Jessa James - Control

Control: Copyright © 2020 by Jessa James

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, digital or mechanical including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning or by any type of data storage and retrieval system without express, written permission from the author.

Published by Jessa James

James, Jessa

Control

Cover design copyright 2020 by Jessa James, Author

Images/Photo Credit: Deposit photos: Yafimik; SSilver

Publisher’s Note:

This book was written for an adult audience. The book may contain explicit sexual content. Sexual activities included in this book are strictly fantasies intended for adults and any activities or risks taken by fictional characters within the story are neither endorsed nor encouraged by the author or publisher.

This book has been previously published.

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1. Katherine 1

2. Katherine 2

3. Arsen 3

4. Katherine 4

5. Katherine

6. Katherine

7. Katherine

8. Arsen

9. Katherine

10. Katherine

11. Arsen

12. Arsen

13. Katherine

14. Katherine

15. Katherine

16. Katherine

17. Katherine

18. Katherine

19. Arsen

20. Katherine

21. Arsen

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Also by Jessa James

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1

I sprint as fast as I can, away from the cops that are pursuing me. Toward what, I don’t know. Running towards the two sagging warehouses, placed side by side.

My heartbeat sounds thunderous in my own ears.

Ka-thump.

My muscles are moving me forward, but my arms and legs protest with every step.

Ka-thump.

My mind races, trying to put together a puzzle for which I don’t have all of the pieces. There’s not a lot of coherent thought going on, just a bunch of reacting based on pure instinct.

Ka-thump.

I reach the bottleneck, where the two warehouses eclipse me. My movement is hidden from anyone behind me. I run through the narrow gap, continuing to the right. I see a partially open door just twenty yards ahead of me. My lungs are screaming for me to stop now, so I sprint to the door, ducking inside.

As soon as I get inside, I miss the dusky light. In here, it’s dark and dank and moldy, and my eyes take a moment to adjust. The warehouse is full of old crates and boxes, stacked four times as tall as I am.

I need to move. Standing here like this, I’m a sitting duck. Three avenues open up between the boxes, forcing me to decide which one to take. I choose the left, moving as quickly and quietly as possible down the row of boxes that tower overhead.

There are some paths created by the boxes, here and there where a stack randomly ends and there is a gap before the next begins. I soon see that there are not just the three avenues, but actually a whole network of corollary pathways.

Darting right, off the main path, I work my way through the maze. As I go, I have to slow down because the paths that I travel are getting smaller and smaller, nearly trapping me amongst the towering boxes.

I start to get the same claustrophobic feeling that I felt earlier in the SUV begin to rise. If I die in here, the cops could just leave my body among the boxes and no one would probably even notice.

That is assuming that anyone would even look for me.

Based on the fact that my closest brother, Tony, just sold me to the cops who are pursuing me now, I seriously doubt that.

I clutch at my chest and refuse to let these thoughts settle in my mind. Not when there is so much else at stake.

I reach what seems to be the center of the maze, and realize the main problem with being among the boxes. There isn’t anywhere to hide here.

I stop, looking at the heavy cardboard box to my right, examining it for a way in. I find a seam, tracing it around the box with my fingers. But I would have to break into the box to get inside.

I glance up at the towering stack of boxes above it, biting my lip. There is no way of knowing that the box at the bottom wouldn’t collapse, trapping me inside. And that’s only if I managed to get inside, without any tools to help.

“Hey, in here!” comes a man’s voice. Although the voice is a bit distant, I recognize it as belonging to one of the cops. “She could’ve run in through this open door.”

Shit . They are coming my way, it’s only a matter of time. I look around, crazed. I have to start moving, that much is for certain.

I decide to move further toward the back of the warehouse, thinking there might be an exit or at least somewhere I can hide back there. In my rush to move quickly, I knock one of the stacks of boxes with my shoulder so hard that it actually rocks back and forth for a second.

Recoiling, I dart away from the boxes, praying that they don’t actually fall. I hadn’t considered that possibility yet, but I don’t want to alert the cops that I’m inside this particular warehouse. Knocking some of these giant boxes to the ground will definitely do that, at the very least.

Far behind me, I hear one of the cops curse, and I get the sense that he just figured out that the boxes are moveable too.

As I go, the pathway gradually opens up. I rush down the widening corridor, trying to make out what lies at the other end. My breathing sounds ragged and harsh to my own ears.

I silently pray that no one else can hear my breaths. I keep going, moving by willpower alone, and then, suddenly, I am running out of the maze.

I look left and right; on the left, at the far end, there appear to be a set of double doors. In front of me, there is a second floor of what appear to be offices. On my far right, there are stairs that lead up to the second floor.

I race for the exit, ignoring a rat as it scurries across my path. I pump my arms and legs, sprinting flat-out towards the doors. There is graffiti all along the walls here, all red and black, the artist practicing their tag over and over again.

“Skinx”, it says. “Skinx. Skinx. Skinx. Skinx. skinx.”

I can hear the cops yell to each other as they navigate the maze. I can’t tell exactly what they are saying, because their voices are muffled by all the cardboard, but I know that they’re still in pursuit.

I make it to the double doors, only to find them padlocked shut, a locked chain entwined between their individual push-to-open handles. I push on one door anyway, feeling panic rising again. It opens a quarter of an inch before the chain pulls tight.

Shit! I bang the door with my hand, only wincing afterward at the noise. I need another escape route, or at least a hiding place.

I glance behind me, then to my right. I don’t want to be locked in here, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. I start running toward the other end, focusing all my energy on the ratty looking set of metal stairs that lead up to the second floor.