Our argument is over just like that. We’re back to being on the same team, taking care of the people in our lives. I want to share everything I know with him, but I’m well aware that the less he knows, the better.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Okay,” he responds, easing past me.
We hug briefly, and I can sense that all is forgiven. It feels good to know that I’ve reconnected with my son, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons. At least we’re on the same page about getting Marlena out of harm’s way.
“One more thing,” I say, grabbing onto his arm. “Don’t tell her that we’re going anywhere.”
Frankie smirks. He’s seen this before. Not the exact same circumstance, but he knows that information is currency around here. He won’t say anything to her, but he’s letting me know he thinks I should. I shake my head, telling him it’s out of my hands. If I tell the truth, she won’t come along, and I can’t risk that. He shrugs, knowing he’s not going to win this argument. It’s an entire conversation of silent glances and familiar gestures. We both know what’s going on because we’ve been around the block a million times.
Frankie goes upstairs and passes Marlena’s door. She hasn’t come out yet, and I’m grateful for small favors. I pack a bag for myself because I don’t want to buy every damned thing. I have it stored in the trunk of the limo so that by the time Marlena comes downstairs, I’m ready to go.
“Shall we?” I ask, holding out a hand.
“I think this is good,” she observes. “Shopping will take my mind off Brandon until I can see him again.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I reply, giving her a practiced smile.
I help her into the back of the limo, and we’re off. We stop at a department store first so that we can purchase some basic items.
“I don’t need any more underwear,” she says suspiciously.
“Humor me,” I reply, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “I may want to rip them off you, so I want to make sure you have extra.”
She laughs, turning red in the face and slapping me playfully on the chest. “These aren’t even sexy.”
“If you wear them, they’ll be sexy,” I assure her.
Thank goodness she doesn’t complain anymore, and we’re able to purchase an entire week’s worth of underwear, socks, and pajamas. Then, I take her to one of the fancier boutiques where she chooses a few dresses. She models each one for me, and I can’t help but picture them all on the floor while I’m pushing up against her on the bed.
She looks good no matter what she’s wearing, and I tell her as much. The salesgirl isn’t impressed. She takes over and talks to Marlena about shape and cut, about how flattering the waistlines are and how much cleavage to show.
I give the woman a tip and drop a small fortune on three bags’ worth of designer clothing. Then we get back in the limo, ostensibly to go home. Marlena pulls out her phone to text her brother and is disappointed when he doesn’t text back.
“Maybe he’s out of battery,” I suggest.
“Maybe,” she agrees, looking sad. “Can we go home now? I’m sure he’ll be there.”
“Of course,” I say, reaching across the seat to kiss her knuckles.
She settles back, assuming that we’re on our way home. But the driver knows better. He’s going to the airport, where I have a private plane gassed up and ready to go. It takes a little bit longer than she expects. And after a while, she realizes that the scenery outside the windows isn’t reflective of a drive back to the mansion.
“Where are we going?” she demands.
I don’t say anything. I can see an argument coming, and I don’t want to engage. This is better all around, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
“Francisco!” she shouts, leaning toward me. “Where are we going?”
Just then, the limo pulls up to the runway. Marlena whips her head around, gazing up at the jet just outside the vehicle. She screams, beating at me with her fists as if that will somehow make me turn the car around.
I ease my way out of the backseat without hurting her. Still mute, I turn to help her out, but she refuses to come. The driver steps around to the trunk to retrieve my things. As he walks up the stairs onto the plane, I have a choice to make.
I don’t want to force her to come aboard, but there’s no way I’m letting her stay in the States. She’s too exposed. Her brother’s already missing, and I have no idea if he’s still alive. That kind of information could potentially cause her great pain, and I don’t want to share it with her. But it’s a toss-up between informingher of the gravity of her situation or making a much bigger scene out here on the tarmac.
I walk around the other side, yank the back door open, and reach for her. She’s about to scoot away, determined to stay put, but I’ve got different plans. It takes all my strength not to hurt her as I wrap my arm around her waist.
She hits me on the head and the neck, screaming for help as if I’m about to kidnap her, which I guess I am. I drag her off of the seat and throw her over my shoulder. She kicks her feet, making it difficult to carry her. But I manage to get her up the stairs and onto the airplane without incident. I catch some of my guys laughing and scowl at them. This isn’t funny.
