Page 72 of Gave Proof Through the Night

The man blindfolded me twenty minutes ago and I let him.

I’d met him outside the Four Seasons after several back-and-forth text messages… him insisting he pick me up at my house. Me, telling him absolutely not.

The only way to get him to concede was to tell him I’d be at the Four Seasons anyway, visiting my friend who has a room there. Technically I do have a friend with a room at the hotel, so ten points to Gryffindor for creative truthing. The friend is a fictional perfume heiress named Capucine de Montfleury, but I left that part out. We actually do still have the penthouse suite and don’t know what to do with it. We’re trying to stay off the hotel’s radar, after all.

So, after some convincing, Jeremiah pulled up in a rental car looking quite the hot shot frot in a soft gray Henley that did something unfair to his shoulders, and opened the door for me like a perfect gentleman.

Then he held up a strip of black fabric between two fingers.

“I have a whole night planned,” he said. “But I need you to trust me for it.”

“That’s a big ask for a guy holding a blindfold.”

“I know,” he said with the car still idling in the hotel drop-off zone while the valet attendants gave us the side-eye. “May I?”

Well, I thought that was refreshing, asking permission to BLINDFOLD me. Nobody asks nicely these days.

Of course I replied with a resounding, “Yes!”

I honestly had no idea how this evening would pan out with blindfolds involved, but I’m nothing if not adventurous.

He tied it gently, checked twice that it wasn’t too tight, and also that I couldn’t peek. Then he drove for about fifteen minutes with a hand finding my knee every so often like he wanted to make sure I was still there.

Now, this is the part where I’d tell all the girlies to not try this at home, or in a case like this, let a man take you to a second location in a freaking BLINDFOLD!

But that ship has sailed for me, and I’m already neck-deep into really terrible life choices, so count me out as role model of the year.

Now we’re here, wherever here is (see disclaimer above), and a door beeps open under somebody’s keycard. Then a man’s voice greets Jeremiah in fast, easy Spanish right at the threshold before the voice fades off somewhere behind us.

“Is this the place you hide the bodies?” I joke.

He laughs, low, close to my ear, and the sound of it does something unfair to my knees.

My arms prickle. Wherever we are, it is big. And cold.

“Ready?” Jeremiah asks.

“You tell me. You’re the one who kidnapped me.”

Then his fingers find the knot at the back of my head. Light floods down from somewhere impossibly high, rows of it clunking on one bank at a time, and I throw a hand up against the glare before my eyes adjust. It takes a full three seconds for the shapes to resolve into something my brain can hold onto.

Ice. A rink. Big, fluorescent lights. Bleachers.

I blink. “Is this where you play your games?”

“No, this is just where we practice.”

I hum, taking it all in.

“Gracias, Martín!” Jeremiah calls up, cupping his hands around his mouth, and that voice from earlier replies in Spanish from somewhere near the far boards.

I follow the sound and find him. Fifties, maybe. A mustache that means business, and a carefree, smiling face that’s entirely friendly.

“That’s Martín,” Jeremiah says, tucking the blindfold into his jeans pocket. “This place wouldn’t run without him. Good guy.”

“You just have a good guy everywhere you go?”

“I ask nice.”