The Ox Who Got the Cream Ch. 04

"You really are pretty," he remarked in a weirdly neutral tone.

Though good looking, his demeanour was not particularly prepossessing. His resting expression was disturbingly clinical, and it gave Layla the creeps. She had no idea why he was being nice to her; she was fairly certain there had been some kind of misunderstanding. But she wasn't going to correct him if it meant better treatment in the interim before her escape or rescue.

"You can call me 'Reggie'," the young man said, when she didn't respond to his compliment. "Come on, he's waiting."

Layla glanced around and noticed there were quite a few men standing around, most holding guns, all silently watching with keen interest.

Once Reggie turned his back, Layla discreetly made sure her personal alarm was activated as she followed him.

***

The property exterior was not inviting at all; a twisted metal design that looked rather military. Once inside, however, the property vastly switched to a more over-the-top luxurious theme, though wasn't really to Layla's taste. She infinitely preferred Truce's premises.

Walking through Zole's property was like being in another world. After following Reggie down an enormous yellow-painted hallway with a plush red carpet and various displays of whacky paintings and statues, Layla was relieved to step into a dining room the size of a restaurant. But at least it looked like a decent dining room and not something out of 'Alice in Wonderland.'

Zole was at one of the larger tables, reading off a tablet. He was in a ridiculous striped suit that made him look like a giant candy-cane from a distance. The colouring did have a flattering effect, but as far as Layla was concerned, the Poker's idea of dressing to impress completely missed the mark.

When they entered, he immediately placed it aside and stood with a beaming smile.

The second his blue eyes landed on Layla she felt butterflies in her stomach. The sickening kind.

"Layla!" Zole welcomed her like an old friend, rounding the table to kiss both her cheeks. Reggie silently went to stand along the wall beside a very nervous Bork.

Bemused, Layla decided not to punch him in the face and quietly tolerated Zole's greeting. She didn't move when he pulled a chair out for her.

"Please," he invited, inclining his head.

Layla hesitated, remembering The Poker was strong and could fight. Truce had coached her about 'kidnapee' etiquette with The Poker. Her priorities were to conserve her energy, take stock of her surroundings, retain every little detail and wait for an opportunity.

Truce was very particular that she must control her temper, cater to Zole's courteous whims and do her very best to avoid giving him a reason to restrain her.

After looking around and counting roughly ten gunmen, Layla awkwardly allowed Zole to seat her.

"I can't decide if you're more striking in your leather suit, or 'au naturel'," he smiled. "And I'm ecstatic we could procure you without injury. I was worried you might try something heroic."

Layla stared at him.

"I hope you were treated with courtesy throughout the journey?" Zole continued, taking the seat opposite.

Bork's hand slipped on the wall, but he managed to recover without falling.

"Are you quite alright, Bork?" Zole's cool gaze moved from Layla's set jaw to his henchman. "Sweaty palms?"

"I'm fine, boss," Bork calmly responded. Next to him, Reggie intently scrutinised Layla's reactions.

Silence ensued, and Layla looked up to see the Poker expectantly watching her.

"The journey was fine," she flatly clarified, pleased her first words were not weak-toned, because she was extremely rattled.

"I am relieved to hear it." The Poker's eyes slid once more to Bork, staring straight ahead, and back to Layla. "You are rather unusual Layla."

Layla swallowed and didn't reply. She didn't know what was worse; Zole's interest, or yet another reminder that Truce was completely right.

Zole lifted his spiked cane from where it rested against their table and balanced it across his lap. Then he leaned back in his seat, curiously observing her.

It took every ounce of Layla's self-control to maintain a serene façade, though her heart thumped with fear and her ears were buzzing.

The poker angled his head at her with a searching look. "I expected you to give an exaggerated lie, or tell the truth," he remarked. "I didn't anticipate you would cover for one of my men. How novel."

Bork's jaw was working, his gaze became more fixed on the space ahead as the Poker eased from his seat and strolled to stand in front of him.

"You mistreated Layla in an intolerably vile manner," he quietly accused, but his words carried through the open-plan room. "I provide you plenty of opportunity to behave appallingly within the capacity of your employ. You knew she was my guest. I trusted you to treat her as such."

"I didn't hurt her-!" Bork's defence turned into a shriek of pain when the end of the Poker's cane pierced his foot.

Layla gripped the edge of the table, fighting her instinct to run, frozen with fascinated horror as Zole abruptly withdrew the weapon.

Immediately, Bork balanced on one leg, desperately clutching his injury, blood dripping between his fingers. It was a shallow stab, and Bork knew if he weren't near the top of The Poker's employee hierarchy, it would have been his throat instead.

"If anybody is going to mistreat Layla, it is not going to be you," Zole growled. "I hope I have made my point on the matter?" He stepped back and jerked his head. "Get out of my sight, idiot."

Quietly groaning in agony, Bork accepted Reggie's support and hopped from the room. Another man immediately wiped the cane's end before dropping to his knees to clean the blood from the floor.

Layla forced herself to slowly release the breath she was holding as Zole returned.

"I am sure he will be more respectful, next time," he assured her, and poured water for them both.

Next time? Layla bit back a scathing retort. She'd never agree to a second date, but at least 'next time' gave her some hope of not being imprisoned.

The table had been laid for a meal, but no food had been served.

Zole unexpectedly dismissed the rest of the men, who immediately filed through a blue swing-door into an adjoining kitchen. It was a false pretence; they were clearly waiting to be summoned.

Layla took this faux privacy as a bad sign. She didn't want to be alone with the Poker.

"I don't want you to feel intimidated by them," he explained, verifying her theory. "And I'm sure they won't have reason to return in a hurry."

Layla narrowed her eyes at the thinly veiled 'behave, or else' ultimatum. Did he really think her compliance wasn't fast-approaching expiry? And it didn't matter he was good-looking; the suit made him appear the lunatic he was.

"What are you thinking?" he queried, half laughing at the look on her face.

"I was thinking you look better in a tracksuit," she sourly answered.

"How nice of you to notice," The Poker smiled.

Layla's jaw clenched that he'd turned it into a compliment. "Why did you have me kidnapped?" she asked, the wording preferable to 'what do you want with me?'

Zole considered. "You seemed to have struck a chord with Oxman and he doesn't keep female company. I wanted to know what all the fuss was about."

Layla knew that was a lie. Reggie's comment to Bork stood out as very unusual; they obviously had plans for her and she didn't care to find out what they were.

And even though The Poker exhibited every gentlemanly courtesy, she was very conscious of his masculinity, that his interest was sexual. It was the same vibe as when they first met on the wharf. Another part of her wondered about Truce, recalling his comment about knowing the Poker very well. Did Zole know Truce's identity as Oxman? Is that how she was found?

"So, when can I leave?" Layla asked bluntly.

"An indeterminate time," Zole chuckled. "I'm afraid I won't be releasing you until my curiosity has been satisfied," he concluded, staring at her.

Alarm bells went off in Layla's head, she paled significantly, but didn't react. She knew he wanted some reaction from her, probably fear, but he wasn't getting it.

And so, she deliberately sipped her water, using all her strength to smoothly place the glass back to the table without shaking. The Poker carefully watched her hand and smiled at her achievement with raised eyebrows.

His look of impressed superiority was too much for Layla. "That's a funny joke," she finally said, her voice slightly strained but still managing a pleasant tone. "They should call you 'The Joker' instead of 'The Poker'."

"They don't, because I like to follow through with my banter." Zole's handsome smile turned sinister.

"I suppose this is an exception, because you're full of shit at the moment," Layla snapped, forgetting her resolve to avoid confrontation with Gothic City's most deadly villain. Her day had started out so well, life was wonderful, and now this. It was bullshit.

"There's that little fire I've been waiting for." Zole's pale eyes were bright on her angry face, his fingers lightly drummed the tablecloth. "I know you won't disappoint me in bed."

"I wish I could say the same about you!" Layla sneered, ignoring the little voice in her mind pleading for her to exhibit some good sense. She was either about to be murdered or ravished and imprisoned, neither outcome was desirable.

The Poker hesitated contemplatively. "I was looking forward to doing things properly. I envisioned escorting you to your room, meeting you for dinner in an hour or so. Wine, music, conversation..." he arched an eyebrow, his blue eyes brightened. "But I have to admit, the idea of carrying you kicking and screaming to my bedroom carries significant appeal."

Layla ignored the simmering sexual tension suddenly radiating her direction. "That's disappointing," she smirked. "I'd heard you were better than the average grunt." She paused, watching a strange expression cross Zole's face.

"Oxman said I'm a gentleman?" The Poker surmised with light interest, looking oddly pleased. "I am, Layla. It's so refreshing to have a feminine presence here. I resolved to start courteously with you, especially given Bork's unseemly behaviour."

Layla's lip curled with contempt.

Zole paused a moment, appreciating Layla's burning green eyes. "But there's something about you that brings the brute in me to surface. I presume Oxman has the same issue with you."

Layla had a bizarre feeling of déjà vu, remembering Truce's comment about Zole being similar to him. "I'm so flattered," she retorted sarcastically, wishing her heartbeat would stop thumping up her throat.

Zole laughed at her sass and relaxed back into his seat. "I'm willing to take things slower if you're a good girl, Layla."

"I feel like we'll disagree about what that involves," Layla answered with a tight smile.

"Very likely," Zole grinned. "You're not a bad combatant, but you're clearly a novice," he assessed, recalling their encounter on the wharf.

"It wouldn't be difficult to chain you to my wall. I'd enjoy the roughhousing." He laughed at her bristling fury. "Oh, don't pout. If you're spending time with a man in full leather and a cape, I'm sure you'll find a way to enjoy my proclivities."

Once again, Layla was forced to admit she'd been an absolute twit to disregard Truce's warning about the Poker. But speaking of insufferably sexy know-it-alls; where the fuck was Oxman?

The air left Layla's lungs in an unsettling woosh when the Poker seized the front of her shirt, dragging her unceremoniously across the table.

"Ugh-!"

Layla barely had time to make a sound of protest, then Zole's mouth fixed to her parted lips. Wanting to breathe, Layla's instinctively opened wide, and Zole's tongue slid across hers.

Bite him!

As if Zole read her mind, his other hand pinched her jaw painfully before she could lock down. Caught awkwardly against the table, Layla's hands clenched for support into the tablecloth, the glasses, empty plates and cutlery disrupted.

Finally, her shirt was released, and as she sucked in a desperate gulp of air, she was pulled his way again, her feet scrambled for footing and she was suddenly in the Poker's lap.

Coughing, Layla used her forearm to push his chest, the other tugging at his arm banded about her waist. He was strong; too strong for her to extricate herself. She didn't like being in his arms, at all. Layla could feel the heat of his body responding to her, she was immersed in his personal space. He was aroused; his cock thickly jabbing her thigh. She snarled when a hot, wet mouth feverishly kissed up her neck.

Being mauled and pawed by a despicable villain felt far worse than anything Truce had done to her. It was humiliating, minus the compelling attraction. For the first time she knew the stark difference between an unwanted desire for an assailant, and a complete lack of interest.

"Let me go!" she shouted, wishing Truce was there to defend her but also glad he wasn't present to see how fucking helpless she was.

"No," The Poker spoke silkily against her skin, kissing the rapid beat of her pulse. "You're my property now, Foxy. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be for you."

"Oh, my God, you...shithead!" Layla raged, her mind scrambling for the best attack approach. It was very difficult when they were so close together.

"Something I predict you'll be learning the hard way, Layla..." Zole's patronising drawl filled her ears, chastising and amused. His fingers closed pointedly over her breast; his thumb circled the peak and forced it to rise under pressure.

The intimate touch on a sensitive part of Layla was unbearable. It was the second time within the hour that her tits were receiving unwanted attention.

Words failed Layla. So, she smashed their foreheads together in a classic head-butt. Taking advantage of his shock and ignoring the awful pain shooting across her forehead and temples, Layla took advantage of his loosened hold and twisted in his lap.

With a fast grip on Zole's broad shoulders, Layla prayed for her upper body strength to deliver, and pushed down, imagining all those times Truce made her climb out of the deep end of his pool without ladder assistance.

"Wha-?" Zole frowned, then yelped when Layla hoisted herself up, stepped directly on his crotch and kneed him in the face.

The Poker fell back, with Layla on top of him. She grimaced at the rude position; her thighs straddling his face in direct line with her pussy. Also aware of the opportunity, Zole strained up with a primitive growl, his mouth pressing into her gusset of her panties.

Layla's eyes flared with rage as the heat of Zole's breath warmed her sex. He'd suffered a decent knock to the head and a foot to his groin, and he was still going for her?! Was The Poker really as crazy as the tabloids claimed?

Reaching for the cane that had toppled alongside them, she abruptly leaned back and whacked him in the face with the blunt end of it. Instinctively, she then swiftly shoved the weapon behind, the knife-point stabbing into the henchman about to grab her. The impaled thug fell to the side, screaming.

Layla decided not to spar with the incoming men and scrambled for the exit. She ducked down but kept running when a bullet whistled by her shoulder.

"Don't shoot!" The Poker choked from the ground; his bloodied face twisted with fury. "Bring her to me! Bring her to me!"

Layla sped down the enormous corridor that she'd meekly walked through with Reggie. The doors at the end swung open, and four men ran toward her, one speaking into an earpiece, obviously summoned by the kitchen security. Layla drew up, turned and saw the dining room group chasing her. She was trapped.

Only seconds left till she was captured again, and Layla's eyes quickly darted about and narrowed at a long, golden javelin held by a Greek statue. Maybe she could stab a couple more thugs before she was inevitably taken down. Hopefully one would kill her before the Poker would get a chance to fuck her.

Layla took a step in the direction of the statue, then cried out when she flipped, her feet left the ground and she was horizonal and rising. Layla gaped at the elaborate, red carpet as it slowly distanced from her. The pursuing men stood rooted to the ground, gawking up with fascination, some with their mouths open.

As Layla steadily ascended toward the high-ceiling, metre by metre, she finally twisted to look up. It was Truce, in his Oxman suit, of course, pulleying her up to him. A large hole had been cut through one of the stained-glass windows. His entry, and escape point.

"Sorry about the window, Zole!" he called, and Layla turned back to see the Poker staggering down the hall, gripping his crotch and looking utterly deranged.

"DON'T SHOOT!" Zole screamed when two lifted their guns to fire. He watched Oxman lift Layla into his arms and discard the hook attachment from her belt.

Layla noticed The Poker staring and blew him an insolent kiss. Zole grinned viciously and extended his arm to catch the imaginary gesture and slowly wiped his hand across his lips.

Though Layla smirked with contempt, she'd never seen anything more terrifying than the way the Poker was looking at her, his expression transformed from a handsome, courteous gentleman to unhinged insanity. Then and there she decided to gladly sit out any future mission involving him.

"Until next time, Miss Brandles!" Zole called, his voice raggedly confident, his eyes burning with pain and determination. "Always good to see you, Oxy!"

Truce ignored him and carefully stepped through the glass pane. Once he had his footing along the narrow ledge outside, he reached for Layla.

The Poker firmly pointed at Layla in a silent threat that said: 'I'll be seeing you'. Layla raised her middle-finger in reply right before Truce lifted her from sight.

"Hold onto me," Truce brusquely ordered. Layla shut her eyes and wrapped her arms around him, feeling safe for the first time in hours. Little pressures applied about her waistline, then tightened.

Once she was secured to his front, Truce deftly unclicked some attachments and quickly wound out a little lever, his cape extended to full-length and locked into place, ready to glide.

"Here we go," he warned, sounding exasperated.

Layla whimpered into his chest armour when Truce walked and she fell backward, horizontal again, facing the sky. The wind whipped around them, Layla cried out and tightened her grip on him every time they lurched with the airstream currents.

As her heart leapt with terror, Layla silently promised if they made it back to the Oxcave without crashing to their deaths that she would marry Truce in a heartbeat, she would indulge his every bed fantasy, she would never break any of his rules ever again.

It took a good minute for Layla to register that they'd survived the landing. The final descent was rough, and Truce was a little nervous about it, Layla could tell by his breathing. They tumbled to the grass not far from his estate, Truce had encircled her in his arms, so she took none of the impact. It wasn't until Truce tried to wind back his cape that they realised it was broken.

"Oh well. Felix will be happy to know it worked," Truce shrugged, detaching the piece from his back.

"You didn't know if it worked?" Layla said shrilly, almost falling back to the ground after finding her footing with an effort.

"Well, it was new, and I hadn't personally tested it," he shrugged, removing his mask so it hung down his back. "I didn't have time. Your bad habits are rubbing off on me."

Layla began to complain about his safety policies, but Truce pinched her chin and kissed her deeply.