“It could be either, depending on your point of view,” I tell her, meaning every word.
She lifts one of her arms out of the water to wipe some bubbles off her fork, and I can’t take my eyes off the bare skin she reveals. “Care to enlighten me?”
I stare at her hungrily. “I will, when the time is right.”
I watch her eat for several moments. She occasionally glances at me, then finally asks: “What?”
“Nothing,” I tell her.
She twirls the fork around the bowl to scoop the risotto off the edges. “Then why are you watching me?”
“Maybe, like you, I have nothing to do.”
She gives me a sly glance. “I can think of a few things we can do together then.”
“So can I,” I agree.
Her gaze darts to my crotch and when she meets my eyes again her cheeks turn a bright red. I’m not sure if it’s because of what she saw when she looked between my legs, or the fact I caught her looking.
She still has some food to eat, and I refuse to make a move until she’s finished. She fasted for a whole day in my custody, and I want her to get back at least some of the strength she must have lost. She’s already too thin as it is. Plus if she was working out, she needs to recoup the calories she burned off. Because I’m about to make her burn off a whole lot more…
“What do you want in life?” I blurt out. I’m not sure why I ask that. Actually, I am: I’m curious about her, and want to get to know her on more than just a physical level. I want to reacquaint myself with the Angela I lost eight years ago. “If you’re not interested in love, or marriage, then what?”
She lifts another spoonful of rice to her lips, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “Oh, I guess I want to write and play music, since music has always been my escape, my freedom, my portal to another world, transporting me away from my dreary life. I used to play the violin and the piano, at least until my mother died. Papa sold the piano—he couldn’t bear to keep it since Mamma liked to play the piano too. He got rid of my Stradivari, too, telling me he couldn’t stand those dreary notes echoing throughout his empty house. I told him he was wrong, that I only played cheerful songs, and his reply was: exactly.”
“Interesting,” I tell her. “I don’t remember you playing the piano or the violin.”
She swallows another spoonful. “I never told you. I guess I was embarrassed about it back then. Music was something personal, something I never shared with anyone. I’d even feel uncomfortable telling my friends what kind of music I liked to listen to, because I was always afraid they were going to judge me. It’s silly when I think about it. And honestly, I’m still like that with my friends today.”
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask her.
She stares at me for a moment. “For some reason, I don’t feel any shame in telling you. I guess because I know I can trust you not to judge me.” When I nod, she says: “I’m a big fan of K-Pop.”
“Really?” I tell her. “That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, I got into it while watching Anime on Youtube,” she says. “Believe it or not, K-Pop songs are always showing up in the recommendation sections of Anime videos. At least for me.”
I nod, smiling. “I’ve fallen into my fair share of recommendation rabbit holes on Youtube. You watch just one video about grooming horses, your feed will be full of horse grooming videos.”
“And don’t even get me started on e-readers,” she says. “You read one dark romance novel and the next thing you know all you see are dark romance novels when you’re browsing the online store.”
“First world problems,” I agree.
“So how about you, what kind of music rocks your boat?” she asks. “I seem to recall a taste in metal. Has that changed?”
I laugh. “I still like metal. But my tastes have expanded to include more rock these days. And I do admit there’s a special place in my heart for some K-Pop. Gangnam Style comes to mind.”
She smiles giddily. “Oh my God, IloveGangnam Style! The whole world was singing to it eight years ago.”
I can’t help but grin. “Do you remember when we were browsing the supermarket that time and Gangnam Style came on over the intercom? And we started dancing in the store, using food as props and taking pictures? And they kicked us out not because we were playing with all that food, but because they didn’t want us taking pictures in their store?”
“How could I forget!” she says. “That was one of my favorite memories of all time. I remember when you grabbed one of those clams from the tank and opened and closed the shell, making it sing in time to the music. That was so gross and so funny at the same time.”
“We had some fun in our day, didn’t we?” I tell her.
She smiles, her eyes distant. “We did.” She comes back to the present and downs the last of the rice, then reaches over the edge of the tub to set the bowl on the floor. Once again I don’t get to see even a smidgen of her lower chest, thanks to the fresh layer of thick bubbles clinging to her body.
When she settles back once more, she leans her head on the tub’s rim, and then glances at me. “How did you end up in the kidnapping business?”
