Any Means Necessary
: Chapter 11

Stepping out of the apartment lobby, I see Roscoe standing at the street with the car door already open for me with the engine running. His lips twitch with a smile as he greets me with a nod.

It’s been a few days since I’ve been summoned for the job. Things have been pretty quiet around the penthouse with the men off dealing with business. But after receiving a text to be ready to go when Roscoe pulls up, I’ve got my game-face on.

The air is tense when I climb into the SUV where Callum is already waiting. He’s focused on his phone, furiously typing either a text or an email. As soon as I’m in the car, Roscoe climbs behind the wheel and we’re peeling away from the curb. Looking between the two men, I feel like I’ve missed something.

“I feel like something’s wrong…” I let my voice trail off, meeting Roscoe’s eyes in the rearview mirror before turning my attention back to Callum.

“Things didn’t go how I planned, so it’s time to switch tactics.” The darkness beneath Callum’s words makes me pity whoever screwed him over. Feeling my eyes, he glances in my direction.

“You’re bleeding,” I say, startled, causing Callum to reach for his temple. His fingertips come away covered in blood. I scooch closer in concern, trying to get a better look. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” he argues.

“Let me see, Callum.” I’m not taking no for an answer. When he finally relents, I lean in closer to get a good look. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s deep. “You need stitches.”

“Alright, go ahead.”

“You want me to do it here? Right now?” I look around the back seat, at a loss.

“Yes.” Not seeing another choice, I lift the medical kit from its place on the floor with a sigh.

“How did this happen?” I ask, riffling through the supplies for what I’ll need to sew him up.

“We raided a safehouse.” He’s back to typing on his phone. “The Russians didn’t go down without a fight.”

I’ve overheard him talking about his deal with Viktor Mikhailov. Callum arranged for one of Viktor’s men to be arrested and sentenced—which all went down without a hitch—in exchange for a location. I’m guessing that location was for the safehouse. Callum’s been a busy boy the last three days.

“I can’t get the right angle sitting like this.” I’m expecting him to realize the backseat of a car isn’t the ideal place for medical procedures. What I’m not expecting is for him to put his phone down before pulling me onto his lap. I gasp, quickly shifting to make sure the majority of my weight is supported by my knees.

“Is this angle better, Doc?” he asks as I stare at him wide-eyed. My eyes move over his face, and I give a small nod.

Hot damn.

Sucking in a breath, I focus on the task at hand. Or at least I try to.

“I need you to hold still,” I huff in frustration when a bump in the road has the needle I’m trying to aim at the deep cut on his left temple gets dangerously close to Callum’s eye. Straddling his lap in a moving car is getting harder by the second as the burning starts in my thighs from my attempt to remain hovering. “Can we pull over and stop the car?”

“We have somewhere to be,” Callum responds evenly.

“If you want me to sew you up, I need to be able to use this needle without giving you a nose piercing.” My frustration level is rising. If I could just remain steady and hover while we drive, that would be great.

With the gash on his forehead, I have a sneaking suspicion there are bruises and other injuries hidden under his suit. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man who did this to him is no longer breathing.

“Sit on my lap, Dewdrop. All the way.” Callum’s gaze on me means business, his grip on my waist tightening.

“I’m heavy, I don’t want to hurt you.” My attempt to brush him off isn’t successful, and his hands take my hips firmly.

“I can take you. All of you.”

Still shaking my head, I fight to remain raised. “You’re injured, I’ll crush you.”

One of Callum’s hands moves from my waist to guide my chin until my eyes meet his. The intent in his gaze leaves no room for argument when he speaks.

“So crush me.” The hand on my hip adds pressure to lower me as I finally relent. He wants my full two hundred and thirty-two pounds on his lap? Fine, I’ll give the man what he wants. Releasing my legs, I sit on his lap without any support. A noise of satisfaction sounds deep in Callum’s throat as I situate my body on his lap.

“That’s my girl.” Strong hands grip my hips, locking me in place against him. His words, spoken so deeply, send a wave of heat through me. My eyes lock with his, the pools of hazel pulling me in and threatening to drown me.

The sight of crimson blood trailing down his left eyelid is a startling reminder of what I’m doing here. My heart skips a beat as I force a slow deep breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I have to get this man stitched up before he bleeds everywhere. Taking his chin in one hand, I tilt his head down for the best angle to address his wound.

“Now stay still,” I order, dabbing the gash with an iodine swab. I’m not about to let this get infected, especially an area so close to his eye.

“Whatever you say, Doc.” There’s something in his voice, something primal and self-satisfied, that has me glancing down. In this position, my breasts are barely a few short inches from his face and he has a very clear view of my chest down the v-neck of my top.

I can practically feel his eyes devouring every inch of exposed skin, and I struggle to ignore the sensations his hot breath against my chest elicit. With steady hands, I get to work.

“There,” I say, dabbing the blood from his face delicately. “You’re all fixed up.” The wound took four stitches and two butterfly bandages to properly close.

“Are you sure? Maybe you need to do a few more,” he says, making me bite back a smile as I roll my eyes.

“These will stay in for five days. Just make sure to keep them clean. A scar might add character to your pretty face, but guys who lose their eyes to infection have a harder time getting laid. Or so I’ve heard.”

“I plan on keeping my eyes exactly where they are.”

The double meaning in his statement is clear when I lean back on his lap and his eyes rake over me. Every inch of me burns under his intense gaze, stoking the spark deep in my core. I can feel him hardening against my thigh, and I know if I don’t move now things are going to change between us.

Reading my mind, Callum’s grip on me tightens, one hand remaining solidly on my hip, while the other trails up to the small of my back to play with the ends of my hair.

“Callum, you’re hurt.” I remind him. His hungry eyes move over my face and land on my lips as I speak.

“Then it’s a good thing I have you here to nurse me back to health.” His arms flex, pulling me in closer until my mouth is just a breath from his. My eyes flicker to his mouth, so close and tempting. “Go ahead, Doc. Kiss it better.”

It’s a challenge, and I’ve never been one to shy away from a dare. I lean in ever so slightly and Callum takes my invitation without hesitation. His hand on my back closes the gap between us to take my lips in an all-consuming kiss. Our mouths mold together, passion taking over. The way Callum kisses is devastating, all hunger and need.

God, so much need.

A deep growl rumbles in his chest, vibrating against my hands, and then I’m being crushed against him until I’m not sure where my body ends and his begins. His hand slides from my waist to palm one of my ass cheeks greedily as he all but eats at my mouth. I let out a soft sigh, and I’m drunk on him.

“Fuck, you’re delicious.” His groan is primal, and he drinks me in like he’s a man dying of thirst. I’ve never been kissed like this before.

Callum’s everywhere; his hands on my body, his growls sending pulses of heat between my thighs, his breath mixing with mine as our lips work into a frenzy. It’s like Callum’s only purpose in life is to be there with me, like his entire existence depends on invading every one of my senses.

“We’re here.” Roscoe’s voice pulls me from our little cloud of bliss and yanks me roughly back down to earth. Callum lets out a disgruntled grunt, reluctant as he leans back to look at me.

I’m sure I look a mess, all kiss-swollen and disheveled. I can see it in his eyes before he speaks a “go around the block” and pulls me back in. He isn’t done with me yet.

The feeling is mutual.

“Yes sir.” Roscoe’s verbal confirmation reminds me that I’m straddling a man’s lap. I’m suddenly aware that I’m having a heavy makeout session in a moving car. And we aren’t alone. Reading my mind, Callum’s hold on me tightens, his lips persuading me back to focus on only him. And fuck if it doesn’t work.

A soft moan escapes me when his teeth catch my bottom lip and gives it a sharp nip before his tongue eases the tender pain. The heat building inside me liquifies, my hips rocking against the hot erection I can feel hardening beneath me. An overwhelming need to unzip him and feel what’s hiding under his pants—what’s promising to completely unravel me—is almost too much to handle.

When Callum’s fingers slip down inside the back of my pants, it’s a slap back to reality. Callum wants in my pants, right here, right now. And I want more than anything to let him in.

We’re in a moving car. And we’re not alone.

Palms flattening on his chest, I push away from him to create space between us. His lips leave mine abruptly, leaving an unsettling cold where there used to be heat. My eyes open slowly, breathless, replaceing Callum gazing at me. The naked desire in his eyes is the only thing I recognize in his otherwise unreadable expression.

“We shouldn’t,” I breathe.

This is not the time or the place. If I really think about it—without the need and arousal taking over my brain—there might never be a time or place. Realistically, Callum and I don’t work and sex isn’t a good idea.

The way he’s looking at me says he knows it too. He just wasn’t going to admit it.

Callum takes his time pulling his hand from my pants, his fingers skimming over every inch of skin along the way—ass cheek, lower back, side. His eyes keeping mine hostage, he tugs my shirt back into place but doesn’t let go immediately. We stay there for a long moment, just staring at each other while his hand on my shirt keeps me on his lap as we fight to catch our breath.

The wheels are turning in his head, I can practically hear his thoughts warring while he stares me down. If only I could know what he’s thinking. He’s watching every thought cross my face as I think it, reading every emotion. I’m sure of it. And all I get in return is indecipherable intensity and a rock-hard erection pressing hot and heady against my ass.

When his grip on my shirt finally falls away, I’m climbing off his lap and sliding across the back seat to put as much space between us as possible. Callum’s eyes stare straight ahead as Roscoe rounds a corner, his hands working to roll his shirt sleeves back down. The tension settles back into his broad shoulders as he buttons each cuff into place. And just like that, he’s back to calm and controlled Callum, devoid of any warmth.

When he does shoot a glance in my direction, it’s one that looks an awful lot like regret.

***

Callum’s on a mission as he strides through the weathered brick building, and I’m a step behind him. With the distraction in the car, I have no idea where we are—and the man in front of me isn’t giving any hints either.

His large frame fills the narrow hallway, broad shoulders nearly touching each wall with only a few inches of clearance from the ceiling. With the giant man ahead of me blocking my view, I’m basically stumbling along blindly with Roscoe walking steadily behind me.

We take a left at the end of the claustrophobic hallway. The doors that dot the space are as dated as the rest of the building, with small windows of frosted glass yellowed with age.

Callum doesn’t hesitate to open one of the doors roughly, and I’m barely able to read the word ‘Freight’ across the window in peeling vinyl before Roscoe is crowding me into the room behind him and closing the door.

The stench of cigarette smoke and stale coffee hangs in the air. The small industrial office is drab with stained brown carpet, metal filing cabinets, and fluorescent lighting. The room is messy and cluttered until it’s claustrophobic—binders and stacks of paper taking over.

A middle-aged man behind the desk looks up, startled, when we enter, his eyes going straight to the bull charging right at him. His gray-streaked brown hair looks crunchy with gel, matching the patchy goatee on his chin. The gut from a few too many beers is obvious on his lanky body as he slumps in his chair.

Callum stops short at the desk, staring him down.

“Hello, Sal. You haven’t been answering my calls.” The steel edge in Callum’s voice has the man behind the desk glancing at the door in hopes of replaceing someone to save him. Instead, all he replaces is a blonde in pastel scrubs and the enforcer blocking the only exit.

“Russo.” Sal’s false friendliness falls flat in his attempt to put on a brave face. “I was just about to call you back.”

“Were you.” It’s not a question. “And what were you calling to say?”

“I—uh—I went up the ladder. There’s really nothing I can do for you.”

I can’t help but wince at the arrogance tinting his voice. The tension that settles over Callum’s shoulders has a dark cloud falling over the room. This isn’t gonna be pretty.

“That’s the wrong answer.”

Uneasiness creeps up my spine when Callum’s hands move to unbutton the cuffs of his dress shirt—the same ones he rebuttoned in the car.

“I told you, my hands are tied,” Sal stammers.

“You know, Sal, the easiest way to free tied hands is to simply cut them off.”

The threat’s not directed at me, but my stomach drops just the same. My entire body stiffens at the violence in Callum’s words, spoken so casually. This is definitely not the first time he’s delivered a warning like that.

“Woah, hey. Wait, there’s no need for that—” Sal’s puttering doesn’t register as Callum continues, rolling one of his shirt sleeves up past his elbow.

“We won’t start there, of course, we’ll work our way up.” Callum’s tone darkens, his head nodding to where Roscoe stands behind him. “My friend here likes to start with the fingers, he’s actually quite good at it. The knuckles sever nicely. Then maybe, if you’ve decided to be a little more cooperative, I’ll have my nurse stitch you back up.”

Sal’s wide eyes dart to the door frantically. He’s gonna make a run for it, it’s obvious to everyone in the room. When he scrambles from his chair with the grace of a rhino to dash towards the only exit, his feet don’t make it three strides before he’s being lifted off the ground. Callum’s large hand catches him easily by the collar and yanks him roughly backward.

The man goes flying, slamming against the corner of a filing cabinet with a groan. The air isn’t even back in his lungs before Callum’s hauling him up and slamming a fist into his face—once, twice, three times. Blood spurts from his nose, coating his teeth when he howls. The strong hand that Callum clamps around his throat violently drags him to the wall next to the desk, causing stacks of papers and folders to scatter to the floor dramatically.

A gasp escapes me at the sound of Sal’s skull cracking against the wall with the force of the powerful grip, hard enough to fracture bone. Callum’s eyes cut to me, his dark gaze cold and unfeeling.

Terrifying.

“That was the last stupid decision I’ll tolerate, Sal.” His deadly focus returns to the man he’s choking out. “Do you understand?”

Sal’s desperate nodding is restricted against the vice grip beneath his jaw.

“When I call, you answer it. When I ask you a question, you what?”

“Answer it.”

“Very good.” Callum’s powerful grip bleaches his knuckles as it tightens on the man’s throat. “Don’t make me come here again, Sal. Or I’ll be paying your family a visit covered in your blood.”

“I won’t.”

“Now.” Yanking him from the wall, Callum tosses the older man into the desk chair like a ragdoll. Sal grips the armrests for dear life when the chair threatens to tip over from the force of the impact, blood running from his bashed nose and battered mouth and coating his chin where it dribbles down the front of his shirt. “Because I’m feeling generous, I’ll let my nurse clean you up before you start making more calls.”

When the other eyes in the room turn to focus on me, I’m caught off guard. I stand frozen, at a complete loss.

“This is why you’re here, Doc. Fix him up.” Those are the same damn words he used the night he led me into that storage room to sew up a finger and ripped me from my reality.

My feet have already carried me halfway across the room before I register that I’m moving. When I kneel down in front of the bloodied man in the chair, our eyes connect briefly. For a split second, we share a moment of shocked horror, both trapped in the violence brought by the hands of the Fixer standing behind me.

Ok, you can do this, Lexie. You can handle this, he’s just another patient.

Yanking my eyes away, it takes everything in me to keep breathing—in, then out—as I go about the task of tending to my patient. He needs three stitches, and his nose is very broken. There’s nothing I can do about the concussion or the fractures I’m sure now decorate the back of his skull.

There’s a heaviness in my chest that seems to grow with every beat of my heart until it’s crushing me under its weight. Whatever conversation happens between the three men in the room as I work doesn’t register past the blood pounding in my ears.

Even as I numbly follow Callum through the hallway back to the car, I feel like a zombie. I’m no longer residing in my body when the back door of the car is held open for me to climb in. Is this what shock feels like?

Closing my car door, Callum walks around to get in on the other side. My mind is racing, the world doesn’t feel like it makes sense anymore. The oxygen seems to have been sucked out of the car, and the thought of sitting in a confined space with Callum threatens to suffocate me. I can feel the vehicle shift with his weight as he sits down, the sound of his door closing behind him igniting my flight response. Without thinking, I open the car door and hop out.

“Lexie, shit. ” I don’t register Roscoe’s call as I walk. My feet move, carrying me down the sidewalk, as I force in deep breaths. I just need air, what happened to all the air? My brain is trying so hard to make sense of everything, but nothing is processing as my mind glitches.

Callum and Roscoe are violent men; ruthless and cruel. Callum does whatever it takes to get something he wants, and he uses Roscoe to do it.

And now he uses me too.

What have I gotten myself into? I signed the contract and NDA, an unsuspecting mouse walking straight into a trap. And like an idiot, I read the fine print wearing rose-colored glasses that made the boatload of red flags seem pink and harmless instead. And the trap snapped closed without sympathy. Now I’m stuck, completely at Callum’s mercy.

What have I done?

The question echoes through my mind as nausea churns in my stomach. My feet carry me one step at a time, my body on autopilot. The SUV pulls up beside me, slowing to match my pace. The back window rolls down and Callum’s dark expression acts as a reminder of exactly what kind of hell I’m living in now. I glance at him, but looking at his face proves to be too much. Averting my gaze, I look straight ahead as I walk.

“Lexie, stop.” The authority in Callum’s voice rolls over me without effect. My heart is racing too fast, my thoughts becoming too panicked—and I don’t panic.

“Lexie.”

“I can’t do this,” I say, my voice breaking on the last word. I feel breathless, why can’t I breathe? I round a corner, and the car follows. Roscoe says something to Callum, making him curse under his breath.

“Get in, Lexie,” Callum orders. I simply shake my head, staring straight ahead. I barely see the people I pass on the sidewalk, barely register the eyes on me. Glancing down, I realize I’m still splattered in blood, my blue scrubs stained by the crimson color. His blood, the man Callum made me patch up after threatening his entire family—all for illegal dock access for some shipment.

“Get in the car, Lexie. Or I swear to God, I’ll pick you up like a toddler and buckle you in myself.”

Something in Callum’s voice makes me stop in my tracks. I finally turn to look at him, still struggling to catch my breath. I feel a little faint, like the blood has drained out of me.

Meeting Callum’s eyes, I can see he means every word. He’ll physically pick me up and place me into the car right now. And the idea of him touching me with the same hands that just held a man by the throat is enough to crack through my panic.

We stare at each other for a moment, I can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he reads me. And when I finally take a step towards the car and reach for the handle, I swear his face softens slightly in what looks like relief.

Climbing into the car, Roscoe locks the door the instant it’s closed behind me. With shaky hands, I slowly reach back and grab my seatbelt. I can feel both men’s eyes on me as I slowly pull the belt around me, but I keep my eyes trained out the window. As soon as my seatbelt clicks, Roscoe is pulling out into traffic.

Callum’s eyes never leave me, burning a hole in my already crumbling psyche. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally, as I stare out the window without really seeing the cityscape pass by. When the first tear rolls down my cheek, Callum’s voice is barely audible next to me as he rasps out another curse under his breath.

“Fuck.”