cracks her head against the wall and kicks out. I twist my body and pin her against the wall, stilling her.

Then I lean into her ear. “Listen,” I hiss. “Just f*****g listen to me, okay?” She keeps screaming, so I pin her harder to the wall. Strange, too, but I’m careful not to pin her too hard. That never normally crosses my mind. A threat is dealt with. That is what usually happens. Cold, calm, calculated, precise, and a hundred other words which all boil down to one thing, really. Killer-trained. But now, I press into her almost softly. I’m oddly aware of her body against mine, soft and supple and warm. But not in the way she thinks. I would never, even if my life depended on it, force myself on a woman.

“Listen,” I repeat, and her screaming grows quieter. “My name is not really Alexander Smith. I am on this yacht to rescue you. That’s why I bought you. Okay? Do you f*****g understand? So, for the love of God, stop screaming. You’re not doing us any favors.”

“Wait . . .” She takes a deep breath. “Did my father send you?” Her eyes go wide with hope. “That’s it, isn’t it? My father sent you! Are you secret service? FBI? Homeland Security?”

I can’t help but grin at the thought.

“What? Why are you smiling?” she demands.

“I’m a private contractor,” I say.

“But my father sent you?” she cries.

No. It was a man named Mr. Black, an obscure and shadowy fellow, and the only reason I’m saving you is so that your dad comes out of hiding so I can finish a lovely big contract on him and get a lovely big paycheck.

“Yes,” I lie.

“Then what is my name?” she says, eyes looking close into my face, searching for any sign of deceit. Women don’t usually get this close to my face. It makes me uncomfortable. Women, for me, are a release; we come together and use each other and that’s that. The women move on and so do I. But as Felicia stares at me, I feel like she’s staring into me. Like everything about her, it has a strange effect on me.

“Felicia Farrow,” I say. “You’re twenty-three years old, sporty. You took a course at college in fitness and health and you currently work as a personal trainer. Your mother died when you were three and your father raised you alone. As I understand it, you take much of who you are from him. Chiefly your aversion to violence and your belief that anything can be resolved diplomatically—thought I think I’ll have to revise that after this.” I nod at the knife.

“You have a file on me?” she says.

“A file of sorts, yes.”

Mr. Black is very thorough.

“Now, if I let you go, are you going to stab me?”

She drops the knife. It clatters on the floor. “No,” she says. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

I step back. “Not usually how I do things, but you’ve left me no choice. I didn’t expect a fighter.” I realize I’m smiling with pride and admiration.

Felicia steps forward. “So now what?” he says. “Is there a helicopter on the way? A SWAT team?”

I laugh grimly. “No, sorry,” I say. “Now, we lie low and play our parts until we can get off this damned boat. As far as anybody knows, you’re my property now. We have to keep it that way.”

She slumps onto the bed. “This is mad,” she mutters. Then: “You know my name. What’s yours?”

“Lance,” I say. “My name is Lance.”

“Nice to meet you, Lance,” Felicia sighs. “Why don’t you take a seat?”