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I move to the door to tell Abby to come back, but he extends a hand, his palm landing square in the middle of my chest. “I said we’re leaving.”
“No,” I mouth silently.
“This isn’t up for debate, little girl.”
“Exactly. I’m staying,” I continue, not about to relent.
“You stay here you don’t live to see morning. You go with me, you live to fight another day.”
“Wait? You’re trying to tell me—“
“When you contact dangerous people, dangerous things happen. I’m here to correct that.”
“Seems like you’re here to make it worse.” My words are laced with irony even though I don’t realize it. It does seem like things are going downhill fast, but that ache in my center, where my legs connect to my torso, is causing me pain too. His hand on my body only multiplies. I want him to curl those fingers and grab me, to turn that flat palm into a grip, a possessiveness, a claim. Especially in front of all these boys on my floor who are no doubt standing next to their cracked doors, ears, and eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a sound of any of what’s going down with the stranger who rode into town about as savagely as an old Clint Eastwood movie. “What if I insist on staying?” I try one last time, folding my hands across my chest and leaning into his makeshift barricade.
“You can do whatever you want, but you’re going with me in sixty seconds. So you can pack a bag and have some things that make you feel comfortable, leaving with your hand in mine like an adult, or you can go with the clothes on your back, over my shoulder. But either way. You’re leaving. Forty-eight. Forty-seven.”
I exhale hard, take a step back, and huff and puff…but comply. “You’re kidnapping me.”
“I’m keeping you safe.”
“What if I go to the police?”
“What for? To tell them you hired a hitman to commit a felony?”
“I think a kidnapping trumps a hitman.” I stuff a few handfuls of clothes into my backpack, wondering why I’m agreeing to this. Why are his words so powerful? Why does a big man with some bass in his voice make me fall right in line? Am I that desperate for a father figure? For a man who shows unrelenting leadership? For someone who truly…cares? I’m partially embarrassed, knowing it’s true. But I’m also overwhelmed with positive emotion too, knowing that although things turned very sexual, very quickly the first time we met, I do know this man is worried about me, concerned about me, and wants me to be safe.
Which is more than I can say about my parents. And a whole heck of a lot more than I can say about most people at college, especially the guys who talk about sex in the hallway incessantly. How they laugh and carry on about the girls they ‘pump and dump.’ I came for the college experience, expecting to have a lot of fun, and wound up experiencing things that made me lose a little bit of faith in humanity, each and every day.
Until him, which is beyond crazy considering he should be considered the worst apple in the bunch. But then again one’s moral compass and profession and penitentiary status can be mutually exclusive.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I throw the backpack over my shoulder.
“You’ll know when we get there. I’m not leaking the location.”
“The old motorcycle helmet again.”
“It’s for your own safety.”
“How come whenever I hear that it always turns out to be the exact opposite?”
“Because the world is full of liars. You should question everyone and everything, always.”
“What do you think I’m doing now?”
“Making the best decision of your life.”
He extends my hand, finally giving me something that resembles a say in all of this. He says nothing and I just stare at his roughed-up hand, the tattoos on his knuckles. This isn’t a man who knows what it means to type a certain number of words per minute. This is an underworld figure that you might not take to a yacht party, but you would take with you in a dark alley if your life depended on it. Which is why I called him in the first place. I trusted him, but can I trust him now?
He’s right. I should question everything and everyone at all times. But the most introspective part of his question, the bit that he left unsaid, was the part that the most important person I should question…is myself.
Slowly I extend my hand, putting my tiny hand in his. His big mitt wraps around my hand protectively. Without wasting another second his other hand engulfs the door handle as he opens it and waits for me to pass through first.
As expected, darn near the entire floor is standing in the hallway silent as ghosts. They scramble back into their rooms when they see me, their doors all slamming shut and locking almost in a melodic fashion.
But will I be singing my swan song when I leave here with him?
There’s only one way to find out.
