Page 28 of Filthy Christmas

She flinches, pulling her legs closer to her chest. It would take no effort at all to spread those thighs and see what’s going on under that shirt she’s wearing. It’s thin enough that I’d be able to see her nipples through it if her legs weren’t in the way.

Her eyes go round, widening until they practically bulge from her head. “But… why?”

“We’re not the ones who can answer that question. And honestly, it doesn’t matter right now.”

“To you, maybe.”

Mason breaks in before I can remind her that we’re doing her a favor and don’t want to hear her smart mouth. There’s plenty I could do with that mouth. I doubt she’d like all of it—at least, not right away. She’d tell herself she didn’t, of course. “What matters now is keeping you out of sight. So they think you’re dead.”

It takes her a second to catch on. I guess I’d be confused, too, if I woke up with two strangers pointing guns at me. All in all, she’s handling it pretty well.

“So I’m supposed to hide for the rest of my life? I can’t ever go home?” She gulps. “Not ever?”

“Why would you want to?” Mason shoots me a look for that, but I don’t much care. I’m genuinely surprised she would feel this way. “I mean, I was there. I saw what your life looked like. If anything, this is a second chance.”

“A second chance at what?” A disbelieving little giggle bubbles up from her chest. “With what? Using what? I don’t even have an ID now. It’s all at the apartment. I have to go back for it.”

“No. You can’t.”

“But I have to!”

I hate complaining more than just about anything else. “Okay, quit the whining.” I have to get up and put space between us, or else I don’t know what I’ll do. She might look like a woman, but she’s acting like a spoiled little brat. Maybe she just needs a spanking.

Mason’s always had more patience than me. “You just can’t. They’ll know you’re alive, whoever they are. Which means they’ll be even more determined to find you and get rid of you for real. Understand?”

She starts rocking back and forth, staring straight ahead with her chin on her knees. For a second, I think she might be in shock. I mean, I guess I would be, too. Mason and I look at each other. He lifts a shoulder.

“I have to use the bathroom. Now. I’m going to be sick.” She gets up, swaying a little. I reach out and catch her before she hits the floor, meaning she lands against me. It might’ve been better to let her drop since having her warm, soft body in my arms sets off all kinds of dark, nasty thoughts.

But the idea of having puke all over me isn’t a turn-on, so I steer her to the bathroom on this floor. “Just breathe,” I mutter, practically carrying her when her legs don’t work fast enough. “Don’t throw up on me.” She stumbles into the room, and I close the door before I have to see anything. Hearing her gagging is bad enough.

I can blow a guy’s brains out without flinching. But puke is too much.

Mason sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is a bad idea.”

“No shit.” I press in on my temples, trying to ward off a headache. “But what do you want to do about it? Take her back? This was your idea, remember?”

“Fuck you. You went along with it. It’s not like you were about to pull the trigger, either.”

He’s right. I could’ve ended this pretty easily. Squeeze the trigger, problem solved. Extra money to grab a few more Christmas gifts for Mom. She always did love Christmas—even more than we did when we were kids. At least it seemed that way.

Now? A girl is throwing up in my bathroom, and we have to make it look like we killed her. Add in how fucking tempting she is, and this is a recipe for disaster.

Thinking of her brings my attention back to the closed door. She’s not gagging anymore. “You okay in there? We’ve got things to discuss.” No answer.

Shit. I look at Mason, who’s staring at the door. “Frankie? Say something.”

“Are there razors or pills in there?” I turn the knob and find she locked the door at some point. When did that happen? How did I miss it? “Dammit, Frankie, don’t make me break this door down. You’ll be the one who ends up paying for it.”

When I don’t get an answer, there’s no choice but to kick the damn thing down. It doesn’t take much effort. The door swings open, wood splinters flying.

And there she is, with her ass hanging out of the window, the top half of her body outside. Trying to get away. “Are you fucking with me?” Before I know what I’m doing, I cross the room and slap her across the ass, good and hard. I don’t know what made me do it. The feeling of dealing with an ignorant little brat, maybe. Brats get spanked.

She jumps a little, kicking out with her feet. “Don’t hurt me, please! Don’t hurt me!”

“Nobodywasgoing to hurt you.” Now, though? Now I want to teach her a lesson. First, I have to get her out of the window, where she got herself stuck. “We should leave you like this and let you freeze to death, you fucking idiot.” A couple of tugs, and she’s back in the room, sliding down the wall until she crouches on the floor with her arms crossed over her bent head.

“Please. Just let me go.” She’s shaking from head to toe, and I don’t think it’s from the cold. Something about the way she’s acting makes my blood boil. We saved her life tonight, and she’s acting like we’re the ones who ordered the hit on her.

---