Once again, my mind wanders back to the girl. I can’t help but picture her underneath the sack, probably grinning like the Cheshire cat at the possibility of her captor taking her to a remote location for some rest and relaxation. From the way she’s leaning forward, her eyes are probably sparkling with absolute chaos. I clamp down on the urge to smile, forcing myself to focus on the road ahead.
She continues to chatter on, something about an enemies-to-lovers arc. I hate that her absurdly perfect, irritatingly fangirl voice makes me want to respond to her. She’s so animated and excited, even in this ridiculous situation. The more she talks, the more I realize how dull and lonely my life has been. I don’t think I’ve had a solid conversation with anyone that was not part of my job in months.
I’m thirty-four years old, about to head into my residency year where any social life is non-existent, and I have no other person to rely on outside of Eli. Medical school has taken all my free time. Yet, it’s not a decision I’d ever change. Just like I knew in my gut that enlistingwas the right thing to do, I knew going into medicine was my calling. The eight years I spent in the Marines, watching my guys get patched up by the Navy corpsmen both on and off the field, made me realize there was more I could do. Eli felt the same way, so once we had finished our last tour, we dove right into getting our licenses. It was tough; late nights, early mornings. We weren’t in our primes like the other students but we had the drive. It was great having my brother with me, going through all the same struggles and relying on each other.
But recently, there’s been a shift. Eli’s spending more time with his girlfriend, confiding in and relying on her. It’s not that I’m jealous. Well, maybe just a little jealous. I want that special someone to share life’s highs and lows with. I want to curl up on the couch and watch trashy TV while eating our weight in ice cream. As I imagine the scenario in my head, I realize the person I picture on the couch with me is the girl in the back seat.
The thought hits me like a ton of bricks.
I am so in over my head.
Shaking my head from the unwelcome vision, I imagine the consequences of this kidnapping prank gone wrong. Getting caught by a cop. Arrested. The headlines. “Local man kidnapped girlfriend of best friend; claims he was coerced into an immersive role-playing ruse.” Failingmedical school because of a criminal record. My entire future flushed down a toilet over a “harmless prank.”
9
Charlie
My captor has gone completely radio silent.
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to suggest “hate-fuck,” but I got nervous so I started rambling. I can tell traffic is starting to open up, and I need him to take this sack off so I can use my phone.
Lost in my pity party and self-doubt, I’m taken aback when a rush of fresh air hits my face. My eyes blink rapidly as the sudden rush of light assaults my vision. I’m temporarily blinded before my eyes adjust, and that’s when I see him. Or, well, his side profile.
I wonder what made him change his mind to remove my sack. Must be my charming personality. I stare at my captor, who’s in a simple black hoodie and a skeleton neck gaiter, hiding most of his face. His eyes are focused on the road ahead, and I can’t get a good read on him.
I take inventory of my surroundings. The car interior is shockingly pristine. Black leather seats, spotless, the surfaces immaculate, not a speck of dust in sight. This guy would hate my little Civic. I mean, it’s my version of clean; an empty cardboard box sitting in my passenger seat serves as my trash can for everything I drag in.
My eyes slowly drift to the rearview mirror where a hospital badge swings gently, catching the light. I lean forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of his name. The movement makes him glance back, and I freeze. His sharp gaze follows mine, and before I can think, his hand is on the badge. In one swift motion, he snatches it from the mirror and tosses it into the side compartment of his driver-side door. Well, there goes getting his name for the police report.
Remembering my escape plan, I fumble for my phone now that the sack is off. Awkwardly tapping at the black screen, waiting for it to turn on. Nothing happens. Did it die? No, no, no. I swear I left it on the charger last night. My pulse picks up. I can feel it against my ribs as my panic level rises. I take a shaky breath, willing my nerves to take a back seat so my brain can think. Freaking out won’t help my phone turn on.
With my hands bound behind my back, it feels like I’m lifting imaginary weights as I try to get my phone into position. Oddly, the rope isn’t tight. It’s like he put it onmore for show than to restrain me. I can move my wrists back and forth, so maybe I can actually get it off. Squeezing my hands into tight fists, I start to wiggle them back and forth. The rope gives just a little.
I unclench my hand and keep wiggling, remembering that one drunken night I got my hand stuck in a mason jar at Cadillac Ranch, the local bar in town. To be fair, some guy had called me chubby, and in my very tipsy state, I spotted the empty maraschino cherry jar behind the bar and proudly declared, “Oh yeah? Could a chubby girl fit her hand in this tiny jar?” Then I shoved my hand in and held it up in triumph. The guy walked away without another word, probably because he didn’t know what to say. As soon as he was gone, though, I realized my mistake. I was completely stuck. Claire and I spent the next ten minutes wiggling and pulling the jar free from my hand.
Now this situation is similar, same but different. Same in the sense it’s a tight fit to pull my one hand free, different in that I don’t have the drunk person mindset, the one that thinks they are invincible. As I continue to wiggle and pull, I pray that traffic slows down again. He’s almost completely clear of Main Street, and I need him to be slowed down enough to make a break for it. I bite down a frustrated groan and whisper-shout, “Comeon,” under my breath, the words slipping out sharper than I intend.
Realizing my mistake, I snap my gaze back to him, forcing a casual smile. Our eyes lock in the rearview mirror, and I see his brow crease like he caught me in action. My pulse picks up speed again, this time not from fear of being caught but from the intensity of his eyes. Those dark green irises pin me in place. For a moment, I almost forget he’s my captor.
Clearing my throat and attempting to break free from his smoldering gaze, I resume my questioning.
“Are we there yet? I feel like we’re not there yet. This is giving slow-burn angst.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on the road, jaw tight.
“Wow,” I say, leaning back and letting my voice drip with mock admiration. “You really go full grumpy silent type, huh?”
He flicks a quick glance, dark eyes narrowing, and grunts his response.
“Do all your sentences just come out in grunts, or is that just special treatment for me?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” His rich voice takes me by surprise.
“Oh my god, you speak! I was starting to think you were mute. This is huge character development for you!”
His hand tightens on the wheel. “Look, princess, we’ll be there before you know it, so do us both a favor and quiet down back there.”
“Princess?” I say, voice light and teasing. “Are we giving each other nicknames now? Is that what you call all your captives, or am I just special?”
