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“You think I’m an idiot?”
The painful grip is familiar, one I’ve felt and feared before.
Johnny.
He takes my phone, tossing it aside, the clatter echoing in the stairwell as he starts to drag me down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, my mind not working even a single bit to try and argue, he flings the door open, dragging me through.
I don’t even try to fight him, don’t try to cause a scene. Instead, I’m planning, calculating, looking for an exit. I’m thinking of what I can do if he forces me to leave with him, and how to save myself in the worst-case scenario. As he tugs me, one of the headphones falls from my ear to the concrete below.
I don’t dare look at it, don’t care to draw attention to it. Right now, my hair is covering the other one. I’m praying that although he threw my phone across the parking garage, it will still be within Bluetooth distance.
And as he does, I hear the tinny voice in my ear speak.
“One new text from Ben: ‘Where are you?’ Should I respond?”
I need to be smooth.
But I also only have one chance at this.
Johnny is tugging me toward the valet, arguing with the man to bring up his car.
“Call Ben,”I whisper in as loud of a voice as I dare without him noticing.
“Call Ben?” My phone asks andrelief. It flows through me.
“Yes!” I say, this time louder.
The phone rings and Johnny continues to dig his fingers into my arm painfully. The valet’s eyes keep moving from me to Johnny, nervously.
“Take this. Go get my car.” He hands who I now realize is a teenage kid a thick wad of cash and a valet ticket.
I can’t blame the kid when he puts his blinders on, grabs the keys and cash with a “yes, sir,” and walks off toward the back of the garage.
“Hey, where are you?” the voice in my ear asks.
Ben.
At least that embarrassing experience taught me this trick.
“Johnny, why are we in the parking garage?” I ask, trying to clue Ben in on what’s going on.
I just need time.
“Johnny?” he asks, and there’s fear there. He knows. Fear in Ben’s voice is so out of character that it starts to pull me into a full panic.
“You’re not a stupid bitch, Lola. We’re leaving.”
“Shit. Fuck. Lola, baby. I’m coming.” Relief washes away some of the fear.
He’s coming.
Ben is going to save me.
“I’m gonna stay, okay, baby? I’m staying on the line. Can he hear me?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Good. Good girl. You’re so fucking brave, Lol. I’m coming, baby.” Stomping and doors and shouting are coming through the other line, a menagerie of rushing.
