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Suddenly, the plane dips. It’s small, but it’s enough that I let out a scream.
“Calm down,” he instructs.
He digs into one of his many cargo pockets and pulls out a wooden spinning toy, the kind a kid might treasure. Most of the red paint has worn away. He balances it between his fingers, sets it on the polished table, and spins it.
“What are you doing?” I ask hesitantly.
My eyes track the toy as it spins, wobbles, and finally collapses. He spins it again. And again.
I realize my breathing has slowed to a manageable rhythm.
“Something terrible happened to me,” he begins to admit, but like me, his eyes stay transfixed on the toy.
“And that gives you permission to do the same to me?” I bite.
His hand slams over the toy, covering it with his massive palm. His blue eyes turn cold.
“If you think this is terrible, Rylan, you have no idea.”
He lifts his hand and starts spinning the toy again. “You have no idea.”
CHAPTER 7
Rylan
Turns out I was going on a helicopter.
The most confusing part was that my captor seemed to feel bad about it. Which made me feel like an idiot as I kicked, screamed, and prayed I didn’t piss myself.
How was it that I felt bad for him?
When he uncoiled his hand and gave me the pills, I took them like a child licking clean a PEZ dispenser.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. There was no calming this situation.
The air inside the helicopter felt completely depleted; every dip felt like a roller coaster. The loud rumbling of the rotor blades felt like a knife, stabbing my heart.
Eventually, the man who kidnapped me to save me—the jury is still out on that—sedated me.
I welcomed that injection like a freeloader at a Jell-O shot party.
What I didn’t welcome was the double-decker bus parked on my head when I opened my eyes just now.
Was I now some nocturnal creature, or was the sun always this bright?
The massive window to my right did nothing to help the burning of my retinas. Yet, there he sat, bathed in golden light, waiting for me to wake.
“What are you, Santa? You look like you want me to crawl onto your lap and beg you for a gift.”
His snicker feels like sandpaper in my ringing ears.
“I find it curious that you speak so openly to me, yet in all those moments I watched you, you hardly said a thing to others. I think you like me.”
I glare at him, wishing my eyes were nukes.
His posture unsettles me; no human sits that perfectly. Was the stick so far up his ass that it anchored his head to his neck?
He’s motionless, predatory, his chest barely moving, yet somehow he looks relaxed, like a Trojan warrior waiting for worshippers to kneel at his feet.
