“That’s not it,” I sniffle. “What if he hurts you? I don’t want to lose you.”
There. It’s out. My heart is laid bare, totally on display like it’s the Jumbotron of love. “You don’t?” he asks. “I figured that, well…” He stops midsentence and looks upstairs, probably realizing that this conversation can wait until Rock Tucker is subdued. “I’ll be fine. Stay here.”
But it’s too late. Behind him, the man in the soaking wet orange jumpsuit jumps down off the stairs and points a gun at us. Stone quickly pulls me behind him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man says.
“That’s why you’re pointing a gun at us,” Stone says. His voice sounds terrifying, like there are nails in his throat.
“I just want some clothes and a way off this island.”
“I’ll get you off the island,” Stone says. “I have a boat.”
“No!” I holler, clutching onto his shirt. “Don’t do it. Just let him go.”
Stone ignores me. “I have clothes, too,” he tells the criminal. “We could go get them.”
“Are you kidding? No way. I’ll take yours. Take your clothes off.”
Normally, I would have no complaints about Stone taking off his clothes, but I have a terrible feeling crawling up my spine that this is not going to end well. It might have something to do with the guy in the orange jumpsuit waving his gun at Stone, watching him while he slips out of his Levis.
Or it might be Stone’s posture, like he’s a tiger ready to strike, which could wind up getting him shot and killed. I’m not an expert on lethal weapons, but I’m pretty sure not even Stone can out-maneuver a bullet. Nobody’s that fast. Stone peels off his shirt. The muscles in his back are corded, flexed, and prepared to fight. I know it’s coming soon and I feel an overwhelming feeling to protect the man I love.
I look around feverishly for a weapon. There isn’t a pot to be found, but the Swiffer Wet Jet is propped up against the wall, where Stone has left it. Just as Stone passes his shirt to the criminal, I leap like a gazelle and grab the Wet Jet. With all the might of my tiny frame, I careen the handle of the cleaning tool into the bank robber’s stomach.
At least I almost do.
It would have been great if I managed it. But with the exception of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, little wisps of women like me really aren’t that much of a physical threat if we’re not kneeing a bad guy in the balls. Besides, I’m not the best homemaker and, before today, I’ve never used a Swiffer Wet Jet. I’m sure it’s great when used in a normal capacity, but it sucks donkey dicks at felling an armed escaped convict.
As the handle makes contact with Tucker’s gut, he grabs it with his non-gun hand and stares at me in shock and fury. He aims his gun directly at my face, and I realize right there and then that instead of working Stone out of my system, he’s wedged in there even stronger than before. Otherwise, why would I risk my life? Why would I try to save his life with an innovative cleaning tool when he’s all ready to risk his life with his plethora of big muscles? Damn it. I’m hooked. I will never work Stone out of my system. Now—if I survive tonight—not only will I spill food on Stone every time he orders at my table, but I will mourn the loss of his penis while I spill the food on him. I’ve gone from being desperate to being desperate and horny without any hope of an ounce of happiness in my long—if I survive tonight—loser life.
“Sonofabitch!” I yell in frustration. The bank robber in the orange jumpsuit seems to take this interjection as a personal insult, and Stone whips his head around to me, his face a picture of what-the-hell, as I tussle with the chainsaw killer over the Wet Jet.
Stone looks from me to the killer and back again, trying to figure out how to unravel the deadly puzzle of how to save us as well as capture the escaped convict without getting killed. Meanwhile, Rock Tucker is madder than spit at being attacked by a girl with a sewer mouth. He jabs at me with the Swiffer, but Stone throws his body between us, like a Secret Service agent or a Marvel superhero. Either way, I’m distracted by his hunky bravery. He’s mostly naked and probably has three percent body fat, even though he eats diner food on a daily basis. He’s like a mix between Captain America and the new Aquaman played by the guy from Game of Thrones. But even better.
“Watch out!” I yell, completely beside the point and probably a disservice to Stone since he opens his eyes wide just in time for the bank robber to spray a thick coat of Swiffer cleaner all over Stone’s face, completely blinding him. Stone throws his hands up, like he’s trying to see through his fingertips.
“Leave him alone!” I shout.
“Shut up or I’ll shoot you,” the bank robber says. As much as I’m afraid of being chainsawed to death, I’m even more afraid of being shot, probably because there’s an actual gun being pointed at me.
Even though he’s blind, Stone yanks the Swiffer out of the killer’s hands and throws it behind him. Then, he lunges for the armed bank robber, who shoots off a round and somehow misses Stone. The bullet hits the front door dead on in its stained glass center, breaking it into a million pieces, which lets the storm of the century blow through the house.
“This is bad! This is bad!” I yell. I’m getting hit by hard rain, and twigs and leaves have become projectiles, brought in by a twister-force wind. In the chaos, the bank robber runs away from us toward the burned out den. Stone chases after him with his arms outstretched in front of himself because he’s still blind from the Swiffer juice.
I run after both of them, determined to help in some way, but by the time I get to the den, they’re in a standoff. Mostly naked Stone with his burned off hair is wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, while the bank robber is dripping on Ruby’s rug, holding Bark in one hand with his gun pointed at the poor dog’s head.
“One false move, and I drill the pup full of holes,” Tucker says in a menacing way. I can barely hear him over the storm, which has moved into the house through the broken front door, but his meaning is clear. I’ve no doubt he would shoot Bark without giving it a second thought.
“You monster. I’m dogsitting,” I whine.
Stone pushes me behind him and backs us up against the wall. The dog whimpers in the criminal’s hand. “Okay. Okay. Take my clothes,” Stone tells him. “My cart’s parked out front and the key’s inside it. Drive to the dock, and you can sneak on a boat. Just leave us alone and let the dog go.”
“No tricks,” the man growls. “I’ll shoot the pup. I mean it.”
I sniff. I’m supposed to take care of Bark, and now his life is threatened. Tears stream down my face. But Stone’s diplomacy works. Tucker takes a wide berth around us and walks out of the room toward the front door. The storm is still doing its end-of-the-world impression, and the inside of Ruby’s house is being blown to smithereens. She’s going to kill me when she gets home…if I’m not dead already.
Tucker opens the front door and steps out. “Leave the dog,” Stone calls after him.
