Trembling, I take in the black sofa lining the wall beside me, across from a miniscule kitchenette.
The rectangle vehicle stretches, larger on the inside than I would have thought and more spacious than I would have assumed possible, yet it manages to close in on me all the same.
Couch or bed forwhat, sir? I’ve never so much as been kissed. My parents have always told me that dating is bad and men are evil and I’m not allowed to do anything bad with evil people, so any interest I received in school left me with the options of crying and/or fleeing, which are marvelous options that I still tend to use when I’m not caged in by a multimillionaire.
Now that I’m an adult, my parents’ angle on the dating front hasn’t changed much. It’s still bad, because men are still dangerous, and, “They’re only really afterone thing, Clara. Yeah. You know. That chest of yours. So it’s best if you just go to work, come home, do your chores, and read, isn’t it?”
I have never once in my life disagreed.
For the record, I still agree, even though I’m not certain my life is persisting right now.
A terrifying smile spreads across Lukas’s face, and he murmurs, “Why, cupcake…if you want tosharethe bed, you should just say so. I’m happy to.” Striding two paces to a closed door at the back of the bus, he pulls me up in front of him, then pushes me inside. “You’ll find a spare toothbrush somewhere in the bathroom and a t-shirt that should fit you in the dresser. Go ahead and get ready for bed. I’ll join you after the leftover treats get delivered.”
The door closes on my back, leaving me in a room with a large bed and a set of drawers built into the base. Dead ahead, an open bathroom in all dark tile sits.
What…do I do with this?
Call the police?
It’s not like Lukas took my phone away—which is honestly sloppy kidnapping of him.
Shaking, I slide my hand down to the pocket of my apron, slip my fingers into it, and retrieve the device, which even has plenty of battery. What grand fortune.
Okay…okay.
Timing my breaths, I assess what I’m doing. What Ineedto do. Even though I feel like an idiot, and I’ll probably be treated like an idiot, I need to call the police. 9-1-1. It’s that simple. Three numbers. But…will they do anything againstKing? He’s got more money and power and influence than anyone needs,and in this society, I not only don’t matter, but I’ve also been offered agift.
King wants me. What a boon.
With those thoughts in my head, I don’t call the police.
Instead, I call my mother, praying she chooses this time to pick up.
She struggles so badly with answering her stupid phone, especially when I need her the most.
After seven rings, it goes to voicemail.
Panic rising, I hang up and call again.
Three more times.
Finally, the line connects. “Clara,what? I was in the bathroom.”
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe.
“It’s fine. What do you need? Are you going to be home soon? Your brother’s been experimenting in the kitchen again, so the dishes are piling up.”
My shoulders droop. Whenever Brent “experiments” in the kitchen, he uses every pot and pan in the house. And it’s my job to handle clean up, because dishes are my responsibility. I am not looking forward to that. But it really doesn’t matter right now.Priorities. I say, “I’d like to be home soon. But…well…you remember how I told you my boss asked me to help cater the King event?”
Mom makes a small, approving sound that makes me uncomfortable. “Yes. I remember you got lucky. Don’t tell me…” A thread of excitement runs through the line. “…you were able tomeetthat gorgeous man and you got his autograph for me!”
“We were told, explicitly, not to ask him for autographs at his last day of tour party.”
She clicks her tongue, losing all mirth. “And you justhadto listen instead of thinking of your poor mother.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Well? Why are you calling then?”
