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“So when you opened up that van door and demanded that I drive you back into the city, all I could think was that this sounded like a vacation to me. Anything to keep from having to go into work that day.”
Her voice breaks and she turns in my arms and I can finally see her face and see that she’s tearing up and I snuggle her against my chest.
“Shhhh…shhhh…” I whisper as I stroke my hands down her hair and back again and again, trying to soothe away her pain. “It’s going to be okay.” I didn’t know how, and I am pretty sure I’m lying to her as I say this, but I can’t stop myself from saying it. I want to make everything okay. I want to make her okay.
“You can’t run away from life,” I finally whisper, when her sniffles have subsided. “I know life has sucked hardcore for you lately, but you can’t just stay here and hide from it all.”
“I know,” she says ruefully, looking up at me and then away. She’s staring into the distance when she says, “I just don’t want to face it right now. You know? Maybe I’ll feel stronger in a few days. It’s like I could do it—I could survive all of this—I could make it through each day, just barely but I was, and then…it was like you gave me permission to stop trying, so I did.”
I hug her against me, feeling her amazing curves against every inch of me. Some inches of me begin appreciating this even more than others and she laughs, meeting my gaze again. “Really? Already?”
“Always,” I breathe and then I’m kissing her, pushing my tongue into her mouth and she’s moaning against me and life is great again.
13
Becca
The waiter pulls out my chair for me, and then hurries away to fill our requests for a matching pair of Long Island Iced Teas. Rory’s eyes swept up and down me in relief. “Oh my god, girlfriend, I thought you were dead. Or dying. Or being tortured.”
I grin at her. “Nothing that dramatic.”
“But the guy on the phone—” The waitress puts down our Long Island Iced Teas and Rory holds off talking until he disappears. “The guy on the phone said that you were being ransomed for two million dollars!” she hisses at me. “Who has two million dollars cash to give for you?”
I take a sip of my drink and let the alcohol buzz through my system for a moment. “No one,” I say cheerfully. “I was trying to tell him to say $200,000 because it seemed more realistic but he misunderstood my hand gestures and…well, it was rather sweet that you actually thought they were trying for so much.”
“Wha…you…you were choosing that amount as he was talking to me?” she finally sputters.
“Yeah,” I say with an easy grin.
Three…two…one…
“Rebecca Anne Whiting, I’m gonna kill you!” she half hollers, launching herself across the table at me. I’m laughing too hard to be able to dodge her effectively and eventually, the waiter shows back up, pulling Rory off me and telling us to keep it down. We're apparently disturbing the other patrons. I look around the restaurant—an inordinate amount of people are staring at us.
I settle back into my chair, straightening my top.
“What would make you do that?” she hisses, and she doesn’t look at all amused by this practical joke. I suddenly realize that I may have thought I was being funny as fuck, but that didn’t mean my best friend would agree with me.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, my eyes dropping to my half-spilled Long Island Iced Tea, sloshed around by our tussle. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Of course I was worried!” she yelps. “Seriously, I cannot believe this! What has gotten into you?” She leans back in her chair and just glares at me, shooting imaginary bullets at my head.
“I was kidnapped, at the beginning,” I say defensively. “Harlan—he’s the second in command of the Black Fist—needed a ride into the city because his Harley had been shot up by the Dark Tribe. He was trying to kidnap me just long enough to get to the Beth Israel Hospital so he could get some papers to Crankshaft, the president of the MC. But then…”
I draw in a deep breath, realizing I could say this next part without any pain slicing through me, and isn’t that just bizarre?
“I asked to stay kidnapped. At least for a few days. And we went back to Tye’s place to get some clothes and my phone charger, and he was fucking Candi, the high-end stripper who lives downstairs. And instead of feeling sad and awful and overwhelmed by it, it was like I was being set free from that life. I didn’t have to care about the rent or the utility bills anymore. I didn’t have to go to work because I’d been kidnapped. I didn’t have to worry, period."
I continue, “So then I started playing the part of a kidnap victim, making the guys answer any phone calls for me. I had to keep up the sham, because shiiiitttt, is Mr. Williford pissed. He’s not happy that I’ve been kidnapped and even though he’s trying to act as if he cares about my well-being, really all he’s worried about is who is going to take over that awful account out on Long Island if I don’t come back to work, pronto.”
I’m staring down at the tablecloth, drawing circles on the pattern, and say quietly, “I shouldn’t have lied to you, though. Sorry, Rory.” My voice is sincere, strained, and I look up at her pleadingly to find her smiling slightly at me.
“Only you would get kidnapped and then say, ‘Yes, please, give me more!’” She chuckles for a moment. “You really shouldn’t have lied to me though. Or had the guy lie to me. I’d come prepared today with a secret code so you could give me the location where they’re keeping you without them knowing it, and then I was going to have the cops come bust down the doors to save you. I had it all planned out in my head.”
“Very impressive,” I say appreciatively. “Remind me if I ever really do get kidnapped, to call you for some backup.”
“Deal,” she says with a wider grin this time
.
