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His tone is more incredulous than mad, so I allow my gaze to swing back in his direction. “Because it’s not?”
“Because acting dumb is basically the number one rule of being kidnapped. And you just told me that you know my name. Why would I ever let you go now?”
“Oh.” I push my hands down further between my thighs, hunching my shoulders. “But you know my name.”
“Yeah.” The way he says the word sounds likeduh.“But I’m the one doing the kidnapping. I’m supposed to know things about you.”
“But you already know that I know who you are. Because we met this afternoon,” I point out dumbly.
I watch him shake his head. “Do you want me to kill your friend, too?”
“What!?” My hands fly up, palms out in a stop motion. “No!”
“Then maybe talking about that connection is a bad idea.”
“Well, I’m freaking sorry,” I wave my hands around. “I’ve never been kidnapped before!”
“No shit.”
“Gee, my apologies for being a bad captive,” I snap. “If I’d have known––”
The rest of my words go unheard as King presses a button on his steering wheel, and the car is suddenly filled with loud rock music.
“Great. Fine,” I mutter to myself, crossing my arms and turning my head away from him. “Perfect victim coming right up.”
* * *
Traffic thins,as we head west, going further and further away from downtown.
I grew up in what was considered a richer suburb, east of the cities, by the Wisconsin border. My parents were very insular, particular about who they spent time with, so I didn’t often get to leave their little bubble of lawyers and house parties. Certainly not to the opposite side of the Twin Cities.
And then, to my parents’ horror, I went to an art school in the heart of Minneapolis, rather than following their prestigious law school dreams. Meaning, I suddenly became broke––living off student loans and shitty, part-time, on-campus jobs, without a car to my name. To be fair, they warned me they’d cut me off if I choose art over law. And they stuck true to their word.
So, even though I’ve spent my whole life not far from where we are right now, I’m not familiar with any of it.
Sure, I have a car now, and a little house––thank you grandma for that inheritance––but I guess I’ve unwittingly repeated my parent’s behavior, only interacting with other people in my art world. Only moving between my home and my studio and the galleries I show at.
Do better, Savannah.
A full fifteen minutes have gone by since the last time I spoke, and I find my mouth opening when we round a corner and are confronted with the sight of a lake. A big lake.
The moonlight shimmers across the still surface and it feels like he’s driven to a whole new world.
I’m used to seeing the Mississippi River, since it slices through the heart of Minneapolis, but that’s fast-moving, loud, almost violent at times. This is…something else entirely. And if I had red slippers on, I’d click my heels together. Because we’re not in Kansas anymore.
CHAPTER8
King
My little captivesat still in her seat, finally acting how she should, until a few moments ago. Now she’s sitting forward, watching raptly, as I take the final few turns to my property.
This isn’t the only home I own, but it is the one I live in. And I have zero fucking idea why I thought bringing her here would be a good idea.
Because it’s the worst idea.
Quite literally bringing her anywhere else would’ve been a better idea.
But it’s been a long day. And I wanted to go home, and I wasn’t going to let some woman, with unfortunate timing and unfortunate taste in men, ruin the rest of my evening.
