The Bodyguard: A BWWM Bad Body Romance(65)

But there was a part of Hank that knew better.

What he and Juliet had shared...despite his best efforts, it was more than just sex. Hank had never done more than just sex in his life. He had avoided anything more than one night stands, and equated emotional entanglements with complications. He had told himself that he wasn’t breaking his rules with Juliet. They were both broken in ways that complemented one another and they were simply doing whatever it was that humans did when thrown into close quarters.

But if that was all it was, Solomon wouldn’t have used him to lure her in in the first place. And Hank wouldn’t worry that she’d come.

But this wasn’t really the time to tread the road to self-discovery. Solomon had beat him into near-unconsciousness and if Hank didn’t make a move soon, Juliet might show up and then they’d both be fucked. Hank would rather die than see her back under Solomon’s influence, but he was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

Hank’s mind had always worked most efficiently when he was physically exhausted. Simmons depended on him because he had the ability to stay sharp when others might snap. While Hank might have been letting Solomon have his way with him, that didn’t mean he wasn’t plotting his escape.

Just now, the bastard was downstairs with his men, gloating about how soon Juliet would show up. Hank planned to take advantage of the lull in his attentions to make a solid attempt at escape.

That wasn’t to say it was going to be easy. Though it killed Hank to admit it, Solomon was smarter than he looked. He hadn’t left him alone in his office. Two huge idiots Hank had the pleasure of working with before he was outed guarded him - and they seemed particularly pissed that he’d pulled the wool over their eyes. Solomon told them not to hesitate to kick the shit out of him if he made any wrong moves. Once, that wouldn’t have worried him as much, but now, he was barely in any shape to move at all. He couldn’t afford further injury.

Every delay saw the possibility of Juliet giving herself up increased.

Hank swiveled his head towards the doorway as best he could. From either side of it, Gerry and Mike eyed him aggressively. They were just waiting for an excuse to further cave his face in.

But Hank had a trick up his sleeve.

For the past few days, he’d been picking at the edges of the wooden chair he was tied to. The task was murder on his fingers but the pain was worth it. He’d acquired a number of long, sharp splinters that he tucked beneath his shirt, against his bare skin.

Seeing as how he’d been bound with duct tape, there was a good chance he’d be able to puncture through his bonds and free himself - given a little time. Unfortunately, time was something he didn’t currently have much of. If he was going to do this fast, he would have to risk the notice of the men guarding him.

And that he couldn’t afford. This left Hank with only one option: He had to take out the men who would rat him out.

Even if he hadn’t been exhausted and bleeding, the task wouldn’t have been an easy one. Now, it seemed almost insurmountable.

But Hank would do what he needed to do.

After wriggling slightly to make sure the splinters he’d plucked from the chair wouldn’t slide down the back of his jeans, he raised his head as best he was able to call to the men guarding him.

“Hey.” His normally gruff tone came out cracked and embarrassingly feeble. Both Gerry and Mike cast disgusted looks in his direction. They were few of many who thought that simply working for Solomon was enough to guarantee their meal ticket.

That thought might just give him the strength to get through the next few minutes. “I gotta take a piss.”

Gerry - the taller of the two men - merely snorted. “Piss then. You’re not getting up.”

Their treatment of him over the past few days had grown steadily worse, mirroring that of their employer. Hank knew he shouldn’t have hoped things would be that easy. He groaned, shifting slightly in his chair and doing the best he could to afford a host of protesting muscles.

“Should I take a shit in the chair too? You two would be left smelling it.”

Mike frowned in revulsion before glancing in Gerry’s direction. His companion merely shrugged. “Fine. Take him to the fucking bathroom.” His gaze narrowed as he gazed over Hank’s battered form. “But make sure his hands are still bound.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot,” Mike groused, beginning towards Hank. The bound man had to heartily disagree with that statement, but voicing it just then wasn’t going to do him any good. Hank sagged against the back of the chair, saving his strength, as Mike went about untaping his body. He wasn’t proud of what he’d have to do next, but his plan wouldn’t work if he only had one of their attention. He needed to take them out simultaneously and efficiently.

Which meant he didn’t have many options.

It took Mike a good minute or so to discover the source of the warm wetness snaking down Hank’s thigh, but when he did, he cursed in disgust, shoving away from him. The strength in his beefy arms sent Hank - still half bound to the chair - toppling onto his side with a clatter he only hoped Solomon didn’t investigate. “Fuck, he pissed himself!”

Hank proceeded to feign an infantile level of weakness, slumping onto the floor. The weight put on his bound wrists was tremendous but his face remained blank. “Fucking get him up then!” Gerry barked, his disgust evident.