Thralled

By Laurel Pardee

The last thing Carla Richards needed in her life was the admiration of a pack of lunatics. Between college classes and work and what passed for a social life, her life was crazy enough, thank you very much. And there was no question; the guys living in the house on Joyce Street were complete and certifiable lunatics.They were smoking-hot lunatics, but they were lunatics all the same.How else did you explain their pit bull like fascination with her? And their underground warren of training facilities complete with dojo, swimming pool, infirmary and who knew what else? Not to mention their “army” of spellbound women with mad ninja skills. No one had that –no one who wasn’t a supervillain or a lunatic.They certainly were not a trained unit of refugees from another world across an unseen barrier. That was the craziest thing Carla had ever heard.Actually, their claim that Carla was one of them was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. Even if she had their weird mystical voodoo powers, it would be a crazy notion.One thing was for sure...as soon as she could disentangle herself from this bizarre world of abduction and seduction, she was walking away from these guys and never looking back. Really.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurel Pardee
• Release date: Nov 4, 2012

Laurel Pardee

Laurel is a writer, swimmer and mom living in Poulsbo, Washington. In her free time she likes to find excuses not to do housework.

Book preview

Thralled

By LR Pardee

Copyright © 2012 Laurel R Pardee

All rights reserved

http://lrpardee.blogspot.com/

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

For Jenn

who seems to like my silly books

A hand, massive and rough with callouses, closed over my mouth, dragging me back into an inescapable embrace. My heart pounded in my ears as I struggled to draw breath through the cracks of his fingers—and in that moment I knew I was screwed.

Careless. Stupid and careless to walk alone at night. Just because I hadn’t heard of an abduction in recent weeks didn’t mean they had stopped.

And here I was … the next victim. Well done, Carla.

Now what?

None of the other victims had been killed, so I had that going for me. But whatever was done to them, they’d come back altered and not in the expected way. According to the papers, their transformation was unusual … whatever that meant. What could this dark presence do to me that would change me like that?

I was about to find out, that was for sure. And I was utterly and completely terrified. Also, I was more than a little bit turned on.

How messed up was that?

Carla? he said in my ear, his hand loosening its grasp long enough for me to suck in a startled breath. And yet, his voice wasn’t the harsh, broken-glass sound that I’d expected.

Actually, the voice was familiar, high and nasal.

Carla? he repeated. Do you want me to walk you to your car?

What?

I think I parked next to you, so if you wanted to walk with me …

The hardened hand fell away from my face, the solid wall of chest bracing me evaporated only to be replaced by a hard plastic chair back.

Wow. That was a hell of a fantasy.

Sure, I said, shaking off the residue of my daydream—if you could call checking out during an evening class day dreaming. That’d be great. Insane delusions aside, I really would rather not chance an actual encounter with the abductor.

What kind of a nut fantasized about being abducted anyway? And got turned on by it? Clearly I needed extensive psychological counseling.

My classmate’s round doughy face lit up—what was his name? Rick? Nick? Bob?—and I congratulated myself on having made his evening. Escorting me to my car might very well be the best Friday night he’d had in a long time. Although, to be fair, my Friday night probably wasn’t going to get much better either. After fighting to stay awake through three hours of the world’s most boring and yet confusing drivel, it was really all I could do to get home and prop myself up in front of the TV.

A blast of bracing October night air hit me as we pushed through the double doors separating the classroom from the courtyard, reminding me that this late evening class would get significantly less pleasant as we moved into winter. Especially if Iffy the Jetta staged his customary winter protest and shut down completely. The very thought made me shudder … that and the fact that my coat was wadded up on the couch at home.

At that moment, a gust of wind buffeted us, and I hugged my arms to my chest, clinging to my body heat with desperate futility.

My discomfort was not lost on my companion. You want my coat? he offered and started to shrug it off before I could even answer. It did look warm. It also looked like something a farmer would wear while mucking out his barn.

Something a warm farmer would wear while mucking out his barn, I corrected.

No thanks, I responded resisting the pull of the farmer coat. It sure looked toasty, though.

He continued shaking his arm out of the sleeve. No, really …

At this point, my teeth were chattering so hard I was afraid they might shatter, and my resistance began to crumble. Guilt kicked in, though, when I noticed Ricknickbob was only wearing a thin t-shirt.

I squinted to read it. Chemists do it … Periodically … On the table. It took me a minute, and then I gave a chuckle. Good one, I said, pointing at his chest.

You like it? he asked. He held his coat out to me, and I all-but salivated at the thought of burrowing into its warm folds.

This was the moment of truth. It was bad enough that I was going to use this guy as human pepper spray; did I have to take his coat as well?

Yes. Yes, I did.

I do like it, I agreed, reaching out to accept his offering. Then I added, Thanks, as I burrowed in its pre-warmed goodness.

No problem, he said, pushing his hands down into the pockets of his jeans and shivering.

Damn. There was that guilt again.

We started for the parking lot in silence, which was fine by me. RickNickBob kept glancing my way as if he wanted to say something, and if I were a good person, I would’ve tried to draw him out with some light conversation. But I was too weary for lame chit chat after a day of work and classes. Also, I had a strong feeling that I wasn’t going to like whatever he was working up his nerve to ask.

Um … so … the thing is, my friends and I are headed out to a party, and I wondered if you wanted to join us.

Yep. There it was. Although, I’d expected worse.

You could follow us if you wanted, he added, gesturing back to a group lingering at the edge of the courtyard.

Oh, well … I fumbled, inching my way towards the parking lot. Hopefully we could at least get halfway to my car before I turned him down. I have some things I have to take care of, I lied.

He tried to hide his disappointment, but it was there in the droop of his shoulders, the slowing of his step. Nevertheless, he kept following me, his eyes scanning the parking lot like a sentinel—for what, I had no idea. Maybe you could meet us after. This guy was nothing if not persistent.

I could see Iffy’s Jack Skellington antenna ball just one row over, and I felt a wash of relief.

Ha! Suck it, abductors.

My triumph over the forces of evil made me feel generous. I’ll try to make it, I offered. Could it hurt to give the guy a little hope? Where is it?

His eyes lit up like sunbeams, and I winced inwardly. I was so going to hell for leading him on. The Stewart House—down on Joyce, he told me, walking up to Iffy like they were old friends.

I fumbled for my keys, concentrating on the feel of the items in my bag. How did I have so many pens that jingled like keys? Oh, sure, I replied, absently. I know where that is. Maybe. I seemed to recall a party there a few years back. Not that it mattered as I had no intention of going to this one.

Keys in hand, I glanced back up to find him gazing at me, expectation in his eyes … and something else. Something that made me uneasy. Great … I’ll try to make it, I added, trying to make it sound like a goodbye.

As I said, he was a persistent bugger. He remained where he was, parked in front of my car door, leaving me no choice but to reach around him to unlock it. A determined smile crept across his face, and I braced myself for his inevitable attempt at a pass. Really, it might’ve made more sense to take my chances with the abductors. That was less of a sure thing. Then a cold blast of wind hit us, and he shuddered.

Duh, his coat. I suddenly felt very foolish. And like a grade-A bitch from hell. The guy didn’t want to stick his tongue down my throat; he just wanted his coat back.

I slipped my arms easily out of the oversized jacket and handed it over. Thanks, I said, already missing the coat’s deliciously warm goodness.

He took the coat with less eagerness than I would expect considering his unmistakable discomfort. Why don’t you give me your phone, and I’ll put in my info. You can text me when you’re ready to come to the party.

I kept the smile plastered on my face but, really, I didn’t want this guy’s number. My brain fumbled through all the possible excuses—my phone was dead, it was lost, I didn’t own one—and yet, what was the harm in getting his number? It’d be rather heartless to insult him after he’d saved me from the abductors and loaned me his toasty coat. Plus, then I’d find out his name. Okay, yeah, sure, I agreed, passing it over.

He was in my contacts quicker than I could’ve unlocked the thing. As my assistance was unnecessary, I opened Iffy’s door and checked the back for axe murderers. You can never be too careful.

His expression was smug as he handed it back. Okay, here you go.

What had he done?

See you later, he added confidently and eased the door closed. He really was rather sweet. Friend sweet. Not date sweet.

After watching him run back to where his friends waited, I checked my phone. It only took a second to find his number under The Captain.

The Captain? What the hell did that mean? What was he supposed to be the Captain of? The chess team?

Whatever. I readied to delete him from my contacts and then thought better of it. He seemed pretty into bio. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to be able to text him for help. Of course, it would help if I actually knew his name. He’d be suspicious if I kept calling him Captain. Or, he might be totally into that.

Giving the engine a crank, I listened to Iffy cough like a chain smoker. And, considering the plumes that were rising behind him, I guess he kind of was. After a pause for him to catch his breath, I revved again and the engine caught briefly only to sputter and die.

The only appropriate response was to swear loudly and vehemently, and I did. The parking lot was starting to clear and nothing said victim like car trouble. I’d almost resigned myself to calling The Captain back, when Iffy turned over and growled like he meant business.

That was more like it.

As happy as I was that Iffy was running, dark thoughts clouded my mind as I drove the mile and a half to my apartment. Iffy was not getting any less iffy. While I could walk to school during the day, this night class was going to be a problem. The reality was that I needed a new car or, at the very least, a major tune up. Either of those things would require begging my parents for a loan or selling my body, and neither was particularly appealing. Although, if I could get the right clientele …

Kidding.

Sadly, my part-time job at the bookstore wasn’t helping me live the life of luxury I deserved. You know, the opulent life where I have a car that works, and the meat on the dinner menu doesn’t come in a powdered packet with ramen noodles.

Still, I would rather jump into a snake pit naked than ask my parents for money. They hadn’t been in favor of me coming to Boise State in the first place. Imagine their delight if I had to come crawling to them for help.

No thanks. I’d get through college on loans and cheap carbohydrates.

Hey, Mel, I called swinging open the door to our hopping bachelorette pad. You wouldn’t believe the weird name this guy put in my phone.

Silence—which was puzzling considering how many lights were on. The apartment was so bright we could open up shop as a tanning salon. Mel? I repeated as I made the rounds, searching for my roommate. It was a quick search considering the place was roughly the size of a Triscuit. Unless she was hiding under the floorboards waiting to jump out and yell surprise, Mel was not here.

Back in the living room, I carefully sat on the rock-hard couch we’d rescued from Melanie’s brother’s garage. It was an ugly yellowish-grey and every bit of fluff and cush had been beaten out of it decades ago. Since Mel and I didn’t have a dining table, it was also covered with food stains from the thousands of meals consumed on it. The upholstery was probably growing organisms science had never heard of. But still, where else was I going to sit?

The blank screen of our TV stared coldly at me, and my spirits deflated like a beach ball on a barbed wire fence. I’d had my heart set on cheap pizza and whatever Netflix movie was waiting on top of the set. I hadn’t anticipated having to watch the movie alone, though. I needed someone to laugh with. Someone to keep my mind off of dirty fantasies about the abductor … whatever that was about.

Gathering energy and will from some unseen source, I pushed myself up off the couch and grabbed my coat and purse. The Captain’s party it was.

Amazingly enough Iffy started right up. Any second thoughts I was having evaporated right then and there. If Iffy was on board, it must be destiny. The party … not The Captain. There was no way he was my destiny.

Please?

I probably should’ve Googled up a map, but I just needed to get to Joyce and that was simple enough. Once I’d found the street, I slowed to a crawl and scanned the houses. The neighborhood was not how I remembered it. All the dwellings looked like family homes, not college houses, and none looked familiar. I’d expected to find a house with cars piled in front, lights blazing and loud groups surrounding a keg on the lawn. This neighborhood seemed to be asleep.

Doubt reared its pointy head and jabbed at me. He’d said Joyce, right?

I was ready to give up and go home when I saw it. Towards the end of the street was a well-lit house with a large number of cars in the driveway. The lawn was clear, but the house was big and it was cold enough that drinking inside might be preferable. The night was young. There was plenty of time for the drunken masses to spill out onto the lawn.

As I parked Iffy, it occurred to me that I might be too early. God, what if I was the first one at the party? I might as well tattoo ‘loser’ on my forehead.

But The Captain should be here with his crew. They’d been heading right over. Surely one of the cars in the driveway was theirs.

How lame was it that The Captain’s presence reassured me? My social life seriously needed an extreme makeover.

I goggled at the high-end cars parked in the drive as I passed. There were a couple of sports cars, a BMW, a Lexus and a large SUV of some sort. They were all clean and shiny, and fresh off the showroom floor. You could practically still smell sleazy salesman on them. The Captain, it seemed, had some rich friends. Hopefully that meant a better class of beer.

On the other hand, The Captain didn’t seem like the type to have rich friends. You know—the farmer coat and all. Unease bubbled inside me, and I wondered if this was such a good idea. Was my nerdly friend luring me into something? Or was I in the wrong place? I gave both possibilities a moment’s consideration and then let my feet carry me forward. The lure of free snacks and beer was just too strong.

Pausing at the door, I listened and was relieved when I picked out the muted rumble of conversation.

See? I reassured myself, It’s all good. Of course, if that were true, why did I feel like I had a hefty bag of rocks in my stomach?

Ignoring my growing disquiet, I rapped on the door. After waiting a moment or two, I eased the heavy oak door open and peered in. The entryway was dim, lit only by a hurricane lamp nestled on a small table.

Classy. Though as soon as someone got drunk enough, that lamp was a goner.

You’d think that as all the warning signs piled up, I might take evasive action. Good sense was apparently not my strong suit, so I pushed the door open wide and stepped into the foyer. The walls glowed red in the lamplight, lending a rosy tone to the painting above the lamp table. It was a post-impressionist depiction of a girl in a garden, and I thought I saw actual brush strokes. This definitely not your run-of-the-mill college house.

Hello? I squeaked.

Catching the sounds of conversation towards my right, I called out, Rick?

Please be here.

Not hearing any response, I inched forward. Nick?

Rounding the corner, I found myself in a large living room, warmly decorated in earth tones. Two tall floor lamps bathed the room in soft light, and a fire blazed in a stonework fireplace. Bob? I asked weakly as I took in the room’s inhabitants.

Lounging on cream-colored couches with enough stuffing to denude every sheep in New Zealand were the four most stunning men I’d ever seen. And that included on TV and in the movies.

My mouth had dropped to the floor and nothing short of one of those cranes they have on oil rigs was going to get it to shut.

Since my mouth was open anyway, I grasped for something to say. And grasped.

I had nothing. Clearly, I was in the wrong place. Common sense would dictate I beat a hasty retreat, and yet I stood, completely mesmerized by the tableau of man candy before me.

Maybe I had stumbled into a photo shoot of some sort. I was turning my head to look for cameras when the tall blond’s eyes captured mine and held them—possessed them. It was like my soul was being sucked out by a really hot Dementor. His sensuality pulled me to him like a magnet.

As I struggled to keep from flinging myself at his feet and offering myself to him, the others exchanged glances that ranged from bemused to amused.

Not Rick, said the tall, dark-haired god from his perch on the arm of the couch. The melodic cadence of his voice drew my gaze to him. He had a healthy tan and an angular face with high, regal cheekbones. His pouty lips were turned up in a smirk, like he was used to looking down on people, and a pair of über-fashionable glasses perched on his perfectly-sculpted nose. He wore dress pants and a button down shirt, like he had just come from work, not a day of classes.

The blond was visibly agitated to have lost my adoration. I could be Nick, he crooned. His voice was deep and golden, just like the rest of him, and the sound of it turned my knees to goo.

At the other end of the couch, a second blond snorted, But Bob? Please.

Looking from one perfect face to the next was making me feel dizzy. I focused on the second blond in an effort to center myself. He was shorter than the first and had an athletic build which was accentuated by his closely fit workout clothes. His boyish face was lovingly caressed by carefree wheat-colored bangs, and he exuded a cheerful sweetness that seemed to mask something darker.

My gaze flicked back to the golden blond, and as his smile grew, I had the feeling I’d stumbled into the path of a predator. He tossed his mane of untamed hair and something stirred deep inside me.

This guy is sex personified, I thought.

I could tell he knew the minute the realization hit me because his smile deepened. Swirling the glass of amber liquid he held in his long-fingered hands, his deep blue eyes pierced me. Care to try again?

I could barely breathe under the weight of his steaming gaze, but I managed to choke out, What?

He lifted both brows. You have made three guesses at our names and have failed. Would you like to try again?

Oh, um … No, I said, tearing my eyes off the sensual curves of his face to seek help from the other three. It was a stupid impulse. The faces that met mine held the same challenge as Not-Bob’s, if not the same raw sexuality.

I was looking for … I thought … I couldn’t get out the words. I was such an idiot to come in here after all the clues I’d had. How had my survival instinct failed me so miserably?

The Adonis with the glasses closed the book he’d been scanning. You thought? It might’ve been a helpful question, as if to draw me out, had his tone not held a hint of impatience. He had grown tired of my bumbling, it seemed.

I’m sorry, I said and began backing out of the room. I’ve got the wrong house.

The spell that held us seemed to break and suddenly the models were shooting panicked looks at each other. The sudden shift didn’t make sense, and it made me uneasy. Why wouldn’t they want me to leave?

The golden blond’s eyes snapped from Glasses to me, and his smile grew friendlier. The way a Rottweiler’s smile gets friendlier as it contemplates what you will taste like. What house did you want?

I continued backing, hoping I wouldn’t smash into something expensive. I was looking for a college party … the Stewart house, I managed.

The Stewart house, he repeated, tasting the words as they passed his lips.

That’s down on Joyce Lane, interjected Glasses, a trace of mocking in his words. My dislike for him grew every time he opened his mouth.

Right, I muttered. I’ll check that out.

The fourth model had been studying me silently from an armchair of burgundy velour. He was tall with very short black hair and ruggedly masculine, although the day’s beard growth might’ve had something to do with it. This could be a party, he said in a deep resonant voice. We could be a party.

Oh, you could be a party alright, I thought as I reached the doorway. Like a suicide cult could be a party.

The remaining three gods seemed to perk up at his suggestion, especially the golden blond. Yes, definitely. Excellent idea, Geoff. Let us have this party.

I paused in my flight. Geoff? Deep voice guy was named Geoff? I’d been expecting something more like Lucifer or Damien. Or Lurch.

I’m on cocktails, the youthful blond announced, bouncing to his feet. Do we need ice?

Get chips too, suggested Lurch—I mean Geoff.

Golden blond sat up, his deep blue eyes lighting. Hummus, he interjected with unexpected enthusiasm. I have been longing for Hummus. With vegetables … not those wretched chips.

Even Glasses came to life. Take my car. I’m blocking you in. As an after-thought he added, You know where my keys are?

Oh. My. God.

First they leer at me like a nest of hungry vampires and suddenly they’re whipping out the cocktail napkins and blender. I was so out of here.

Looking from one eager face to the next, I said, That sounds fun and all, but I have people waiting for me at the other party. Then I spun and made for the door.

Wait!

No!

But … the hummus …

I ignored the inexplicable objections from the living room. Surely these beautiful freaks could party without me.

Thanks all the same! I called and swung the front door open wide. Hopefully I could beat Sporty Spice to the driveway as he headed out on his ice run. As I scooted past, I noted that the car blocking the others was the sleek, black Lexus. That seemed about right for Glasses. Snooty and pretentious.

Back on the street, I unlocked my car with unsteady hands, jumped in and relocked the doors without even checking for the serial killer in the back. I was pretty sure I could handle him. Prom Kings-R-Us was a totally different matter.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I panted for a minute before I realized I wasn’t really safe. I needed to get my car out of this neighborhood … like, yesterday.

Giving the key a turn, Iffy gave an anemic growl before, predictably, dying.

Please start, please start, please start, I begged the car.

Iffy, cold-hearted prick that he was, ignored my pleas, and I got the same weak response the second time. After a third try I was in a panic. Come on! I fumed and slammed my palm on the dashboard in disgust. I instantly regretted it. Sorry, I said, changing my pounding to stroking. So sorry. I knew better than to anger the car. Iffy didn’t respond well to rage.

Looking heavenward for assistance, I turned the key one last time and, after several hearty revs, Iffy fell silent.

Dammit, I snarled. It was almost a sob. Chancing a glance at the house, I thought I saw the front curtain move. It was clear that if I sat here any longer, they’d come out and offer me a canapé or something.

That settled it. I locked the door and hoofed it down the street to where Joyce Street became Joyce Lane. The idiocy of walking alone in the dark was not lost on me, but I wasn’t going back to ask for an escort, and I was not waiting another minute on that street.

Chapter 2

After a block, my walk turned into a run. I’m not sure why, but I felt like evil itself was breathing down my neck. It seemed silly to be so shaken by a chance encounter with a few creepy supermodels, so perhaps I was once again imagining the abductors were after me. Whatever the reason, I sprinted like the Olympic committee had a stopwatch on me.

Once on the correct street, I found the actual party without any trouble. Stewart House, it turned out, was more of a condo than a house. But there was unmistakably a party going on: loud music and light poured from the house while laughing groups of students milled on the lawn.

Joyce Lane … Joyce Street. I was an idiot.

My eyes found the keg in the midst of the crowd, and I was suddenly desperately in need of a beer. I could definitely use a little something to take the edge off my nerves. I’m not sure what kind of close call I thought I’d had, but I felt like I’d escaped something palpable.

After forking over three dollars for a cup and standing in line to get it filled, I gulped down its cold bitterness so quickly that half the beer poured down the sides of my face. I glanced around anxiously, hoping no one had seen my slovenly display. Between my bolt out of the night and my guzzling beer like a Viking, I was hardly making a good first impression at this party.

Wrong.

My beer-guzzling earned me instant popularity—at least with a pair of bearded guys who looked way too old to be in college. They glommed on to me, handing me beer after beer,