Friends Don't Look At Friends That Way

Part Eleven.

"If you don't mind, the lady and I will excuse ourselves."

The words are spoken from a foreign voice that sends unpleasant chills skittering through your body. Every pair of sinful eyes stingily drinking in your delightful appearance all evening are suddenly averted elsewhere. It's almost as if this interaction is one they don't wish to witness. The way they shift uncomfortably, taking an interest in the swirling patterns of the floor like there isn't someone being taken hostage before them - they know exactly who this mystery man is. They are afraid of him. That is evident in how their confidence seeps from their statures, like submissive dogs cowering before a cruel owner. You can practically taste the cloud of fear hanging heavy over the room, electrifying the atmosphere.

"You must be pretty important if everyone here is scared of you." You note to him under your breath, your steps slow and intentional in their stalling. The more time you can buy to devise a plan, the better. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to get you alone, but each time you stop, the metal gun's bite digs into your spine.

"The perks of leadership, I suppose," He cooly replies, his breath warm on your cheek, "Or perhaps the downside. They either respect you or they fear you. You have to decide which one you crave more."

That would explain the tense reaction of the surrounding crowd. This isn't just some high-up lackey doing another man's grunt work; this is the man getting his own hands dirty.

"El Àguila?" The nickname instinctively rolls off your tongue. The question of his identity answers itself when a dark chuckle releases from low in his throat. Well, shit. This is not good.

"I prefer my friends call me Carlos."

More of his unassuming laughter tickles your eardrum. His entire mood seems far too relaxed for the situation, triggering a deeply rooted anxiety within you. This mission is well outside the normal scope of your duties. The second any stake of the carefully laid plan begins to unravel, so will your confidence.

"Are we friends?" You ask with an airy tone, desperately trying to uphold a similar informal facade that will not give away the fear starting to weigh down your shoulders.

"I would like to think we might be by the end of this evening. Wouldn't you?" His grip tightens on your hip, the pinprick of the gun now painful enough to draw a gasp from you.

"I don't typically hold my friends at gunpoint." You grit out between tightly clenched teeth. Any playful demeanor you might have held with him is slowly slipping from your grasp with each second your life is being threatened.

"It is nothing personal. Consider it insurance of sorts. We couldn't have you making a scene, Princess." He hisses out the pet name, causing those unwelcome chills to prick across your skin once again.

You allow yourself to peek up at his face through lowered lashes. This man is...good-looking. The planes of his face are sharp but cut well with his dark eyes and a strong jawline that sports soft stubble. No tattoos marr his handsome face, but you cannot say the same for the rest of him. Little of his skin from the chin down, at least what is visible outside of his suit, is free of dark ink in various patterns and symbols. Most notably, an eagle is painted across his neck to confirm his cartel callsign. The poor-quality photos you studied hardly did this man justice. No wonder he keeps his face a secret from those outside his organization; it would be a face that is hard to forget.

You set your expression into one of demure resignation, wanting Carlos to believe the shock of revealing his true identity and actual appearance have you placated. It is a long shot, but if it hides what is left of your true intentions, you will do what it takes. Not that being a shameless flirt will be difficult with somebody that looks the way he does.

"I will be good." You tip your head back so the words purr against the skin of his throat. His stern gaze only flitters to you briefly before it refocuses on the door he's guiding you towards, a charmed smile stretching his lips for a moment before it disappears.

"I don't doubt that," He says, his tone falling to something much more severe than it has been since he took you captive, "You and I have business to attend to. So keep up that attitude until we get to my office, and I won't kill you, okay?"

He pulls you to a gentle stop as you approach the door with his symbol carved into it. The sudden soft click of his gun being cocked sends you into a paralyzed state, muscles locking tightly beneath your skin as your body becomes highly alert. He lowers his lips to hover just above your ear.

"Listen up, gentlemen," He begins softly, your blood running ice cold when you realize he is speaking directly to your earpiece, "I am going to borrow your girl if you don't mind. I'm not as stupid as you would like to believe, and I really don't appreciate this attempt to infiltrate my organization." 

Inked knuckles run gentle lines across the skin of your jaw before he plucks the communication device from your ear.

"Time for your special ops boyfriends to learn the consequences of their actions," You can feel the wicked smirk that he grazes down your cheek, "May the best man win."

In the blink of an eye, your only source of communication with the outside world is smashed to pieces beneath a booted foot, dread pooling low in your stomach. This isn't good. Before any protest can fall from your lips, a white cloth is firmly pinned over your delicate face, clearly drugged with something, as the edges of your vision immediately darken when you accidentally draw a panicked breath.

Shit, shit, shit.

Only a second ticks by before your whole world goes dark.