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“Ofcourse, it is.”
Parisabruptly changed the subject. "Anyways, let’s hang out sinceI’malready here.I’llread you my latest poem,” he suggested as if it were a reward to be earned.
“It’snot a great time.I’mbabysitting my cousin.”Itilted my head towardNeil, who was peacefully sleeping in his crib. “Thanksfor stopping by.I’llsee you later.”Ibegan to shut the door, butParisblocked it with his foot.
“Yourcousin’s asleep.It’snot like you have to do anything for him.”
Witha steely glare directed at his foot,Ifirmly stated, "That’sbeside the point.AsImentioned numerous times,Idon't like to be alone with strangers.”
Parischuckled. "Oh, okay.Idon't like to be alone with strangers," he imitated, the mocking tone grating on my nerves. “Andtechnically, we do have a chaperone tonight.”Parisnudged his head towardNeil. “We’llhang out in your room.Youcan keep an eye on your cousin, andIcan?—"
"No."Itwas an innate response.Mystomach churned, and not in a good way, at the mere thought ofParis’sproximity toNeilwithout anyone else to act as a buffer.Itwas a prospect far worse than a date.
"Whynot?”Parisgripped the edge of the door soIcouldn’t slam it in his face.
"Letgo of the door or lose the hand."Myvoice was eerily calm even as my stomach rocked from an unsettled feeling.
Hisdemeanor shifted from amusement to annoyance. "Spendingtime with me is to your benefit,Poppy."
“Keepyour voice down, or you’ll wake the baby,”Iwarned in a soft but unyielding tone.
Hishand transferred from the door to my bicep, squeezing tightly.Painshot through me, but we both knew he’d never see it etched on my face. “I’llbe doing him a favor,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “because if things go well tonight, it’ll be an educational experience for him.Yourlittle cousin will learn how he was made.”
Myeye twitched at the insinuation, andIstared at the grip on my bicep.Parishad officially pissed me off.
Liftingmy eyes to meet his boorish ones,Ilaced my words with dripping honey, “Youwant to spend time with me and read me a poem.That’sall, right?"
"That'sright.”Hisgaze dropped between theVof my black-and-white checkered sweater, lazily trailing to my black leggings. “Ijust want to read you a poemIwrote about you.”
Ismiled, and for the first time sinceI'dknownParis, it was a genuine one. "Ofcourse,”Ireplied seductively. “Butwe have to be quiet.Itwouldn't be appropriate ifNeilwoke up while you were… reading poetry.Whydon’t we go to the other room?”
“Otherroom?”Parisquestioned, confused.
Ipointed at the adjacent wall, finger tracing an invisible path at the mahogany door leading to an adjoining room. “Myroom opens up to another one.”
Iturned and sashayed toward the door, pulling up the baby camera app on my phone to keep an eye onNeil.Narcissistsdidn’t question sudden changes of heart where the effectiveness of their charm was concerned.Pariseagerly followed me next door.
Thesterile room mimicked a doctor’s office.Thewalls were painted white, with a barren desk in the corner.Thewindows were draped, with another balcony connected to the room.Themost interesting thing about the room was the steel walk-in vault.
Curiositysparked inParis’seyes. "What’sthis?" he asked, fixating on the metal surface gleaming softly in the dim light.
"It'sa panic room,”Ireplied matter-of-factly. “Lotsof celebrities have them.”
ExceptZanedidn’t have a panic room.Momhad it built for me when rumors circulated aboutDamonmurderingRayyanto eradicate theAmbaniline.Momput numerous safeguards in place afterImoved in, fearingImight be the next target.Oneof them was a panic room in my adjoining room.
Thevault was larger than a walk-in closet with a bathroom off the side.Itwas minimal, with a bed, a television, a shelf with rations, a mini fridge, and a phone to call the authorities.Thewalls were made of malleable polymer, and the floors were hard plastic.Itcould be barricaded from the inside or outside if you knew the pin to the door.
Istopped at the propped-open steel door. "Soyou have a poem you wanted to recite?"
Paris’seyebrows lowered. "Ihave something better for you,” he replied, his voice husky with anticipation.Insteadof fishing out the poem from his pocket, he aggressively thrust his hips forward for an outline of whatIimagined was a teeny weeny.Despiteclaiming he wanted to recite poetry with deep meaning, the first thingParisdid once we were alone was lunge for me.
Withagility,Imoved out of the way before his chubby hands could lock my arms into place. “Itold youI’mnot interested in you.”Igave him one more chance, my voice lined with a formal warning.
“Iknow you like to act tough,” he sneered, frustration etched on his face. "Butstop fighting your feelings,Poppy.”
Hecharged again, fueled by delusional arrogance and entitlement.Thistime,Itwisted my body sideways before he could make contact.Iclenched my hand into a tight fist, reared back, and punched him square in the face.Parisreached to grab onto me, but his arms flailed in a futile attempt to regain balance.Hestumbled backward and fell onto the cold floor of the panic room with a resounding thud.Withouthesitation,Islammed the heavy steel door shut.Thepanic room served the dual purpose of a jail to hold intruders.Withoutthe code,Pariscouldn’t escape its fortified walls.Theroom was sealed off, and cell service didn't penetrate its sturdy exterior either.
Good.Ididn’t needZaneor my mother to find out about this.Momdetested it whenIexacted retribution, andIdoubtedPariswould keep quiet about being taken hostage.Itwould also cause a massive scandal about howIwas mentally unstable.
