“So what about you?” I ask, forcing my voice steady. “You stuck on babysitting duty too, or are you just the driver’s emotional support pet?”
‘Jesus. I’m definitely a glutton for punishment.’
His head tilts just barely, but it’s enough to let me know he heard. Then his head turns back towards me and his sharp, green eyes catch mine, for just a split second. He looks down at my clenched hands, at the book still sitting in my lap between them and the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s not friendly, not mocking, but I get the feeling he’s filing something away for later.
“Something like that,” he says.
‘That’s it. Bastard.’
I wanted more of a reaction and the fact he isn't giving me one pisses me off further. It gets under my skin. Who is he, really? He looks too dangerous and too tightly wound to play backup. And the way the driver watched him earlier, like he was waiting for a signal…it made me uneasy. He seems important and I want to know why.
I shift in my seat, suddenly hyperaware of how much space I’ve been taking up. My knees knock together and I hug the book tighter, like the paper and ink could shield me from them…or my future husband.
He doesn’t look back again. He’s strictly business, his voice low as he murmurs something to the driver in Spanish. I can’t catch the words. Not that I would understand them completely but I might catch a few things if they spoke a little louder.
I give up trying to listen and turn to the window to see the landscape shifting. The desert is slowly giving way to the first hints of civilization. At first, it’s just a few scattered buildings but then they multiply and so does the beating of my heart. Gas stations, strip malls, clusters of houses with those ugly terracotta roofs…excitement blooms inside me and my heart starts to hammer faster. People. Actual fricking people on sidewalks, driving cars, living their lives like nothing is wrong. My palms press to the glass and I can’t get enough of it. After weeks locked up behind the estate walls, even the sight of a McDonald’s is enough to make my chest squeeze with something like hope.
“Is this Phoenix?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Tattooed man glances back.
“Outskirts.”
This asshole. One word. That’s all I get from him.
I try again.
“That mountain’s insane. Do people hike there?”
“Sometimes,” the driver says, eyes glued to the road.
“What about that building?” I point at a large oddly shaped building shining in the distance. “The one that looks like a spaceship?”
The tattooed man sighs, like I’m already exhausting him and I kind of like that I’m getting under his skin.
“Museum.”
I bite down on my lip, refusing to be shut up.
“What kind of museum?”
He hesitates for a second.
“Science.”
I savor it. A small detail but it’s something real. Maybe I’ll see it someday, if I ever get out of whatever cage they’re dragging me to. Unlikely.
The city thickens around us before thinning a bit and thenwe start to climb. We drive onto a road that literally blends into the mountain and the houses get bigger and farther apart. There’s money everywhere, but not like Italy. Here it’s different. I don’t know how, I just know it is.
The car slows as we reach a massive iron gate and the driver rolls down his window to punch in a code. The gates swing open and we glide up a winding drive that curls further around the mountain. We must be close to the top because from where we are I can see the city spread out in the distance. My stomach drops as realization sets in.
This is it. This is my new prison.
The house…or mansion, whatever you want to call it, is a monster. It has dozens of glass windows…beautiful in a way that makes my stomach twist. I hate how much I want to see the inside of it. Sunlight bounces off of each and every window, so bright it's almost blinding, like it's trying to both welcome and warn me away at the same time. A fortress pretending to be art, or maybe art pretending to be a fortress. I can't decide which is worse.
“Welcome home,” the tattooed man says, and there’s something in his voice I can’t read. Maybe it’s better that way.
The car stops and I sit there staring in silence at the wide stone steps leading up to double doors that look like they could withstand a battering ram. The driver gets out first, then opens my door with a stiff little nod. I step onto the drive, legs shaky and look around just as the tattooed man rounds the car, motioning for me to follow. The driver follows with my single suitcase, his face a blank mask.
