He looks at me as if I’m silly. As if I’m silly, and quaint, and very naïve. “I do it because I want to see if I can get them to pay. I want to see if I can do something illegal and get away with it. Basically,” he shrugs, “I do it because I want to prove to myself that I can.”
That gives me pause. I try not to read anything into it. I give him a curt nod to show him I’ve heard him. “Your turn. Last question, so make sure it’s a good one.”
“What’s your name,” he asks.
“You’ve only got one question and that’s what you want to know?” In fairness, it is the sort of thing the police would have more than a passing interest in.
“Yeah, tell me.”
“You know the funny thing is, even if I did tell you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“So, tell me then.”
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I roll over onto my back and put my hands under my head. “My name is Saint.”
“Saint?Saint?” He starts to laugh as if it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard. “What was your mother thinking giving you of all people a name like that?”
“Guess she didn’t have much of a choice. It’s her name as well.”
Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.
He doesn’t pause, he launches himself into a gleeful, mocking tirade, “Did you seriously have the balls to tell memyname didn’t suit me, when your name is Saint? There isn’t a name on Earth that would suit you less. Seriously, there isn’t.”
“What about Angel?” He laughs again. He laughs so much, I feel compelled to stop him. “Say it.”
“What?”
“Say my name.”
He looks at me as if I’m mad. “As long as I live, I will never say that word out loud in reference to you. And that,Asshole, is a solemn vow.”
Chapter 9
Demon
Saintisinthekitchen. He’s clattering and banging pots and pans in a way that lets me know he’s about to start cooking. I’m doing my best not to watch him. He said the handover was tomorrow, so I know I don’t have to suffer through the hell of being kidnapped for much longer. That thought should buoy me, and it does. Obviously, I can’t wait to get home. I can’t wait to see the girls and I can’t wait to see Lacey. I’m very excited. I am. It’s just that I can’t shake this strange feeling. It’s not a feeling I'm familiar with. It comes from deep in my chest. It feels almost like a low vibration. Like a warning. Something’s not right. I can feel it in my ribcage. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
“Moroccan chicken on a bed of bell peppers and Israeli couscous.”
“Ew,” I say. “I’m not eating that.” His face looks pinched and confused. That pleases me. It eggs me on. “I want pizza.”
He goes to open the pantry cupboard and studies the contents. “I guess I could make pizza. The dough will take some time to rise though.”
“I don’t want pizza you’ve made. I want take-out pizza.”
“Why would you want take-out? Homemade is much b…”
“I want take-out because you can’t seriously tell me that you think you can put on a respectable kidnapping without serving greasy pizza out of a box at least once. Everyone knows that.”
“Well, I’m terribly, terribly sorry,” he snaps. “I’m sorry reality hasn’t met up with your kidnapping fantasy.”
“Idon’thave a kidnapping fantasy.” One side of his mouth twists up and he gives me a little nod that sayssure you do. “I donothave a kidnapping fantasy!” He bites his bottom lip, pulling the flesh into his mouth and slowly releasing it. It gives me a minor blip in cognition, but I quickly recover. “I’m telling you, Asshole, I don’t have a kidnapping fan…”
“Relax, Demon. I know you don’t. I know all your fantasies, and kidnapping isn’t one of them.”
This man is so infuriating, it makes me lightheaded. “You do not know all my fantasies, I can fucking guarantee that.”
