Page 5 of Bought

“I’ll have a car pick you up…”

I don’t wait to hear the rest of his sentence. He’s not listening to me. He’s just rolling right over me, imposing his will on me as if I’m just some dumb object to be acted upon. It’s become apparent that I need to get out of here. Now.

I grab for my laptop and I practically run from the room.

“Casey, wait…”

“No! I’m not yours!”

Those are words I never thought I’d have to yell at a billionaire, but here we are.

“You’re only making this harder on yourself,” he sighs as I leave.

I half expect him to come after me, but he lets me go without giving chase. I rush past the bitchy secretary and head to the elevators. It takes way too many heart-pounding seconds for the doors to open, and then, once I’m inside the elevator, for them to close.

It’s as if time has gone into slow motion, and as I stand there, clutching my laptop in front of myself like a shield, I see Ethan coming through those glass doors. My heart starts to pound so hard the blood rushes in my ears. He’s on the phone. Talking to someone. As our eyes meet across the lobby, he flickers a wink at me, which makes my stomach drop to my fucking toes.

Then the doors close and I am safe from his gaze. The elevator descends slowly, floor by floor. I am still buzzing with adrenaline, even though I am pretty sure I’m safe now. Whatever he said up there doesn’t apply in the real world. People can’t just take each other. That’s not remotely legal. In fact, it’s the complete opposite.

I hurry away from the building. My car is parked in a cheap spot a couple of blocks away, and I can’t wait to get into it. I’m half afraid that someone will come bursting out of one of the dark alleys I pass on my way, but I remain comfortably unhampered until I reach my Toyota and dive inside.

Cars are good places for feeling safe. They’re rolling armored fortresses. With all the windows rolled up and the doors locked, I feel a bit better. I grab my phone and reach out into the digital world where I feel the most comfortable.

‘Note to self,’ I post on my wall. ‘Billionaires be crazy.’ I append a .gif of Patrick Bateman in the middle of his infamous business card rant. Not everyone will get the reference, but it doesn’t matter. They get the gist of it.

It starts getting likes immediately. Everyone hates billionaires. Nobody is more of a universally reviled dick than somebody who has managed to make a vast amount of money.

Feeling validated, and better, I start the car.

A second later, a loud rapping on the window makes me let out a screech of shock. When I look up, there’s a police officer standing outside. He’s a younger guy, easy on the eyes. He motions for me to roll down the window. I do as I’m told.

“Step out of the car, ma’am.”

If I know anything from watching endless videos of police encounters online, I know better than to argue with him.

“Is there a problem, Officer?”

The clichéd question comes out of my mouth like I’m scripted. Police officers are the only people we ever ask if there are problems.

“Out of the car, ma’am.”

I put my phone down and get out of the car. I have an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’d understand being stopped if I’d just run a red, but I was sitting in a parked car. Even I can’t break any laws sitting still. I think.

Looks like I’m running into the second overbearing asshole on a power trip in one day. Maybe the moon is in Dickbagatarius, if that’s a sign, which it should be. I can think of quite a few people who must have been born under that sign.

It’s funny. Ethan Keller couldn’t stop me from just walking out of his office, but these guys can walk up to you and just take you prisoner. Literally. Like something out of Keller’s wet dream.

“Turn around and face away from me, ma’am. Put your hands on the top of the car.”

I do as I’m told and a second later I feel a pair of strong, masculine hands running down my thighs and calves, sweeping across my ass, finding my hips and waist. This is intimate as hell, even if the touch does only last a fraction of a second. Those hands come all the way up under my breasts. Then they come up over my shoulders, to my arms, which are pulled back behind me. Cool steel encircles my wrists as he cuffs me without so much as a word.

“Be advised, I have one in custody,” he says into his radio.

“You’re arresting me?”

“Watch your head, ma’am,” is all he says as he puts me into the back of a waiting police cruiser.

This isn’t right. The police can’t just handcuff you and put you in their car. Or can they? I’m really not sure anymore. The world has gotten very strange over the last hour or two. He’s supposed to at least tell me what’s going on, right?

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