Distantly, there’s the sound of someone humming, getting louder by the second. “Duh duh duhhhh, doing my own stunt work, making it look easyyyy...”
There’s a breeze and a door slams before the chiller of the goons calls out, “Pizza’s here!”
I sigh and hold still. I press the inside edge of the wrist bindings to my stomach, hopefully hiding any ripped edges I’ve made. A little bit of space flexes between my hands, and that tells me most of the layers of tape have been cut through. I might be able to rip the last part away, but I’m worried about that being too loud. I still have to figure out getting the tape off from around my ankles as well.
Footsteps approach me again from across the room, and surprise surprise, it’s the one that knows a lot about TV news anchors. The squeak of cardboard scraping against cardboard is a prelude to the warm, mouth-watering scent of pizza.
“Hm. This is a little awkward,” he mutters, and I can hear the frown in his voice. “How do you want to do this...?”
For a heartbeat I weigh the option of asking him to unbind my hands and therefore showing him that I’ve been ripping through the tape or just going without in order to conceal my escape plans.
After what feels like too many moments, I just open my mouth.
He laughs. A moment later I feel the couch’s armrest give a little shake as he settles on it and lays a half-empty, still very warm pizza box in my lap. His fingertips graze my chin as the still-warm crust makes contact with my lower lip.
It’s not the most dignified pizza experience, but I’m hungry.
“So, you’re the one who’s got a thing for weather correspondents?” I ask while chewing a bite of melted cheese and vodka sauce, because I’m pretty sure it’s the same voice as before. I’m not really sure how I got to be in a place where I can just casually flirt with my kidnapper, but I’ll have to unpack that with a therapist one of these days.
“Uh . . .”
“I’m just making conversation. This happens pretty often. It’s starting to get...kinda boring?”
I feel like I should describe it as traumatizing or something. It isn’t that I’m unafraid for my safety when all this happens. Life continues to happen even after the big scary things, and then more big scary things happen. I’m at a point where I’m just trying to hurdle the rough bits for those calm patches.
He blows out a breath. “Oof. Yeah. That’s a weird thing to get used to...uh, sorry.”
He feeds me a second bite. It’s not lost on me that this kidnapping has been a pretty different experience than it usually is, and most of it is because of this guy. I’ve had dates worse than this, honestly.
“Weird, right. I’d never thought this would just be my normal, but I guess that’s what happens when your ex is Steel Heel.”
“I guess I hadn’t really thought about what that’s like.”
“I mean, everyone keeps kidnapping me to try to get to him. And then he’s gotta rescue me again, and it’s always just another opportunity for him to try and convince me to get a tracker...in my purse.” I slow down and shift my rant before I let slip the key word of that particular argument,implanted. Get a tracker implanted, like I’m a runaway cat or something.
The couch shifts a little beside me. “Wow, yikes. Boundary problems, much?”
I sigh. “I know. But, like, how else is he gonna come get me when everything goes wrong?”
We fall quiet, and for the hundredth time this evening, I wish I wasn’t blindfolded, but this time it’s for a different reason. I want to know what this guy looks like. He’s been nice to me, and even if he works for a supervillain...I don’t know. People can be nice, and it’s good to be reminded of that.
“Time to go!” the agitated one shouts from across the room, slamming the door behind him and stomping inside.
“Oh, well, that’s the cue. We’re gonna move you out front.” My henchman sighs. The rest of the room becomes noisy with the other hurrying around, snapping orders. “Should make pickup easier.”
“So, I was just a distraction,” I say, a little smug. I can’t help but grin. You start to get a feel for how these things go, how plans of city domination fit together.
“I can neither confirm nor deny, mostly because I have no idea either,” he replies, tone blasé. But he stands, and I listen to his breath as he stretches, then clears the pizza box off my lap. “Ready to go?”
I realize he means to pick me up again. The way I was grabbed and thrown over the other one’s shoulder makes me stiffen. “Hey, can you not do the fireman carry? You’re gonna give me acid reflux.”
“Oh, sorry about that. I think Vin was carrying you before. Uh...what would be a better way?”
“Just something where I’m not hanging upside down.”
I’m mostly sure that the flutter I feel just under my sternum is worry that he’ll notice the mostly torn edge of the duct tape when he takes my wrists together with a hand, but it might just be the part where he can circle both my wrists with just one hand. Is he tall? Not that that matters or anything, I mean.
He loops my bound hands over his head, then I feel an arm press against my back. He stoops, and I have no choice but to hold on, as he threads another arm under my knees. He lifts me up effortlessly, and I’m rather intimately acquainted with his chest, my entire side pressed to his flat, lithe body.
