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CHAPTER TWO

JAKE

“Son of a bitch!” I jerk at the shriek, yanking at my metal restraints.

In the doorway stands a woman, frozen in place. Not the crazy redhead who’d locked me up and abandoned me. This one’s more Snow White than Evil Queen with inky shoulder-length hair and pale, pale cheeks.

Her mouth opens in shock, and she stumbles back. “Oh my god. Ohmygod. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!”

“Wait!” My voice ekes out, a scratchy whisper. Hours and hours of yelling for help will do that.

I struggle to get up, grunting when my chafed skin rubs against the cuffs anchoring my wrists to the headboard. No fucking way am I staying stuck here, butt-naked and bound, any longer. Who knows when someone else’ll come along? Plus, I’m dying to piss, and it’s been close to twenty-five years since I wet a bed.

“Lady, hold on! Where are you?—”

A thump, then, “Oof!”

Shit, she’s tripped on something. I crane my neck. A suitcase?

She flips onto her butt, hands braced on the ground by her hips. The hem of her gray tank top has ridden up, exposing an inch of skin. In her winded silence, I’m able to get my words through. “Wait, please! Help me! I’m not supposed to be here!”

She scrambles to her feet. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” A trembling British accent registers as she crosses her arms over her chest as if to shield herself, and she waits, poised to run at any moment.

She doesn’t look like a nutso, but the past few hours have proven that I’m a shitty judge of character. I scowl, and she retreats a step.

Shit. I draw in a lungful of air, forcing my body to relax and keep my tone as unthreatening as possible. “My name’s Jake. I was out at a bar, and a woman invited me over.”

And I accepted. Because I’m the genius who decided a short sequined dress, pillowy red lips, and a fuck ton of tequila was exactly what I needed to get out of this funk I’d been in.

“Here? Why?” Her voice is a high-pitched tremor. Blue eyes blink rapidly, a proverbial deer in the headlights, before stilling on my uncovered dick, widening, then snapping to my face.

I raise an eyebrow. Even if I weren’t lying here naked, trussed up like a holiday turkey waiting for the oven, it would be obvious.

She flutters her fingers at the traitorous body part responsible for this fiasco, keeping her eyes resolutely off it. “But, but how did you end up in such a state?”

She peers around again suspiciously. “Hold on, is this an adult movie set? Are you an…actor? Is this a prank of some sort? Am I on one of those hidden-camera shows where they record people’s reactions in absurd situations?”

A bark of unexpected laughter escapes me. Now why didn’t I think of that? Damn, I wish it was me getting punked. And that they’d yell “cut” already.

“No, this is not a porn set.” Each of my wrists is secured in a pink furry cuff, and the half-foot chain linking them is looped around the center rail of this wrought iron monstrosity. “We were making out, and then she cuffed me to the bed.”

“But how ?”

I know what the lady in front of me is thinking. I’m six-foot-five and built like the professional football player that I am. “Well, she kind of asked me…” My voice trails off as I recall how Stella whipped the sheet off then stroked the swirly headboard, luring me into this mess.

At that, the woman’s expression shifts from wary to outright incredulity. “And you said yes?”

In the grand scheme of things, a little handcuff action barely registers as avant-garde on the kink-o-meter, and given the snoozefest life’s been since many of my teammates settled down to lives of domesticity, I figured, why not? No one’s ever going to say I’m not open to new experiences.

Her eyes flicker to my dick for a brief second, and then fix on a spot above my head. Normally, I’d be flattered, but right now, I want out of these cuffs. The bladder situation is dire.

“She took your clothes off?”

Well, that I kind of did myself.

“They’re on the ground, under the sheets somewhere.”

“And then you…?” Her cheeks flush in pure embarrassment, and I’m hit with an absurd urge to laugh.

“Oh, no.” We never even got to that portion of the night. Thank fuck. My jaw clenches. “She said something about changing.”

Idiot that I was, I spent those few minutes fantasizing about what type of sexy underwear she’d return in and eager to find out if we were kicking off the festivities with cowgirl or reverse cowgirl.

“And she just left you?”

I grunt. Err, no. She came back, fully dressed as she proceeded to put the keys to the handcuffs tauntingly right out of my reach on the nightstand, then took a pic with one hand all while biting into a muffin with the other. Meanwhile, I lay there, gaping like a fool. Then, she left. Not that this woman needs the full play-by-play.

It was a whole fucking set up, and I fell for it hook, line, and rubber duck. I knew that photo wasn’t a private affair once my phone started its nonstop buzzing somewhere on the damned floor.

What stupid fuckwad gets himself into this type of situation? Note to self: Next time one considers handcuffs, make sure to claim the role of handcuffer instead of handcuffee. Also—confirm one isn’t hooking up with a complete psycho. Not that there’s going to be a next time.

“Who was she?”

I aim a piercing stare in her direction. “Why don’t you tell me?”

She looks taken aback for a second before retorting, “How would I know?”

“Well, you’re here…I’m here…”

She shakes her head vigorously, her hair whipping at her face. “I just arrived. From the airport. This is my Airbnb. I think.” Her gaze flits around her room again, probably wishing I’d poof out of existence in the meantime.

I shouldn’t believe her, but if what she’s saying is true, I’d be shit-scared if I checked into an Airbnb and discovered a random dude shackled to my bed—or not, given the jokers on the team.

“You really don’t know this woman?” I probe once more. “Not that I’m going to judge you by the company you keep.” I will. I totally will.

Another head shake.

“She said her name was Stella,” I prompt, but there’s no recognition on the woman’s face.

“Was she a prostitute?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. She didn’t ask for money or anything.” Unless this was some kind of pay-as-you-go system.

Before she has a chance to interrogate me further, I plead, “Can you please, please unlock me? I need to pee.”

She fiddles with the bottom of her shirt. At least her expression isn’t so petrified anymore. “How long have you been here?”

“Hours.” I jiggle my fingers, making the cuffs clang for emphasis. Hours where I was left shouting “Stella” à la Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire in the only fucking apartment in Murray Hill with no frat-boy neighbors. Seriously, I’d even started to believe I was in the middle of the zombie apocalypse.

“She just vanished?” Skepticism oozes out of her every pore.

For a split second, I debate asking if she dared to think I was the cause of poor Stella’s disappearance but decide against it when the woman glances at the door, as if contemplating running off herself. Well, we can’t have that.

“I swear, I’m not dangerous.” I keep my voice slow, soothing.

Doubtful eyes meet mine, and I’m struck again by how blue they are. She takes a hesitant step forward, only to shuffle back a second later. Her uneasiness is palpable. She sucks in a shaky breath before muttering, “Maybe I should call the police.”

That would be the smart thing to do, though I cringe at New York’s finest catching me butt-naked.

“Go right ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide.” I wiggle my big toe at the base of the bed. “My wallet’s in my jeans. Must be on the floor somewhere. There’s ID in there. Check. I’m not lying.”

She darts a glance at the pile in question then back to me. I hold my breath and remain completely still. I’ll play dead if that’s what it takes for her to free me. Warily, she crab-walks sideways, her attention fixed on me. I return her gaze with a bland one of my own. Not like I’m going anywhere, am I?

She grabs a sheet and throws it over my dick. Thank fuck. I’m not shy, but it is kind of chilly in here.

I slowly exhale when she picks the denim off the floor and retrieves my wallet. As she rifles through it, a condom falls out. Her blush deepens. She stuffs it back with a muttered, “Sorry.”

I give her a small smile. As long as she’s not running out on me, I don’t care.

She fishes out my license. Dark brows pinch together as she reviews it.

And three, two, one.

“Jake Cunningham?”

“That’s me. In the flesh.” I flash her my trademark smirk.

But there’s no familiar excitement at my name, no exultant sighs, or boob-baring in hopes of an autograph. Nothing registers.

Huh. So much for taking advantage of my celebrity status as the running back for the New York Titans.

She nibbles at her lower lip, her teeth pulling at the soft skin. Even though it seems the threat level’s been downgraded, she doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to release me. She taps her chin.

Fine. This is gonna take a while. I let out a long sigh. “So, enough about me. You are…?”