I lower the knife, but the thief takes it as an invitation instead of a sign of surrender.
He rushes me, and my stupid body doesn’t move. I stop breathing. A scream lodges in my throat, unable to escape. I want to fight back, duck, dosomething, but I stand there like a statue as the man disappears, only to reappear behind me, one arm around my neck, the other hand slipping the knife from my fingers.
“Don’t hurt me…” I wheeze through my constricting airway. His grip isn’t tight enough to strangle me, but my body can’t tell the difference between the real and perceived threat and is shutting down on its own. Is this one of those situations where I can tap out? I’d really like to tap out.
“What the…?” His words falter as he clicks the knife in his hand.
The jig is up.
“Is this apropknife?” he asks, his tone rather critical for a man breaking the law and holding a hostage. “You brought a fake knife to a fight?”
“Well, I wasn’t about to bring a real one!”
“Amateur.” The word drips with derision. As if I've offended him.
“Next time I'll bring my machete.” My limbs come loose at the same time my tongue does, and I shove at his arm.
He lets me go, and I sprint to the wall and grab the painting, if for no other reason than to use it as a shield.
If I save this painting for the Hartwells, they will be impressed; I may even get a raise.
My victory is short-lived as I’m yanked backward into a very hard chest. It’s broad and strong and…notwhat I should be focusing on right now.
“I’ve already called the police. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Too bad I know you’re lying.” His voice is deep and throaty, stirring something in my stomach I haven’t felt in a long time. “No one is coming.”
He turned off the security system.
I shove back, stomping on his foot.
In heels, it might have been enough to make him release me. In my pink fuzzy socks, it only sends a sharp pain through my heel. Stupid comfortable footwear. I kick at him again, but he forces me around, holding me at arm’s length.
It doesn’t stop my attack. I’ve taken self-defense, and all men have the same weakness. I nail it.
He cries in pain, staggering back, all but dropping to the floor in the fetal position.
I don’t know what to do next, but I watched Scooby-Doo with my brothers enough while growing up. I flip on the light and rip off the culprit’s mask with an “aha!”He would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for this meddlin–
His dark eyes find mine, and now I feel like I got a kick to the crotch.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He shakes his head and pulls himself up with great effort. “Perfect Perry?”
The blood drains from my face, pooling in my stomach. There, in all its bad-boy glory, is the smirk that nearly broke my heart eight years ago.
“Soren Satan?” I screech. No one used to call him that, but I’m going to have to start.
His eyes travel over my face as if he’s seeing a ghost. Funny, I could have sworn he was the ghost. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I’m not laughing.” I am on the verge of hyperventilating, though. How is he here? And why, after all these years, does he look so dang good? The injustice makes my head swim.
“What areyoudoing here?” he asks, angling his body in front of the doorway to prevent my escape. There is nothing I want to do more right now than run. Far, far away. And never look back. Kind of like he did.
“Me? What areyoudoing here?”
He motions to the painting still in my hands. “I believe that was obvious.”
Okay, it was.
