Hell's Kitchen by Lili St Germain, Callie Hart Page A

jerked off to the image of her character more times than I can count. This is just fucking bizarre.  
    She takes a deep breath and stares straight ahead. I frown. “You look … different than you used to. Hey, what the hell happened to you? You just disappeared. Did you stop sucking the director’s dick or something?”
    She presses her fingers to her closed eyes. “Are you going to kill me?” she hisses, low enough that the cab driver can’t hear. “Because if that’s your plan, can we skip the small talk and get to the killing part?”
    Shit. She’s not joking. Her words leave me reeling for a moment. Not only have Theo and I just lost the bitch we were supposed to kidnap, crashed our limo, and probably earned ourselves each a bullet in the skull, but I’ve also managed to take a hostage who’s suicidal.
    I chew on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood. This is not good. It’s so far from good, we’re not even in the same realm as good. We’re not good, we’re not OK, we’re not anything except completely screwed. We’re dead men.
    I’m too young and pretty to die.
    “Cat got your tongue?” Scarlett asks, her hands back in her lap and her eyes on me. My cock stirs in my suit pants. Oh, your pussy can have my tongue, Scarlett fucking Winchester. Meow.
    Down, boy. My cock’s timing is terrible. I don’t dignify her retort with a response.
    Peering out of the window, I see a familiar sight. “Pull into this driveway,” I urge the cab driver, tapping the glass that separates us. I turn to Scarlett, whose attention has pricked up as she studies our path. Looking for an escape? Jesus. I can’t handle her and the cabbie at the same time. The numbers aren’t matching up.
    “You gonna behave?” I ask, jabbing her with the gun again.
    “Bite me,” she replies. I’d definitely bite her nipples if I could just get my mouth near them. But I need to stop thinking about nipples right now.
    Great. Well. This is happening.
    “Happy ten-minute anniversary,” I hiss, shoving the gun down the front of my pants and lunging for her as covertly as I can. I don’t need the cab driver seeing me attacking this girl and raising the alarm. Scarlett’s body tenses immediately, and her hands fly out, trying to push me away, but I’ve got more upper body weight than she’s got in her entire body. I overpower her easily, using my elbows to pin her arms to her sides, my palms at her neck as I press down on her carotid artery. Her eyes go wide, and she opens her mouth to scream.
    “Sorry, sweetheart,” I murmur. “I’ll make you scream if you want, but not right now.” I lean in, covering her mouth with mine, kissing her to drown out the noise of her cry for help. She tastes like I thought she would—coffee and vodka. Irish coffee, isn’t that what they call it? My stomach roils at the Irish part. Fucking Kaitlin. I’m going to find that bitch, even if I have to tie this bitch to a chair and torture the address out of her.
    I continue applying pressure to the sweet spot in her neck, cutting off the blood flow from her heart to her brain just for a few seconds. It doesn’t take long before she’s a dead weight in my arms, her eyes lolling back in her head before fluttering shut.
    I release her mouth, letting her slide down the back of the seat so she’s lying across it, her thighs slightly parted and her legs off to the side as her feet rest awkwardly on the floor.
    “She okay?” the cab driver asks, tapping on the Plexiglas. I hold my hands up in mock surprise. “I don’t know, man. She’s diabetic. I think she’s having a fit or something.”
    The cab driver looks vaguely annoyed, but to his credit he unbuckles his belt, steps out of his door and circles around to mine. He opens the door and peers in.
    “Need me to call an ambulance?” he asks.
    I raise my gun to his forehead. “No, thanks,” I reply, pressing the gun against his head. “Keys, please.”
    He points to the ignition. “They’re