When Fates Collide

by Isabelle Richards

  “When my father died and I was asked to take over the company. My plan was to stop making weapons entirely, but I soon learned it wasn’t that simple. Weaponry is now a very small part of what we do. For the most part, we now make products that save lives. I shifted the focus of the company to communication and surveillance technology that can help soldiers better assess the field. If I was going to stay in this business, the focus was going to be preventing loss of life, not creating it.”

  I contemplate what he’s just shared in awe. “How old were you? That seems like so much to have placed on your shoulders.”

  “I was twenty-four,” he answers. “In the last four years, I’ve completely refocused the company. It hasn’t always been well received well by my board, but I keep making them richer, so that keeps them quiet. I know they’re always looking for the chance to boot me out, so I have to stay on my toes and keep the money rolling in.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure.” I try to picture what all the responsibility would feel like until he smacks me upside the head with a pillow. “What the hell was that for?” I yell.

  “Things have gotten a little too intense in here.” He gives me a lopsided smile.

  “Oh, you think starting a pillow fight is a good idea? ‘Cause you don’t know who you’re messing with. Trust me. You don’t want any of this.”

  “Please. You’ve got nothing,” he says arrogantly and then throws another pillow at me.

  “Oh it’s on, Oxford.” I shout. “It’s on like Donkey Kong!”

  We have a massive pillow fight that tears apart his well-designed fort. After almost an hour of strategic attacks, I manage to collect all the pillows and declare myself the victor. He disagrees, but she who has all the ammunition wins the war.

  I quickly learn we’re both highly competitive, and neither of us backs down from a challenge. Pushing each other’s buttons keeps us from going stir-crazy while we’re trapped in the condo for days. When I find Monopoly in a closet, I think it should be a fun way to pass some time. But after the fifth game, we find that we both become too cutthroat and the games get far too heated for comfort. Plus, we can’t agree on the rules. He refuses to play with the Free Parking money pot, but I’ve never met a person that doesn’t play with Free Parking! He insists that he plays by the actual rules where you auction off property, but who really plays that way? So, in the end, we agree not to play anymore.

  Afterward, there are embittered debates about random things, like the last episode of Lost, the allure of Downton Abbey, and—most hostile of all—US vs UK. Everything from food to sports to which side of the road to drive on, we battle it out without resolution.

  Our debates are broken up when either Meredith or Greene stops by with food. I’ve eaten far more pizza in the last four days than I care to, but at least there are plenty of leftovers for midnight snacks and early breakfasts. I wish they’d just go grocery shopping and let us cook, but I think they like to check in on us a few times a day. They haven’t given us any further insights or information, which is making me crazy. But Gavin takes it in stride much better than I do.

  Before long, Meredith is kind enough to bring Gavin one of his bags, so he has changes of clothes. But I’m stuck doing laundry every day to keep the few items of clothing I have to my name clean, as Meredith’s clothes are just too big for me. Her clothes might not fit, but I have helped myself to her bathroom. Once a day, I climb into her deep Jacuzzi tub, armed with a glass of wine, some deep conditioner treatment, and face mask. I may be stuck in this condo, but it won’t be with split ends or clogged pores. It feels wrong to pamper myself at a time like this, but I have to do something to pass the time.

  The rest of our hours are passed by playing games. We play cards, which Gavin kills me at. But my level of pathetic-ness amuses us both. At Scrabble, we’re fairly evenly matched, but we frequently butt heads over British spellings versus American spellings. This again instigates the US vs. UK argument, which tends to go on so long as one of us is still hot under the collar. We’re both too painfully stubborn to back down.

  As the days wear on, we become too antsy for board games, so we search the apartment for alternative forms of entertainment. We find a Nerf basketball set and play HORSE. He wins. Later, we find a putter and set up mini golf courses around the furniture. He wins again. No matter what I come up with, it’s followed by a comment of “I was captain of such-and-such” or “I won all regionals in blah, blah, blah.” Perfection may appear appealing at first, but it can become pretty damn annoying when locked up with it for days on end.

  At one point, I think I’ll have the advantage when we play Pub Trivia, seeing as it’s the “All Things American” edition.

  “Oh, I’ve got you this time, Oxford,” I boast. “You’re going down.”

  He winks. “We’ll see about that.”

  “You can’t seriously think you can beat me, can you? I am the American here.”

  “I’m a bold man. I know I can beat you.”

  “Shall we wager?” I ask.

  He waggles his eyebrows. “If you’re brave enough.” The daring gleam in his eye bores into me, sparking a surprising warmth inside me. His challenging tone sounds almost flirtatious, but it can’t possibly be. He’s been nothing but a gentleman, impeccably respectful to me and the fact that we are both in mourning. But, there’s something in the way that he’s looking at me that makes me wonder. Maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see. It’s been so long since I’ve actually enjoyed spending time with someone that I could be misreading it.

  “Oh, I’m brave enough,” I brag. “Loser has to sing the winner’s national anthem. With a smile.”

  “Done. It’s on! You’re going to regret this,” he says with a smirk that, while it makes him even more attractive, just makes me want to beat him!

  Question after question, he answers perfectly. I’m amazed but still confident. He has to slip up somewhere.

  Then, it’s my turn. The question: Name the thirteen original Colonies.

  “Ah, the thirteen colonies that dumped your country’s ass!” I list off the states from Maine to the Carolinas.

  “No. Sorry, luv,” he replies. “I think you’re referring to that little temper tantrum you rebels threw, but you’re wrong.” We argue back and forth and back and forth, but in the long run he’s right—Maine joined the country much later.

  I throw a bit of a temper tantrum. “Okay. You win. You and your photographic memory and your nauseatingly perfect chiseled chin can suck it!” Then, I pout for a while. But I’m a woman of my word, and I grudgingly sing “God Save the Queen,” which he enjoys far too much.

  I do win at beer pong, which is apparently not as big in the UK. Finally, I’ve found something he’s not good at. Spending four years at a party school has finally paid off.

  With the exception of our intermittent little spat, we spend the days in comfortable conversation. At times, he talks about Brooke, and I can see the sadness in his eyes and hear the grief in his voice. She doesn’t come up often, usually as a part of a memory he’s sharing, but when she does come up, I can feel how much he’s struggling. I think both of us are avoiding reality, which is easy to do while we’re in hiding. I know I am. If I think about the real reason we’re trapped in this apartment, I know my calm, cool, collected persona will come unglued.

  This vacation to the state of denial has made it easy to forget we’re two people with lives that have just been devastated by loss. Instead, we can pretend we’re just two people spending time together. Because this arrangement is temporary, I’m comfortable exposing parts of myself to him that I wouldn’t typically. We’ve quickly developed a strong bond, but I’m sure it will dissolve once the investigation finishes. He’ll go back to his life, and I’ll go back to mine.

  Spending all this time together in confined quarters, chemistry is inevitable, but under the circumstances, it’s both awkward and inescapable at the same time. Sometimes, when we’re sitting and talking, Gavin looks
at me as if I’m the only thing left on Earth. I have his complete attention. At other times, he looks ravenous, as though he simply wants to grab me and fuck me against the wall. It’s tempting. After all the loss, fear, and confusion, I crave the connection. It’s not about sex exactly, although a little action wouldn’t hurt, but I covet the intimacy. To feel something real, alive. Something that wouldn’t make me feel completely alone in the world. We couldn’t… could we? I know I’m going to hell for even thinking it.

  He’s a bit of a workout nut. He’d have to be with a body like his. Every day, he has me doing his crazy exercises with him. Planks and burpees. It’s awful. It’s a good thing he has a sense of humor because I’m completely uncoordinated. We end each “session” in stitches, laughing at what an ass I’ve made of myself. Man, does he have stamina though. Thinking of it makes my mind wander to all sorts of places… I can only imagine what he could do with that stamina during other cardio activities.

  The cherry on top of it all is that Gavin can dance. One day during our seclusion, I get out of the shower and hear JT’s “Rock Your Body” blasting. I peek my head out of the bathroom to see Gavin busting a move like I cannot believe. I’ve never seen a man, in real life, dance like that. I watch him ‘til the song ends and then burst out in applause.

  He turns around and goes beet red, looking at me like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Well, this is humiliating!” he says in his adorable English accent.

  “Why? You’re amazing! If I could dance that well, I’d dance all the time. I wouldn’t walk anywhere. I’d just dance from place to place.”

  “Can’t you dance?” he asks. “Everyone can dance.”

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t dance. I can shake my butt a little. Enough to go to a club and survive. But it’s a far cry from dancing.”

  He steps toward me. “Come here.”

  I step back. “What?”

  He steps toward me again. “Come. Here.”

  “Why?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Stop asking questions and just do it. Seriously. You can be so difficult.”

  “Are you going to make me dance?” I ask in a slightly whiney tone.

  He holds his hand out. “I’m going to teach you to dance. Big difference. I’ll teach you, and you will love it. Give it a bash?”

  I point to his feet. “The only things that’ll get bashed are your toes.”

  He grabs my hand and drags me across the room. I refuse to walk, so my socked feet slide across the hardwood floor. He puts Big Bad Voodoo Daddy on the stereo. I raise my eyebrows at him.

  “All Americans should know how to swing dance. You invented it, for crying out loud. It’s very easy and lots of fun. Just trust me and relax,” he says, pulling me close to him.

  “Trust you, huh? That’s asking a lot. What if I break something? We can’t even go to the hospital.”

  “Quit being such a baby,” he scolds. Before I can protest again, he spins me. I twirl until I’m dizzy. When I finally stop to catch my breath, he says, “See? Wasn’t that fun? Good. Now let’s get started.”

  He teaches me the basics, and it only takes me about three hours to do it with some sort of rhythm without stepping on his feet.

  When we stop for a water break and I have a chance to catch my breath, I ask, “So, aren’t you going to tell me how you learned to dance? Is this an English gentleman thing as well? Like carrying handkerchiefs?”

  “Ballroom dancing, yes. That’s something we all had to learn. But the rest, that’s from my Mum. She was a dancer. Could have probably been a professional, but she got married and did the proper thing for an English lady to do. She always loved to dance. We had a dance studio of sorts in our house, and we would dance all the time. Plus, I inherently have good rhythm. The rest just comes naturally.”

  Oh, I’d bet he has really good rhythm.

  We dance till dawn, and I have the time of my life.

  *******

  On the morning of our fifth day in captivity, Meredith brings us breakfast. Bagels with lox and whitefish salad from Bagel City. They have the best bagels in the area, but their locations are too far out of my way from my house to go regularly. There’s no easy way to get across DC, and even bagels this good aren’t worth that much traffic. I dive in with gusto and growl when Gavin tries to take some of the whitefish.

  “Down girl,” Meredith says. “I brought plenty.” She slices a bagel for herself and smears on some cream cheese. “Time to talk shop for a few. We know from a source in the organized crime division that Maniglia’s crew knows about Ash’s death and that he and Maniglia were being investigated. I don’t know more than that. But this is crunch time. If they are going to try to do something, now would be the time. So make sure you stay put.”

  It’s the first news we’ve heard in days. I’d thought I would be relieved to hear something, but I’m not. Even though we’ve learned something, we still really know nothing. We don’t know what the gang’s reaction will be. They may not care, or they may want to kill me. I’ve seen every mobster movie out there, and I’ve always been under the impression that wives and families were kept out of these sorts of messes. But that’s the movies. Who knows what happens in real life?

  Meredith takes a bite of her bagel and wipes the crumbs from her chin. “Gavin, the press has stayed tame. Whatever you’re doing to keep them off the scent is working.”

  “If only Brooke were really feeding sheep in New Zealand like we’ve posted she is,” I say with sorrow.

  “Brooke made her choices,” Gavin replies.

  Meredith leaves, and we’re both quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Gavin works, and I read a book I find in Meredith’s room.

  At five, Gavin appears at my side and hands me a shot of tequila. “I think this day needs a pick me up, don’t you?” he says with a smile.

  By seven, another bottle of tequila is gone, and we are playing I Never. Neither one of us really remembers if you drink when you’ve done something or if you’ve never done it, and it’s really hard to play with two people, but we still end up laughing hysterically while we share stories.

  At eight thirty, Gavin leaves to take a shower. I give in to my urge to Google him, and I find pictures from his modeling days. It turns out he was a Calvin Klein underwear model—back when they were hot and didn’t look like waifish heroin addicts. Good God Almighty! There are no words to describe the perfection that is this man. Every inch of him looks as though it was carved out of granite. His glorious pecs, the eight pack—eight pack!—just begging to be licked. And the deep cut of his abdominal V… I bet Calvin sold a whole lot of boxer briefs that year! While I’m drooling, the doorbell rings. I figure it must be Meredith coming back with dinner. As I’m opening the door, I think, Why would she ring the doorbell? Then everything goes black.

  Six

  I come to in the back of a van. My hands and feet are bound, and my mouth is covered with what smells like duct tape. My eyes aren’t covered, which scares me to no end. I’ve seen enough movies to know that if your abductor lets you see them, you don’t live to tell about it.

  Fucking Ashton. It’s bad enough he had to throw his life away, but did he need to take mine down with him? When I met him all those years ago, I’d known he was trouble, but I’d thought he was just enough trouble to keep my life interesting. I should have known enough to turn around and walk in the other direction.

  I can hear the tick of my watch as it counts down what I guess are the last minutes of my life. My heart pounds, and I struggle to get what air I can through my nose. I need to calm down. Why spend my last few minutes in a panic attack? That reaction may be the tequila talking, but I go with it.

  I have no idea how long we’ve been driving when the van stops. Apparently, there has been someone behind me the whole time because he whispers into my ear, “He’s going to want to talk to you, so I’m taking the tape off. Don’t scream, or it’ll go back on.” He rips the tape off my mouth and then puts an atr
ociously smelly bag over my head. My skin burns from the removal of the tape, far worse than from any waxing. The upside is that I still haven’t seen anyone’s face.

  The man picks me up and carries me over his shoulder, caveman-style. He chuckles. “No one would hear you anyway.” He walks for a while. I listen, trying to pick up any clue that may tell me where I am, but all I can hear is the crunching under his feet.

  I’m set down hard on what I guess is a tree stump. Damn that hurts! A bruised tailbone seems minor at this point, but it still sucks. He taps me on the head, and then I hear the crunching of his footsteps as he walks away.

  I’m left alone for what feels like forever. I call out, but no one answers. Maybe he was right, no one can hear me.

  The air is hot and thick with humidity. The heavy air makes the smell inside this bag even worse. Mosquitoes feast on my bare arms and legs. He must have taken me out of the city because Rock Creek Park is never this buggy. I have no idea how long I was passed out. We could have been driving for hours.

  I play out worst case scenarios in my mind. Not a good game to play when you are trying to stay calm. The bug bites become so uncomfortable that all of my energy is focused on willing them to stop itching when I hear the crunching of several sets of footfalls.

  “If you're trying to torture me with mosquitoes, it’s working,” I joke to let them know I’m supposedly calm. “Well, it’s a toss-up between the bugs and the smell of the bag. I’m not sure which is worse. But well done on your part.”

  I hear a chorus of deep belly laughs. Sounds like three or four different voices, all male. One of them has that raspy, phlegmy laugh of a lifetime smoker. I’m cataloging all this information as though it will be helpful in some way, assuming I don’t die here. I have no idea how I’ll survive, but it gives me something else to think about.