The Prisoner Read online

  THE PRISONER

  A Christian Walker Novella

  © Rachael Wade 2014

  www.RachaelWade.com

  Cover Design: Robin Ludwig Design

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  DEDICATION

  To my friends near and far. You are my backbone, my strength, my source of love and inspiration. Thank you for all you do and for who you are.

  THE PRISONER OFFICIAL PLAYLIST

  Blackout Days – Phantogram

  Karma Police – Radiohead

  West Coast – Lana Del Rey

  Cruel World – Lana Del Rey

  Low – Cracker

  Tessellate – Alt-J

  Where is My Mind – Pixies

  Who Needs You - The Orwells

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  ONE

  Her uniform taunts me again. It’s the same torment every week, when I stop in Stella’s for a cup of coffee before work. This morning I decide on a full breakfast, since I have the extra time to spare. She seats me in the farthest booth, smack in the middle of the morning rush, but thankfully I’m in her section.

  Again.

  I always manage to be seated in her section. I’m not sure if that’s because I work so damn hard to make it happen, or because she’s onto me and simply wants to humor me—and drive me mad. Just like that cock-tease uniform does, over and over again. How do the men in this town stand it? They don’t, I guess. They go after it, tails wagging and tongues drooling, because it really is just that damn irresistible. I know this girl. Everyone does. Elise Duchamp, loner and sex kitten all rolled up into one delicious package. This girl makes men’s dreams come true.

  Only you never hear the gossip from her.

  No. You hear it from them. The lucky motherfuckers who get a taste. Hey, I can’t help it. I’m bitter. This girl gets around, no qualms about it, and yet here I sit, week after week, a caged animal. A prisoner, destined to stew in my own, masochistic hell. I can look, but I can’t touch. I can say hello, but I can’t give her my number. Everyone else gets a free ride. But me? No way, no how. She’s off limits. And I’m a bastard for even entertaining the idea.

  I play with the gold band around my ring finger and keep my eyes trained on the greasy menu in front of me. Everything looks good. Fuck it, I’ll get the whole shebang. If I have the time, I might as well indulge. And I’m not talking eggs and pancakes. I want to feast my eyes on those silky, smooth legs. The way her skirt rides up the curve of her ass just barely, but enough to give my very vivid imagination a good idea of what lies beneath the pale pink material. I want to examine every inch of her, and if all I get is to worship her from afar while I sit and eat my eggs and bacon, then so be it.

  Once my mind’s made up, I close the menu and wipe my hands on a napkin. I straighten up and lean back, tapping my fingers in a rhythmic dance on the table top. I watch her wait on a table near the entrance, entranced by the way she speaks to the customers. Her expression is sullen, but her voice is polite. Patient, for the sake of keeping her job. As if she isn’t bored out of her goddamn mind.

  Something about the way she moves when they finish their order and hand her the menus keeps me transfixed. She thanks them and turns away without ever really making eye contact with them. She’s wholly in her own world, without the slightest concern for what they think as they stare up at her. Even as she returns a moment later to hand them their check early, she slides it onto the tabletop without so much as looking in their direction. Her gaze is over their shoulders, out the windows, in some foreign place.

  Anywhere but here.

  She makes her way down to my table and I sit up, curling my left hand, concealing my fingers. “Good morning,” I say, voice dry. Her gaze sweeps down and she clicks her pen, readying her pad of paper.

  “Morning. What’ll it be? The usual?”

  My jaw tightens and my words get lost somewhere in my throat. The shit this girl does to me. “The usual? You mean—”

  “Coffee. Black. One cream. No sugar. That’s all you ever get.” Her eyes find mine, and for the first time this morning—maybe ever—she looks at me. Really fucking looks at me. Suddenly there’s a slight curve to her lips, a faint smirk creeping up from some heavenly place. My eyes drop to her lips. God, what I’d like to do to those lips.

  The smirk widens.

  “You think I don’t pay attention. But I do.” She leans in slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, resting her palm on the edge of the table. I bite down on my bottom lip and lift my chin, raising my gaze to hers to meet her challenge. She holds my stare and bends to snatch the empty salt and pepper shakers, her elbow brushing my hands, which are balled up tightly on the table top. “You’re hard to miss.”

  “I could say the same about you.” The words are out. There you have it, the caged animal has just slipped its greedy hand through the steel bars. The gold band around my ring finger seems to burn as the retort rolls from my tongue, but oddly enough I just don’t give a damn. Not enough. Not anymore.

  “Wow, with a line like that, it’s no wonder you have a pretty wife waiting for you at home.”

  My eyes churn with something primal. Not only is this woman talking to me now—really looking at me—she also has the tongue of an angel. Razor sharp, increasing the raging hard-on I already have for her. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  “Sometimes.” She shrugs, and a lock of blonde hair falls over her shoulder. She’s the portrait of vintage sensuality. An Old Hollywood movie star, dropped right here, in modern day Gig Harbor, for men like me to leer at, wishing she’d drag us back to some nostalgic, forbidden place. “And sometimes I just like to pretend I do.” With a coy wink, she scribbles something on her notepad, rips at the paper, and places it next to my hand.

  The left one.

  “So, you want something different today, do you? What’ll it be?” She poises her hand at the paper pad again, and I glance down at the paper near my fist. It wills me to read it, right now, right this second, but I force myself to focus. I have to play this right, because the caged animal has just unlocked the steel door. The restraints are coming off, right fucking now. I have to have her, and I have to make my intention crystal clear, then wipe the floor with the faces of all the others who’ve touched her before me. Because the second my hands are on her, she’s mine.

  Motherfucking claimed.

  My cock twitches at the thought. A slow smile spreads. “Yes. I have a few things in mind.” Her, bent over the arm of my leather couch. Me, pounding into her in the shower while she screams my name. That uniform being ripped off, torn away inch by inch.

  By my teeth.

  “The morning scrambler with coffee, please,” I say, sterner this time. “And drinks. With you. Right after your shift.”

  “Oh, look at you.” She smiles wide and bright, like the sun. It’s rich with sarcasm, but dripping with sincere flirtation. “Getting brave on me, now.” She sticks the salt and pepper shakers in her apron pocket, jots down my order, then sticks the pen behind her ear. “Your food’s coming right up. Maybe by then you’ll be brave enough to remove the ring.”

  She peels her gaze away from mine and walks toward the kitchen, leaving me dumbstruck and high as a fucking
kite. The beast has been released from its cage and is flying rampantly around the diner, spreading its wings for all to see. There’s no going back now. Not like I ever wanted to. But damn, this is easier than I thought. Too easy.

  I mentally kick myself in the ass for waiting so long to make a move. To even think I had to wait. To believe she was off limits. Nothing is off limits, especially not for Christian Walker. I own one of the largest luxury hotel chains in the Northwest, and that’s only the beginning. My father’s company is expanding and soon we’ll be taking over the entire country, offering the finest service for the equally filthy rich and elite.

  I don’t know what Elise’s story is or why she spreads her legs for everyone in Gig Harbor. I only know I want a taste, just like everyone else. But unlike everyone else, I can give her the world. Much more than any of the other assholes can. The fact that she’s feisty and smart-tongued only sparks the raging fire. She’s not just some hot piece of ass. She’s a force. A rare diamond. An entity.

  I would know. I’ve been watching her for weeks.

  Had I known such a tempting siren worked right here, under Stella’s roof, I would have started coming here much sooner. Truth is, I grew up in Gig Harbor and I always avoided Stella’s. Their French toast is awful, as is most of their food. But hey, I’m used to dining on gourmet. Can’t blame a man for high standards.

  My fists uncurl and I stretch my fingers, quickly sweeping up the piece of paper she’s left me. My heart beats wildly against my ribcage when I see her phone number. Even her handwriting is eye catching. Messy and untamed. Just as I imagine her to be in bed.

  I fold the piece of paper and stick it inside my suit jacket pocket.

  She returns a few minutes later with my plate. I’m salivating at the sight, and it has nothing to do with the disgusting, sloppy pile of grease she’s serving me. “Careful. It’s hot.” She sets it down and pours my coffee. “You need anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. What time does your shift end?”

  “Four p.m. But I need to go home and change.”

  “I can drive you. I’ll be here at four.”

  “No,” she says quickly—too quickly. “I’ll come to you.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Good.” She nods and eyes my breakfast. “Call me around five.”

  She turns to leave but I stand swiftly, rising to full height to give her a good look at what she’s getting. She needs to know. My shoulders stretch, filling out my suit so the definition I work hard for is visible. Two buttons of my white dress shirt are opened, showing off just a hint of naturally tanned skin. My black tie is as silky as her legs, and my height hovers over hers just enough to show her I’m in charge.

  I extend a firm handshake and hold her gaze. “You didn’t get my name.”

  “Christian Walker,” she says, unimpressed. Her chin nods to my wallet on the table. “You always pay with the same old shiny black card. It matches your shiny black Mercedes. Flashy, flashy.”

  I take a marginal, yet very deliberate step forward and grasp her hand. She eyes the gesture but her gaze slowly rolls back up, landing on mine. “I like what I like. It might be flashy, but it’s what I want. Make no mistake,” I give her hand a firm but gentle squeeze, “same old can be a good thing. When it’s good, it never grows dull.”

  “I stand corrected,” she drawls, narrowing her eyes. “I think I’m gonna like you.” She releases my hand and drifts away, and I keep watching. There’s no way I can take my eyes off her now. But I have to, because I have a breakfast to finish and work to do. Five o’clock will be here before I know it.

  TWO

  I’m pacing. I never pace. Men like me do not pace. We stride confidently, advancing in the exact direction we know we want to go. There is no hesitation; there are no second thoughts. We act. And we always, always walk away with what we want.

  I’ve dialed the number. The phone rings. I finally hear her voice. My shoulders tighten and I hold my breath. “Elise?” I finally exhale.

  “You sound winded,” she laughs knowingly, a low, throaty laugh that makes my skin burn. “You didn’t get started without me, did you?”

  “God, no.” I freeze. She wants to fuck me. She’s going to fuck me. This is good. Very, very good.

  I glance over at a picture of Kylie, kayaking in the San Juans.

  This is bad. Very, very bad.

  “Christian?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  “I’ll come to your place.”

  “My place?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I thought I could buy you a drink.”

  “Ah, of course. The wife.”

  “No, it’s not—it’s not that,” I lie. My hand shoots out and slaps the photo frame face down on the fireplace mantel. “I want to talk.”

  “We can talk at your place. Is she home? What’s your address?”

  “No, she’s not, but—”

  “Christian. Your address.”

  “4570 Madrona Drive.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” The line clicks. The quiet swallows me up, and everything in the house glares at me, every inanimate object searing me with guilt. I don’t stand there and let it turn me to ash. Instead, like the man I know I am, I move. I act.

  My first stop is the bathroom for a shower and a shave. Next up is the bedroom, where I change the sheets. They smell like Kylie’s perfume, and I can’t have that. Not for Elise. Not for this girl, who will surely have a scent of her own. One I already know I want all over every inch of the bed.

  She arrives fifteen minutes later, as promised, but it feels like it’s been an hour. Before Kylie, there were many women. None of them—not a single one—ever made me this high strung. I fight to conceal the nerves with every step I take toward the front door, mentally reminding myself over and over that I’m Christian fucking Walker.

  The door slowly swings open and there she is, an angel of darkness, her flawless blonde hair falling in soft, sexy waves over her shoulders. Her eyes are dark, just like her intentions, and that devious smile plastering her stunning face knocks me on my ass.

  “Well? Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Of course.” I snap out of the haze and step back, gesturing inside. “Please, come in.”

  She strolls inside, eyeing the place up and down. Her grin has disappeared, replaced with that numb, introspective expression I’ve seen her wear time and time again at the diner. I wonder what she’s thinking so deeply about. Her words and actions are so impulsive, so careless, contradicting the depth in her eyes. I can’t figure her out, but I’m not sure I want to. She’s so alluring just the way she is, I don’t want to disrupt the mysterious mirage that’s ensnared me.

  “What can I get you to drink?” I ask, closing the door. My gaze darts to the fireplace. I’ve left all the pictures there, in full view. What other option do I have? Kylie will be home this evening. I can’t rid our home of every single remnant of our life together.

  “Champagne.”

  “Champagne?” A surprised smile teases my lips.

  “I think this is cause for celebration, don’t you?” She pivots on her hip, glancing playfully over her shoulder. My fingers twitch. I need to touch her. I need to touch her soon.

  I hesitate before answering. Is this cause for celebration? This could be the beginning of the end of my marriage. Not that it hasn’t been crumbling before Elise stepped through my door, but still. This is something, and I’m not sure it’s something to celebrate.

  I decide to play along. “I like the way you think.”

  “Where’s the bedroom?” She starts for the hallway, tilting her head to peer up the stairwell.

  My fingers move swiftly over the champagne flutes. My free hand braces the edge of the bar, supporting my weight. If her words alone make me feel this weak, I’m definitely in trouble. “Up the stairs to th
e left,” I say, turning to take a quick swig. When I swing back around, she’s already on her way, slinking up the stairway, those long, golden locks cascading down her back. Fucking hell, she’s wearing stockings. And heels. Heels I’d give my first born to have wrapped around my neck.

  A beat passes before I begin to follow her, carefully carrying the glasses as I’m pulled into her web. She lures me upstairs, and all I can do is stand there in the doorway and watch as she walks straight for the closet. She runs a slender arm over Kylie’s clothing, stopping when she reaches the wall of shoes perched neatly on the shelf. Kylie owns more shoes than any woman I’ve ever known. Her taste is fantastic. It’s one of the reasons I fell for her—the way she carries herself, with such pride, such confidence. Elise reaches out for a pair of silver stilettos, plucking them off the shelf with vigor. It becomes clear to me that I’m just as taken with Elise’s confidence. That along with her killer body, it’s what’s drawn me to her.

  But it’s a different kind of confidence. Wreckless. Nonchalant. It’s so natural, like breathing. Yet there’s this vacant space in her eyes, as if the confidence is a scapegoat. Not because it’s false, but because it’s all she knows.

  “I love these.” She slips off her own shoes and slides into Kylie’s stilettos, smiling down at her feet. “Same size.”

  “They look stunning on you.” I set our glasses down on the dresser but don’t move from the doorway, just remain there, entirely rapt by her bold observation. “Would you like to try something else on?”

  “No,” she sighs, taking a leisurely stroll toward me. “I’m here to take things off.” Her eyes hold mine as she moves in, her hands landing lightly on my chest. “You’ve been watching me for a while, Christian.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t break the contact. I’m starved for it. The second her fingers brush over my chest, I swear it feels as if they’re skimming my bare skin. My shirt is nonexistent. There is no barrier. “I have.”