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Shoes…shit. Where are they? I look around in the dark, finally spotting them. My tennis shoes are underneath the edge of the bed. I tiptoe slowly to retrieve them and slip them on with no socks. I can’t be choosy, now can I? I pause for a moment and decide it best to leave his engagement ring behind. I place it carefully on top of the nightstand and silently back away.
If I’m going to do this I can’t think about this beautiful man sleeping only a few feet away from me. One who has spent every waking breath trying to protect me. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to get back in bed and cuddle up to him. Go back to sleep and forget this ever crossed my mind. I shake my head free of the conflict, and suppress thoughts of everything Travis—his masculine smell, the way he makes love, the way he looks at me with such endearing love, but has yet to say the words. Not only am I a victim of Stockholm and captivity, but I’m a victim of love.
My heart begins to race as fear bubbles up from the pit of my stomach when I creep back toward the window. My palms are slick with sweat, and I rub my hands against my jeans to rid myself of the moisture before I attempt to raise the window. I pray it’s not screwed shut, or worse yet, one of those windows that squeak in their tracks upon opening. The fact that these windows are not wooden, but newer-looking, might be in my favor.
Through the moonlight shining in, I spot the lock and slowly flip it to the left, disengaging it. I wiggle my fingers to release the growing tension for the agile task at hand. I brace myself for the worst as my fingertips find the lip at the bottom portion of the pane, and slowly, inch-by-inch, I begin to raise it. Once I get it halfway up without a sound, the night’s warm air wafts in, and I look back over my shoulder to see Travis hasn’t budged an inch. If anything were to wake him right now, it would be the sound of my pounding heart.
Holy crap, this is anxiety city. I look long and hard at him one last time before I shimmy myself out the window. Since there’s no drop, I’m able to shut the window except for the last inch or so. I don’t want to push my luck, especially at this point. What could I say if I was caught? Oh, gee, I thought I’d just open the window and get some fresh air, you know? Yeah, right.
Wasting no time, I carefully walk on eggshells as I follow the roofline in the moonlight above. Once I reach the end of the house, I thank God it’s a three-tiered house. The roof continues on in such a way I’m able to take a large step over to the second half of the house. I’ve never considered a fear of heights before, and if I did, the thought would be greatly overshadowed by the exhilarating sense of freedom, which is beginning to wash over me. I feel a little more in control of my future suddenly, and it’s a giddy feeling.
I reach the peak of the roof, and then begin to descend toward the back of the house. The closer I get to the back porch, the faster my pulse races. I let out a breathy sigh of relief when I see that the screened-in porch roof is indeed flat. I’m down to a twelve-foot drop now, which is still too high for my liking. After a few seconds of thinking this through, I lay down on the scratchy shingles, perpendicular with the edge of the roof. My heart is literally pounding, and I swear it’s going to explode.
I take a deep breath, begging myself not to screw this up. Slowly, I edge myself backward until both my legs dangle from the roof’s ledge, my stomach pressing into the edge of the roof’s shingles. My fingers find their place along the border of the roof as I scoot my body back a little bit more, praying I don’t sway too far one way or the other and lose my grip. A soft grunt escapes me. I’ve successfully maneuvered myself to hang from the top of the porch. I figure what was once a twelve-foot drop should now only be between a four and five-foot drop with my arms extended. I can do this.
I let go and land on my feet, then promptly fall back on my ass. I’ve hurt nothing from the short drop. I take stock of myself; I feel good. I look around first to make sure I’ve not been spotted, but the house is pitch black. I stand up and carefully begin to slink my way around the front of the house before I make a break for it. As I do so, a motion detector light clicks on, and every organ I own is lodged in my throat. I’m standing in the middle of the yard like a deer caught in the headlights of a moving vehicle. Panic-stricken, I know how they feel now.
