Oranges and stale cigarettes.
Citrus and smoke.
“As a security detail, I can’t be on the phone and drive.”
“Michel?”
Bland Man looks at me and waits for the realization to hit me. “Oh yeah, Michel basically owns Aethelgard. At least his name does.” He grabs the driver's face and squeezes, though I can only see the motions and assume that’s what is happening. “This face is hidden behind the scenes to keep you safe.” He’s talking pouty lips like he’s complimenting a cute baby.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Michel growls.
“But…” my chin quivers. “And Tommy?”
Bland Man puts on his best voice. “Oh, Michel. Tell Vi to pitch that bland sweater and trade it for thisbangin’ top.”
His laugh fills the van as he throws his head back.
“Tell me, toots.” Bland Man adjusts in his seat so he can get a good look at me. “Tell me how many times you’ve met Tommy.”
My mind starts racing through every memory I have with Michel.
Michel telling me Tommy says hi.
Michel telling me Tommy loved the concert.
Michel telling me Tommy picked out the perfect scarf for me.
“He ain’t real, darlin’.” Then, he turns back around in his seat.
They really put in the effort to make sure I was isolated.
Once again, the partition slides shut, and they carry on a conversation that sounds like nothing but static in my ears.
I lie here, paralyzed. Not by the ties, but by the sheer finality of it.
This is it. These are my last moments. In a dark, smelly van with my wrists rubbed raw.
My thoughts aren’t about fighting my way out of this. They’re of absence.
I’ll never see my mom again. I’ll never hear her say my name or feel her hug that smells like lavender and home.
I’m leaving her with a mystery, a body she’ll never recover. She’ll spend the rest of her life looking and wondering.
And then there’s Skye.
A sob tears from my throat, silent and wrenching. Skye, who is waiting for me. Who texted me that she couldn’t stay away. Who has rules, punishments, and a claim she thought was unbreakable.
She’ll go to my empty room and wait and search. But she’ll never find me.
The storm inside her will have no outlet, no focus. It will just be rage, in the space where I am supposed to be. I’ll never feel the weight of her collar again. I’ll never see that rare and reluctant smile.
The tears come hot and hopeless, soaking into the grimy floor.
This is how it ends. Discarded like trash by someone I trusted. To never be found or finished.
A soft, pained groan cuts through my weeping. It comes from behind me, near the rear doors.
I strain to turn my head and see a shape slumped against the door. A flash of color.
