by Zahra Girard
There’s a part of me that can’t help but look past the kidnapping, a part of me that wants to help Nash. To give him the chance to have the family that he’s so fiercely fighting for.
We drive the Chicago streets. Nash has his cut on, and it looks good on him. He’s standing straighter, shoulders set square with pride, his chin set with determination. The cut touches a part of him, connecting him with the man he was before prison, connecting him with his brothers.
“Here,” I say, pointing out the dilapidated ten storey building I call home.
He parks the chugging, beat-up pickup truck on the street in front. I hop out first, and he’s right behind me. With ease, he takes me by the shoulder and pulls me backwards into him. Something hard, cold, steely presses into my back.
“Try anything here, and someone will die. And their blood will be on you.”
I look back at him over my shoulder. His face is cold, impassive, showing none of the torrid violence that nakedly burns in his voice.
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Just trust me.”
I lead him inside.
My building’s nothing fancy, but it’s the best I can afford on an intern’s salary. The hallways smell like mildew. There’s always a draft. Every other apartment door has the kind of divets in it that come with having been kicked in at some point. But the rent’s cheap. And it’s safe enough, as long as you keep your doors locked.
I hit the elevator call button and we stand waiting for the damn doors to open.
“Some place,” he says.
“It’s cause I’m poor. And my dad isn’t rich, either.”
“Do you think he’d just come out and tell you what he was doing?”
“And I’m supposed to take your word on it? Because you’re so trustworthy? I’m only here because I don’t want to die.”
The elevator dings in a way that’s too cheery for my mood and the doors slide open. Thank God, no one else is in there.
We get in and I hit the button for the eighth floor. Even though he’s put the gun away, I can still feel it’s presence. It’s impossible to forget that he is carrying something that can kill with just the smallest constriction of his finger.
The elevator dings again. We step out into the hallway. Formerly-white, now dirty-beige walls, a smoke detector in the ceiling that doesn’t work, and a fake ficus in the corner.
“Come on. Let’s get this over with,” I say. “And keep behind me a bit. I don’t need you startling my neighbors.”
Mercifully, he doesn’t argue and he hangs way back while I stalk down the hallway and then turn the corner that’ll take me to my apartment.
I stop.
Freeze.
No.
My eyes catch sight of what’s waiting for me in front of my door. Sitting on the floor, head hunched, wearing some knee-length leather jacket that I told him to get rid of years ago because it made him look like an asshole, is Erick.
He raises his head and looks at me with bloodshot, puffy eyes. He stands up. Arms extended.
“Hey there, Roxy Rox,” he says.
I’ve always hated that nickname.
His voice has this weepy mewl to it that makes me want to puke and hit the wall at the same time.
“Leave me alone, Erick. Get the fuck out of here.”
“We need to talk. Let’s be adults about this.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “The time for talking was two years ago, before you decided to cheat on me.”
“Just be fucking reasonable, ok? It doesn’t make any sense to be so goddamn emotional when I’m just trying to have an adult conversation with you,” he says, getting to his feet and walking towards me with his arms open.
“I’m emotional because you spent two years fucking around behind my back.”
“If you weren’t such a crazy bitch, I wouldn’t have done that. You drove me to it. And now that I’m trying to fix things, you have to go all psycho again instead of listening to what I have to say.”
“I can’t even comprehend how fucked up you are. You can’t just tell someone to be reasonable while you’re trying to make a completely insane argument.”
“I’m trying to fix our relationship. And it’s hard, because it seems like I’m the only one who cares to even try. You always did like playing manipulative head-games. Well, they aren’t going to work anymore.”
I look back over my shoulder. Nash is still keeping his distance, but I can feel his impatience rolling off of him in angry waves. My stomach twists, wringing out every last burning bit of bile inside me.
“Just go away, Erick. Go away. It’s over. Accept it. Move on.”
He stuffs shaking hands into his pocket, pulls out something steely. One push of a button and a blade springs out, sharp steel shining in the lifeless fluorescence of the hallway.
My mouth goes dry.
My heart leaps, pounding with adrenaline and fear.
I take a careful step backwards, my eyes on his knife, and he follows forward.
“What are you doing?”
“Sometimes you have to fight for what’s important. You need to stop being a bitch and listen to me; what we had is real and we can have that again. You always said you wanted to have a real family, and now, what, suddenly that doesn’t matter to you?”
Heavy footsteps pound their way closer. Erick’s eyes dart from me to the man behind me.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Nash says.
“Erick, just go,” I say, gently, ignoring Nash. “We can talk about this later, ok? Please.”
“Who’s this? Is this your new guy? Are you fucking someone else already, you slut?” Erick’s voice drips with malicious venom.
Nash’s gun is out before I see it — a reflection of steel shining in Erick’s fearfully-wide pupils.
Slowly, his hands steady with determination, he advances on Erick.
Erick takes a step backwards, hitting the wall. Face shifting from anger to fear, he lowers his knife, retracting the blade with the press of a button.
“Move, and I’ll kill you. Say another word, and I’ll kill you,” Nash growls. “Look at her, and I’ll kill you. Even think the words ‘bitch’, ‘whore’, ‘slut’ and I will punch holes in your skull with lead.”
“Don’t hurt him,” I say.
It almost pains me to say that — there’s a dark part of me that wants Erick to suffer.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Erick whispers.
Quicker than I can blink, Nash shifts his grip on his gun, seizing it by the barrel and bringing the pommel to bear with snapping, brutal force right into Erick’s face. His head whips backwards, connects with the wall, and makes a dull, skull-shaking thud.
He drops — stiff and still — to the ground. One arm twitches. The other is contorted backwards in a way it isn’t meant to bend.
“What the hell?” I gasp
I want to scream, but I can’t find my voice. My words are these weak little things and my eyes keep darting from Nash’s face to the thick trickle of blood seeping from Erick’s face.
“I told him to keep his fucking mouth shut. The piece of shit is getting off easy — I should kill him.”
For threatening you. For pulling a knife on you.
Though he doesn’t say it, I hear it in his voice, I see it in his eyes.
Erick stirs, moaning fitfully. Just as quick, Nash silences him with a boot to the face. His arm twitches erratically, thumping a twisted rhythm against the wall.
He spits out a piece of a tooth. It lands at my feet.
“Stop it,” I shout at Nash.
For once, I’m thankful I live in the kind of building where neighbors keep to their own business. I feel at such a loss with how sudden and brutal he went after Erick. In a blink, he went from being a father to a beast.
“Go get your things. Now.”
I don’t wait; I don’t want to push him any further.
Chapter Ten
Nash
Her lips stay s
ealed while we drive, but I can feel her rebuke every time she looks in my direction. And every time she does look my way, it’s a battle for me to keep my own mouth shut. I want to tell her the truth — that that little shit Erick wasn’t giving up any other way than with a firm fist to the face — but it’s pointless arguing with her.
Why the hell do I care what she thinks? She’s my hostage after all.
Despite what she says, there’s no way I’m letting some limp-wristed bitch pull a knife on her. Or talk to her like that. A woman like her deserves better than a pathetic, disrespectful piece of shit like that bitch I left face-down in the hallway.
She deserves a man.
We’re miles outside of Chicago before she says anything. The city traffic fades away; the skyscrapers and condo blocks give way to the weirdly flat land of the Midwest, where the only defining feature is the straight line where the earth meets the sky.
Beautiful land for riding. I’m aching to get on my bike, where things seem simpler, where life feels freer.
“I still need to tell Maria I’m ok,” she says.
I look over. The fight’s left her. Something stirs in me, a need to do what I can to ease her pain. I reach back, into the duffel of her things I’ve got sitting on the back seat. I fish out her purse, set it on my lap, and find her phone. One eye on the highway, the other on the screen, it takes me a minute to find her friend on the contacts list and type out a message.
“That look alright to you?” I say, handing over her phone with the message I’ve typed out.
“No.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It says: ‘I’m ok. Going out of town. No need to worry. See you in a week or two. Don’t worry.’.”
“And? It gets the point across. What more does she need to know?”
“The only thing this message is missing that could make it even more of an ‘I’ve been kidnapped’ kind of thing is having the letters cut from a magazine. Also, there’s some spelling errors, too. Have you ever used a swipe keyboard? Or auto-correct?”
“I was in prison. I’m used to the push-button keys. Those make sense. I’m not used to rubbing on some screen like I’m trying to jack it off.”
I snatch the phone back from her, my thumb hovers over the screen, ready to type something new.
“What should it say?”
“Let me type it.”
“No, I don’t trust you not to send some kind message for help.”
“Well, I’m not going to let you send it for me. You’re not a woman, you’re not Maria’s friend, you won’t get it right. Besides, you shouldn’t be texting while driving — it’s not safe.”
“What part of these last twenty-four hours has seemed safe to you? You stabbed me, hit me with a bottle, and I’ve had a gun on you. Not to mention what happened to that shit-heel Erick.”
“Yes. Thank you for the reminder. Look, if we end up hitting some pedestrian, or killing someone just trying to get back home after work or whatever, we’ll be hurting someone that doesn’t deserve it.”
“So, you’re saying Erick might’ve deserved what he got?” I say.
“No. But maybe part of me, maybe, didn’t mind seeing that happen to him after he threatened me and, maybe, I appreciate you stopping him. Even though I would’ve rather it was non-violent.”
“You’re welcome.”
I know that’s as much of a ‘thank you’ I’m going to get. But it feels good to be appreciated.
“Now give me back my phone so I can tell my best friend not to worry that I’ve disappeared and gotten myself killed.”
I roll my head from shoulder to shoulder. Tension’s building in my muscles and I can tell this is going to be a very, very long drive. Worse still, I have to do it behind the wheel of this truck. If I had my bike, this would be a whole different story. Hell, I might even enjoy it. And the sound of the road would definitely drown out Houdini’s nagging.
“Just tell me what to type.”
“No. Give me my phone. Your text messages read like I’ve been kidnapped my a spasmodic baboon with dyslexia.”
“That’s a low blow.”
“I swear to God, I will seize the wheel and drive us into a ditch.”
God damn, she has spunk. I love it. She folds her arms over her chest. Fiery eyes, lips set in a frown, and her tits pushed out by her crossed arms.
My cock’s as hard as a stick shift right now.
“Shut up. You’re not getting this phone. Just make this easier on yourself and tell me what to say.”
There’s a click. Her seatbelt recedes and she turns to face me. “No,” she says, and she slides closer. Trouble and determination swirl in her eyes.
“Put your seatbelt back on.”
“No. Give me my phone.”
She lunges for it and I drop the phone between my legs and use my free arm to hold her back. She’s like a fucking rabid animal, clawing and scratching at me in some desperate bid to get her phone.
“Sit down and get yourself under control,” I say again, my voice rising.
This chick is insane.
And it’s fucking hot as hell.
She makes a dive for it, ducking under my outstretched arm, her hand darting for my leg.
I shift and the phone tumbles deeper between my legs. Her hand follows.
I grab her by the hair.
She grabs me by something else.
“That’s not my phone,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet.
Her hand doesn’t move.
“No, Houdini, that’s not your phone,” I say, matter-of-factly.
This doesn’t feel half bad.
“Are you hard right now?”
I think about changing her nickname to Sherlock.
“Great observation you made there.”
Her hand’s still in it’s place.
Every part of me feels like it’s on fire, lit up by her touch. It takes everything I’ve got to keep my focus on the road. But my mind is racing.
How easy it would be to pull her head down, to put her mouth to work on something other than arguing with me? She couldn’t fight it. I don’t think she even would — her hands are still there, her cheeks are flushed.
Fuck, looking over at her, I can see right down her shirt.
“You going to do something, sweetheart?” I say to her.
She looks up at me, startled. “What?”
“Either you take your hand off my cock, or you do something other than just hold it. Whichever is fine with me, but right now, this is the most pathetic hand job I’ve ever had.”
“I’m not giving you a hand job.”
She still hasn’t moved.
Her cheeks are redder than ever. I can’t tell if she’s paralyzed or what. Maybe she’s having some sort of stroke. She wouldn’t be the first woman to freeze up once they find out how much I’m packing.
“I am not giving you a hand job,” she repeats to herself.
“You’re not not giving me a hand job. The least you can do is move it back and forth a little. Here, let me help you out,” I say, reaching down for my zipper.
That sparks her back to reality.
She takes her hand back like my cock’s a cobra about to bite her. She sits up, her posture rigid.
“Give me my phone, please.”
“Just reach back between my legs and take it, Houdini.”
Her cheeks flush and she looks down between my legs. I shift a bit, moving, making my hard cock even more prominent against my jeans. If this is what it takes to keep her quiet instead of nagging me all the damn time, it’s fine by me.
Besides, she’s pretty cute when she’s embarrassed and angry. Rosy cheeks make her blue eyes and pursed lips pop.
“No, I don’t want to. I just want my phone, ok?”
“I don’t believe that for a second. You were pretty quick to get close to me back at the bar the other night. I’ll bet you’re still aching for a ride.”
“That was before I knew you wer
e a kidnapping, violent felon,” she says.
“Don’t lie to yourself, darlin. You were so wet for it, I don’t think it would’ve mattered if I told you. You still would’ve hopped on my cock for a ride and I would’ve fucked every memory of that limp-dick you used to call a fiance right out of your pretty little head.”
“I have standards. And now I know you’re just some thickheaded criminal with this twisted delusion that he’s going to murder his way to getting his daughter back.”
That’s a line too far.
I glare at her.
“I’m a man who loves his daughter and you’re fucking right that I’m going to do whatever it takes to get her safe,” I say, then I pick the phone up from between my legs and toss it to her. “If I have to be a thug to do that, then I’ll be a fucking thug. She’s worth it, and there’s no way in hell I’m passing up the chance to be her dad. So send your fucking text.”
She fiddles with her phone for a second, then shows the screen to me. “Is that ok?”
I nod. “It’s better than what I wrote. Go ahead and send it.”
“Thank you. And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what I said.
“Don’t worry about it. Just send the text, Houdini.”
She presses a button and then puts the phone back on my leg.
“Thank you, Nash.”
It goes quiet. Miles and hours fly by through the streaked, dirty glass of the windshield. It’s been too long since I’ve put some real time in on the road.
Next to me, Roxanna curls up, rests her head against the door and drifts off to sleep. Every once in a while, she’ll let out this gentle snore that makes me smile.
I’ve had worse traveling companions.
We cross into North Dakota and I stare out at the endless miles of flat frozen nothing. A yawn rips my lips apart and my jaw pops. There’s days worth of driving to go, days worth of featureless terrain, days worth of this frustrating firecracker asleep in my passenger seat.
Some way on, a tiny dot appears on the horizon.
It grows closer over the course of a dozen miles, until this big, ugly, half-ripped-to-hell billboard comes into view. Dirty Hank’s Roadhouse – 42 1/2 miles.
It’s a risky choice.