Until Mayhem: Happily Ever Alpha World Read online

  I waited for the skitter of fear to slide down my spine, but, proving I had the instincts of a jellyfish, it never came.

  Holy shit, I need to be smarter—and that starts by watching my mouth.

  It may have literally taken biting my bottom lip, but I kept my smartass response to myself.

  And, so crazy there was no way I was reading him correctly, Psycho looked disappointed.

  When I couldn’t take our silent staring contest any longer, I dipped my head to the bags. “Pajamas?”

  He bent and rummaged through a bag before pulling out a bundle and handing it to me. “Yell when you’re done.”

  As soon as the door closed, I rushed to check the window—locked, plus a security sensor that wasn’t even trying to be subtle. I searched through the drawers for a weapon, but there was nothing. Not even a rubber band, pen, and paperclip I could MacGyver into a projectile.

  Knowing I was running short on time, I quickly threw off my clothes and redressed in the gray bralette, soft pink tee, and gray floral joggers he’d given me.

  It pissed me off how much I loved the outfit. It was perfectly sized and incredibly comfortable, yet still pretty.

  “I’m dressed,” I called out, stepping away so I didn’t get knocked with the door.

  But it didn’t open.

  Maybe he changed his mind.

  Moving to the bed, I picked up the beauty store bag Psycho had left on the edge. I had intended to toss it to the side with the rest of the stuff that tempted me, but as soon as my hands made contact, my self-control took a backseat to my curiosity.

  Actually, they weren’t even in the same vehicle any more.

  I carefully pushed the paper aside to see he hadn’t been kidding about the sales woman going to town. There was shampoo, conditioner, eyeshadow, and more skincare products than my already high-maintenance routine contained.

  And that was just what I could see at first glance.

  I pulled out a bottle of K-Beauty cleanser, and immediately set it down, not wanting to get emotionally attached.

  Grabbing the shampoo—a brand I didn’t recognize—I turned it over to see it claimed to do all sorts of magical things.

  I can’t even imagine the price tag. Never, ever trying. Not even once.

  Okay, maybe once.

  I was about to set it down when I saw the foundation and concealer it’d been blocking. Both were within a shade of my usual, which was impressive considering how many options there were. Rifling through, the blushes and lipsticks were also the right color family. When I opened a hefty rectangular palette, it was filled with the choose-your-own eyeshadow pots that were held in with magnets.

  And from my lengthy tutorial research, I knew all the colors were complementary to gray eyes.

  The sales lady may have picked out the specifics, but he had to have given her some direction.

  How did he notice all these details in our short interaction?

  The last guy I’d dated—for seven months—hadn’t even been able tell me my eye color. It’d come out during the game night from hell when he’d bombed playing an easy version of The Newlywed Game. While I’d nailed matching all his answers, he hadn’t gotten a single answer right. Embarrassed and more than a little tipsy, I’d confronted him, rapid-firing the most basic of questions, only to find he knew nothing about me.

  Not my birthday.

  Not my favorite food.

  Not my favorite movie, music, or hobby.

  When I’d closed my eyes and asked what color they were, he’d tried to bluster angrily before finally claiming they were dark brown.

  I’d have accepted blue since my eyes could appear lighter if I was wearing a shade of it. Out of a desperate need to prove I hadn’t wasted seven months of my life, I would’ve even accepted hazel.

  But brown? No, not just brown, but dark brown?

  That’d been the end of the relationship.

  My friends had comforted me with more booze and claims that men never remembered details like that. But as I looked at the bag, I wondered if they’d just been lying to make me feel better.

  The door behind me opened so suddenly, I jumped and turned, almost dropping the fragile palette I held.

  Psycho stood in the doorway, still clad in just his boxers—and his tattoos were not the only thing they showed off. My eyes shot up, but it didn’t help much since his cocky smile did unbelievable things to his hotness—something else I tried to ignore. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”

  “I said I was dressed a few minutes ago,” I blurted, sounding defensive and guilty.

  “I heard. Had to finish up a call.”

  “Oh.”

  He tilted his head toward the bag. “You change your mind about washing up?”

  Yes.

  “No.” I put the palette down and pointed out, “These are all the right shades.”

  “And?”

  “You said the lady picked everything out.”

  “Had to give her some direction since there’s a shit-ton of options.”

  “Guys don’t remember that kind of stuff.”

  “Then you’ve been datin’ assholes,” he shot back through clenched teeth. Taking a few long strides, he stopped close. “Don’t know what most of this shit is. But I sure as fuck know what you look like. I told her, and she sold me half the store.”

  My heart hammered in my chest and my stomach turned to warm, melty, twisting giddiness.

  Fine, he’s a thoughtful psycho. Still a psycho.

  Don’t get caught up in his charming danger.

  I looked up to tell him where he could shove the entire purchase, but when I opened my mouth, those weren’t the words that came out. “When’s my birthday?”

  Psycho’s brows lowered. “ID says June seventh.”

  Okay, he’s better than Alex. That’s not a high bar to hurdle over.

  Plus, Alex never kidnapped me, so maybe they’re tied.

  Angry at Alex for lowering my standards, Psycho for being, well, psycho, and at myself for being the kind of idiot who was going to have her very own multi-episode Dateline special, I didn’t say anything more as I turned away and cleared the bag off the bed. I climbed in, rolled to my side, and pulled the covers over my head, doing my best to block out the fact there was a man in his boxers preparing to sleep on the floor.

  Once the light was off and the heat under the blanket became unbearable, I uncovered my head. Long, sleepless minutes passed, and I rolled to my back.

  My body had settled into the mattress like it was perfectly made for me, but my mind wasn’t shutting down the same way.

  “What’s your name?” I asked suddenly, realizing he’d never told me.

  “Judge Hawkins.”

  “Not much better than Psycho,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “I said, I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

  “Wasn’t sleepin’ yet.”

  Since I wasn’t sure if that was the truth or a white lie, I didn’t respond for a few minutes. But, again, my curiosity got the better of me, and I quietly called, “Judge?”

  A soft groan came from the floor, but I wasn’t sure if it was him snoring or a noise of frustration because I kept talking while he was trying to sleep.

  Deciding in either case I should just shut up, I pressed my lips together.

  “What d’ya need?” he prompted, his voice rough but not sharp or irritated.

  “Is Judge your biker gang—”

  “Not a gang,” he interrupted.

  “So you never break the law?” I shot back.

  “Never said that.”

  “Then why…” I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me. “I’m not getting into classification semantics with you. Is Judge your… motorcycle enthusiast nickname?”

  Choked back laughter rumbled through his voice as he asked, “My road name?”

  “Sure that, too.”

  “No, it’s my real name.”

  I rolled to face the side he wa
s on. “Like, it’s who you are, so now it’s your real name?”

  “No, it’s the name on my birth certificate and license, so it’s my real name.”

  “Your parents named you Judge?” Realizing how rude that sounded, I amended, “It’s not a bad name, just unusual. And, I mean, my parents named me Ophelia, so I’ve got no room to talk.”

  “Know Jury’s my brother, right?”

  “I figured that.”

  “My folks met because Ma was my dad’s lawyer back in the day. It became a… thing for them, so they named us Judge and Jury.”

  Once again, I was surprised by how much he shared. I wanted to grill him for more, but my brain was finally starting to get that heavy, foggy feeling of sleepiness, and chances were I’d miss any answer he gave.

  “They’re good names,” I muttered, curling up.

  “And Ophelia’s the prettiest fuckin’ name I’ve ever heard,” he whispered back.

  Closing my eyes, I fell asleep trying to ignore the warmth that spread through me at his words.

  Trying, but failing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ___________________________

  IPSO FACTO, YOU DAMN MUPPET

  OPHELIA

  I’D FALLEN.

  Not physically, though I was teetering awfully close to the edge of a bed—and not my own.

  I’d jolted awake, the jarring sensation of falling a great height to my death enough to make my heart race. And though I’d been sprawled on a soft bed, and not the jagged rocks of a ravine, my heart rate hadn’t slowed.

  It’d sped up, beating the wild tempo of a rocking drum solo in my chest.

  Rapidly blinking, I tried to sort through the haze that bogged down my brain, beckoning me to close my eyes and go back to sleep.

  I almost obeyed, my heavy lids closing and refusing to open again, when I heard it.

  Breathing.

  And, again, not my own.

  My eyes shot open and I rolled, nearly falling off the edge that was even closer than I’d thought. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to make out his silhouette.

  Psycho.

  Judge.

  Lying on his back, his steady, even breathing filled the air.

  He’s asleep. Vulnerable.

  My eyes darted to the large shadow that was his muscular body.

  Kinda vulnerable.

  Maybe.

  I stayed where I was, trying to decide what to do. I could get up and make a run for it again, but between my lack of shoes and the insanely loud alarm, I wouldn’t get far.

  A well-aimed foot to the crotch could buy me a few minutes head start, but the aforementioned shoe-alarm issue would still create a problem.

  There were probably a wealth of other possibilities, but escape protocol wasn’t exactly something I’d brushed up on, so I was drawing a blank.

  But I had to do something.

  I can pretend I’ve got to go to the bathroom, grab my shoes as I go, then jump out the window. Even with the alarm, I could probably make it just far enough to find a spot to hide until morning.

  Adrenaline and anxiety made me tense and jittery, like I would come out of my skin if I didn’t move.

  I was about to roll toward the other side of the bed to execute my escape when something on the floor next to Psycho caught my eye.

  His gun.

  I was pretty sure, at least. What else could it could be?

  If I grab it, I don’t have to run and hide until God knows when. I can walk out of here.

  Trepidation mixed with a sense of foreboding filled me, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was about to make a huge mistake.

  Do I really want to leave?

  That one stupid thought was enough to confirm I needed to hightail it out of there. Charming danger was still danger, and I needed to remember that.

  Holding my breath, I moved slowly, but each inch seemed to cause a deafening creak. I paused, and when Judge didn’t wake, I stood in one fast, fluid movement. I wasn’t sure how loud it’d been since my pounding heartbeat filled my ears, blocking out everything else.

  My body was so tense, my muscles felt like they were about to turn my bones to dust. Lack of air burned my lungs and made my head swim, and I had to force myself to breathe before I passed out and fell on him.

  I was not made out for a life of spy-y things.

  Darting my gaze between Judge’s face and my target, I slowly bent over him. I was positive the thundering in my chest would wake him, but his eyes stayed closed.

  Mine didn’t because I couldn’t blink.

  Couldn’t breathe.

  My fingertips barely grazed the cold metal when something grabbed my wrist. Tight.

  I yelped and tried to pull away, my wide eyes shooting to Judge’s open ones.

  Casual and cool as could be, he put his hand under his head. “What exactly was your plan here?”

  There were a million things I could’ve said. Or, better yet, I could’ve remained silent. But instead I blurted, “You were asleep.”

  “Nope.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Think I’d know if I was sleepin’,” he pointed out.

  Again, stupidly, I declared, “You were supposed to be.”

  “So you could grab my gun and what? Were you gonna use it, princess? Grip the cold steel, press it to my head, and blow me away?”

  I wasn’t sure how much more my poor heart could take, but his words, the barely restrained rage that roughened his tone, and the way he held my wrist tight enough to almost hurt made me feel like I was about to have a heart attack.

  It also made me wet.

  So unbelievably, undeniably, embarrassingly wet.

  Not that murder was my plan or my kink. But the erotic way he spoke. The power in his words, in my actions.

  It was wreaking mayhem on my sensibilities.

  “I wasn’t,” I started, and even to my own ears, I could hear the breathiness. Hoping he’d chalk it up to the fear that should’ve been shaking me to my core, I cleared my throat and tried for firm and unaffected. “I wasn’t going to use it.” Realizing I’d called my own bluff, I added, “Unless you made me.”

  He chuckled, but it was gruff. “Nice try, badass.”

  “Why were you pretending to be asleep?”

  “Wasn’t.”

  “Your eyes were closed.”

  “Yeah, ‘cause I was tryin’ to fall asleep… kinda easier to do that with my eyes closed.”

  I’m so not a Bond Girl-level super spy.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” I asked without thinking.

  “Got a fuck-all hot woman in my bed—a bed I’m not in with her—and a shitstorm is swirlin’. I don’t know how she fits in, but no matter what, that shit isn’t good.” Still gripping my wrist, he brought my hand over his torso. He moved it down, my fingertips skimming his abs. “I’d finally gotten my body to settle, but then I felt eyes on me, and…” He stopped our hands right above the waistband of his boxers, and his voice was rough with something other than rage when he finished, “It was hard to relax again.”

  If I’d thought I was wet before, it was nothing compared to the fresh wave of arousal that pooled between my legs, coating my inner thighs.

  It was stupid and reckless and absolutely fuckin’ insane of me, but in that moment, I was having trouble remembering why I shouldn’t reach my fingers out to feel whether he was speaking literally or figuratively.

  Before I could make that epic mistake—or, worse, fulfill his earlier claim by begging—ringing filled the air.

  Judge took advantage of the distraction, pushing his gun far out of reach and tugging me down at the same time.

  I landed sprawled across his torso, making us both grunt. His changed to a wheezed ooph as I scrambled off to sit next to him. He released my wrist but quickly clasped it again using the hand closest to me.

  You try to steal a guy’s gun once, and there goes all the trust.

  I scrunched my eyes when the phone’s bli
nding light illuminated the room.

  Judge pressed it to his ear. “Yeah?”

  Whoever was on the other end spoke, but I couldn’t make out a thing they said. As they talked, Psycho’s hand flexed around my wrist, and he pushed my palm flat against his stomach.

  He pulled the phone away from his ear a little, and the light and shadows played together to do wonderful, sinister things to his already gorgeous face.

  “You’re not a stripper?” he asked.

  Assuming he was talking to them, I continued admiring his bone structure while simultaneously ignoring the irrational jealousy that knotted my stomach.

  So what if he’s talking to a possible stripper?

  He’s a dangerous psycho.

  Let her and her probably killer body and awesomely sexy moves deal with him.

  “O?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I snapped.

  His lip twitched. “You didn’t answer me. You’re not a stripper?”

  Maybe this whole thing is a crazy, Lifetime Movie-esque case of mistaken identity.

  Trying not to get my hopes up, I shook my head. “Why?”

  Ignoring my question, he asked, “You a call girl?”

  My eyes widened and jaw dropped. “You think I’m a hooker?”

  I didn’t judge people in that line of work because it wasn’t my place and I didn’t know the circumstances that’d driven them to it. That said, I’d never been confused for a prostitute, and I was surprised he thought I was one.

  “Relax,” Judge said, something that would’ve made me do the exact opposite had I not been distracted by our conversation. “I said call girl. Ten-G-plus a night.”

  “Ten thousand? People pay ten thousand dollars for sex?”

  I’m in the wrong line of work.

  An inferno of heat filled his hooded gaze. “I’d pay everything I have and my fuckin’ soul for one night with you, princess.”

  Thankfully, the caller said something, and I was saved from having to respond. Because, seriously, what could I even say to that?

  “Fuck off,” Judge said into the phone, though his light tone didn’t match his words. “What the fuck is a boom?” He paused to listen before continuing. “Yeah, do it.”

  As soon as he ended the call, I asked, “What was—”