They nodded and said nothing, but one offered me a polite smile; the other moved to the coffee cart that had been brought up. He poured me a cup, leaving room at the top for me to add the milk and sugar I needed.
"What does a girl need to do for some French vanilla syrup?" I said to myself under my breath as I added a little sugar and half-and-half to the coffee.
After I stirred it, the man handed me a lid. I secured it, and they both led me out of the hotel room.
Each step sent a dull ache radiating up my thighs. I focused on walking normally, on not limping, on not showing them how much last night had taken from me.
The hallway walls were a delicate cream color, hung with surprisingly beautiful artwork. Art was so subjective, so the paintings in hotels always tended to be of the least offensive styles. Seascapes, mountain ranges, florals — but that wasn't what I was looking at.
These walls were decorated with pieces that felt real, raw, beautiful. I loved the artists’ use of bright, vibrant colors in the paintings, but my mother would have called them tacky.
I wondered where she was. Had she called the cavalry?
She must have been worried sick.
My chest tightened at the thought. Any moment now, we'd round a corner and there they'd be, the police in tactical gear, weapons drawn, shouting orders. I braced for it with every step, my shoulders rigid, my breath shallow.
The men led me to an elevator. With the three of us, it was cramped, but both men pressed themselves against the wall to give me space.
I sipped some of my coffee. The surprisingly rich brew was soothing, and it made this entire episode seem almost normal.
But my hand trembled slightly as I brought the cup to my lips, and I had to grip it with both hands to keep it steady.
The weight of the collar seemed to increase with each passing second, pressing down on my collarbones until I wanted to claw at it.
The elevator doors opened to a parking garage, and they led me to a luxury sedan, one man opening my door and gesturing for me to get into the back seat.
I hesitated for just a moment.
Did I really want to go to a second location with these men? Everything in my mind screamed no, but wasn't I already at the second location? Darius said my job was to go home, to act normal. He told me his men would take me home, and I couldn't really see any other options but to believe him.
I slid into the back seat, and my body protested every movement. The leather was cool against my bare legs and I flinched, images from last night flashing through my mind unbidden. His hands, his mouth, the way he'd positioned me exactly how he wanted.
I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to three before opening them again.
We pulled out of the parking garage, and it looked like a surprisingly normal day in Washington, DC. The leaves were turning oranges and yellows, the jewel tones a bright contrast against the deep, beautiful blue of the sky dotted with white, fluffy clouds.
The people on the street were an eclectic mixture of men and women in suits scurrying to get to their jobs, others dressed more casually, sipping coffee at bistros while chatting with friends, or already typing away on their laptops.
It was so normal.
It didn't make sense. How could the night I’d had lead to such an average morning? It was so surreal when the everyday world was so completely at odds with everything in your life.
At every intersection, my muscles tensed.
Black SUVs would appear—they had to. Any second now, multiple vehicles would box us in, agents would pour out, and this nightmare would escalate into something even worse.
The fingers of my free hand dug into my palm, nails biting crescents into the skin.
But we kept driving. Past the Capitol. Past busy coffee shops. Through traffic lights.
Nothing.
Where were they?
I sipped my coffee, watching the world pass by, trying to understand and unpack everything I had been through. No, that wasn’t true. I was trying to come to terms with the explosive locked on me. It was impossible not to think about the weight that was so heavy around my neck.
My heart skipped at every bump in the road, wondering if that would be enough to trigger it. Every turn had me gripping the door handle, knuckles white, preparing for impact, either from a collision or an explosion.
