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My only chance for escape would be to somehow get the ferry over to Amsterdam and hide there the rest of my lift. It could probably have been done. Most Dutch people spoke English as a second language at that point, and the government was hands-off, to say the least. They didn't have barriers for the canals running along the bike paths. Figuring that if you get wet, you're doing it wrong. The police were so lax, you basically had to be posing a direct physical threat to someone before they would intervene. Something that did not include smoking pot in your apartment or conducting target practice in your own back yard as long as everyone was there by choice, and you didn't hurt anyone. I could have been really happy there.
Sadly, I didn't have a car and couldn't make heads or tails of the subway maps. Thus, my dreams of freedom were quashed, and I spent eight of the next eleven years under the threat of the U.S. government until my ban was lifted.
On the upside, I had lots of time to plot my revenge. The court order had banned me from going on the internet, but that really only applied, or at least, was enforceable in the states. My relatives had said they would uphold it but hadn't counted on my levels of ingenuity. Mainly when doing something, I was told I wasn't allowed to do.
Using all my charm and stealth, I convinced the clerk at the local corner shop to get me a smartphone with a by the month British plan on it. I paid him double what the phone was worth and only used his store for top-ups. Technically I wasn't supposed to have any money. It wasn't part of the court order. It had been my family's own punishment for besmirching their name. Simone fought for me, because of course, she had, but our mother was intractable. They would send the London relations enough to cover my expenses so I wouldn't die but nothing else.
What they didn't know was I had been saving thirty percent of my allowance since I was about ten. Considering the amount of my allowance and the roughly twelve years of saving, I could hardly lift the suitcase in which I had put it, putting a thin sheet of metal over the cash bundles so they wouldn't be picked up by the x-ray machine.
However, none of my brilliance was as good as Becky’s cooking skills.
The sandwich was excellent. I really felt like an asshole for so cruelly rejecting the first one without even looking at it. Despite my initial acrimony, I was slowly beginning to realize I had grossly misjudged her. The nanny was great with Jessica and really understanding. Not to mention really patient with my bullshit and a great bedmate.
There was a time, not that long ago, when I would have said I really didn't like her, but I was reconsidering really fucking fast. Love might be going a bit far, but I did know that I really liked having Becky around — and not just because of the childcare, impressive cooking skills, and energetic fuck sessions.
I really couldn't hide anymore. If I was too scared to feel, I was too scared to live fully.
The sandwich disappeared a lot faster than I thought it would. I decided to take a risk and see if there could be any more on the offing.
On a whim, I checked on little Jessica, who was still fast asleep, looking like a little angel. I felt a sharp pang that felt ever so slightly like a stab in my chest, and kept on going, quietly closing the door behind me.
I found Becky in the dining room, finishing off her own version of the sandwich she made me. Feeling very much like a modern-day version of Oliver Twist, rich in money but poor in spirit, I went over, empty plate in hand.
“Would you like some more?” She had no malice or schadenfreude detectable in her tone. Spite didn't really seem to be Becky’s thing. And I should know. I was a practiced master of it.
“Yes, please,” I said sheepishly.
“Come on,” she said, leading the way into the kitchen.
I obeyed, unable to keep my eyes off her lovely ass, looking awesome in her yoga pants, which I had come to honesty appreciate.
“Look but don't touch, okay? I still have work to do.”
“Okay,” I said, happy she would even entertain such a notion.
I sat down on the chair that had been put in for the former cook to take a rest between courses and watched as Becky made the sandwiches. Moving with the light efficiency of a trained dancer, getting the sandwiches done in record time, before hustling back out into the dining room, me following close behind.
