by Zahra Girard
But he doesn’t.
He leans in a little, sips his whiskey, and smiles.
He’s interested. In accounting.
What the hell?
“Forensic accounting? Does it mean you go in and make sure dead people get their taxes filed?” he says, mostly serious.
It’s not the first time someone’s asked me that question. And I’m so out of sorts at having someone interested in me, and what I do, that explanations just start to spill out of me.
“No. It means, once I finish my internship, I’ll investigate financial crimes. Like companies cheating on their taxes, money laundering, stuff like that.”
“And what made you pick that?”
“I don’t know. A lot of things. But it’s my dad’s influence, mainly.”
“Your dad? Is he a cop?”
I shake my head. “No, my uncle’s the cop. He’s retired. My dad’s a judge. They’re both way out west, so it’s not like they’re going to be poking around, or waiting for us on the front porch, sitting in a rocking chair with a shotgun on their lap or anything like that.”
I’m already regretting even bringing up the subject. Most guys tuck tail and run when they hear about my dad. But Nash just takes it in stride. “So you’re following in his footsteps, huh?”
“In my own way, kinda. He’s always been there for me — I wouldn’t have this internship if he didn’t pull a few strings.”
“I doubt that’s true. Brains and beauty is a pretty potent combination,” he says, and I sit up straighter as he says it. “But enough about work. And enough with this bar. You want to get out of here?”
I look back over my shoulder at Maria who — without me having to say anything and despite being all the way on the other side of the room — knows exactly what I’m going to ask.
She’s got an answer ready.
She makes a circular shape with her thumb and forefinger on one hand and sticks another finger through the circle. Again. And again. And again.
Subtle.
Even if she is reading my mind, I remind myself that I need to get classier friends.
“Let’s go.”
Chapter Two
Roxanna
“Cigarette?”
The doors to Two-Timin Jacks shut behind us. We’re alone out here except for the bone-biting cold and the distant sound of a car alarm. Chicago’s freezing night air sobers me up for a second and I think about Nash’s offer. It’s tempting — I haven’t smoked since high school, but it might calm my nerves; I’ve known this guy for maybe half an hour and already I’m going home with him.
“No, thanks,” I answer.
“Suit yourself,” he says, shielding his cigarette from the night breeze with one hand while lighting it with the other. Puffs of smoke rise as we walk through the lot. “Your place or mine, sweetheart?”
I’m tingling with the kind of excitement I haven’t felt in years. It’s unnerving, unfamiliar, exhilarating.
“Yours,” I say.
We get to an old pickup truck that looks like it was taken from a 1980’s lumber yard. A hefty, beat-up hunk of steel on wheels. Nash comes around to my side and opens the door for me and I can’t help myself — I’m brimming with nerves and excitement — I hop up on my toes and go to give him a quick kiss on the lips.
Except, it doesn’t work like that.
My lips hit his and there’s this feral rumble that starts in his chest the second we make contact like I’ve hit a switch inside him. He presses into me, his ripped chest pushing into me and holding me back against the cold steel of his truck. And I shut my eyes and let him take over, giving myself to this new experience while my hands wander down his back to grip his rock-hard ass through his jeans.
Our quick kiss goes on, until he pulls away, leaving me panting.
He grins at me.
“I don’t do things halfway, sweetheart,” he says.
He opens the door for me and gives me his hand to help me up. I need the help — my legs are Jell-o.
The truck rumbles and roars as he turns the key in the ignition.
Neither of us talk much on the drive; I’m wrapped up on my head, already picturing what’s going to happen when we get to his place, alternatingly psyching myself up and psyching myself out; Nash keeps his eyes on the road, though every time we come to a stop, he’ll look on over at me and I’ll see the ghost of a smirk light his lips.
The truck lumbers to a stop outside an apartment in a part of town that I’d hesitate to drive through even in the daytime. Half a block away, the street’s lit up with the ruby-red glow of a neon hotel sign promising rooms by the hour.
“You live here?”
He chuckles and slips his arm over my shoulder and I turn into him, kissing him again. He smells like good whiskey and cheap tobacco and I am drunk on all of him.
“It’s a temporary thing. I’m just passing through. When you’re looking for short term apartment rentals in this city, you can either pay a hundred and fifty bucks a night to live in some guy’s bullshit retro loft above an organic grocery store, or you can pick somewhere a little more reasonable.”
“So, instead of an organic grocery store, you get to live next to a drug den and a sleazy hotel?”
“Fuck no. My neighbors are just regular folks who are down on their luck. People looking for their second chance. I get that, I’ve been there,” he says. “But come on, it’s freezing out here, let’s get you inside.”
He opens the door for me and I start to feel a bit better about the place. Yeah, the building’s dated, and yeah, it smells a little bit musty, but the hallways are clean. There’s even a little community notice board right in the front entryway. Next Friday there’s going to be a building-wide party in room 38 to celebrate some guy named Frank’s birthday.
We head down the hallway, his arm over my shoulder, his firm rock-hard body next to mine, and come to a stop in front of a door that’s like every other in this hallway, except for the number painted on it and what I know is waiting for me inside.
I’m tingling with anticipation in a way I haven’t felt in years.
“Here we are,” he says, the bass of his voice vibrating in his chest.
I make another move — giddy and nervous — and our lips meet for several pulse-pounding seconds. He presses me against the wall, overpowers me, and I submit to him while my hands wander his muscular back, feeling every hard inch of him until I work my way down to clenching his tight, jean-covered ass.
He is a tower of muscle and the thought of being in bed with him makes me tremble in anticipation.
My head is spinning when he pulls back. He grins at me. Cocky. Confident.
“Would you like to come inside?”
“I think so.”
Inside, it’s dark for a second, until he presses a switch in the hallway, illuminating the sparse apartment. The place doesn’t even look lived in — there are no pictures on the walls, no color anywhere, and all the furnishings look like they came with the place. The only indication that this place belongs to Nash is the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table.
Whatever. I’m not here to worry about decorations.
“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
I take a slow walk through the empty living room. There’s not much to speak of here, except I spy a small picture hidden on a corner coffee table.
I pause. A scent tickles the inside of my nose; a hint of Nash’s tobacco. I breath in. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be wearing that same smell on me. At least until I take a shower. The thought makes me smile.
Maybe I’ll be ok. Maybe I’ll move on from Erick. Maybe I’ll let go of the whole mess and, eventually, I’ll find someone I can really build a family with.
“Nice place,” I call out to the empty room, not really knowing what to say, but trying to be polite.
I stretch out and wonder just how this hooking up thing goes. The last time I even had a one night stand was back in col
lege, and then it was much simpler — I knew I had to be out of the guys dorm room by eight in the morning because that’s when his RA usually got up and would practice his guitar in the dorm lobby.
“Hello?”
It’s quiet, except for a rustling far in the hall.
“Everything all right?”
“Relax, Roxanna,” he calls back. “Just give me a second.”
Shrugging, I pick up the bottle of whiskey and take a sip. It burns going down. In a good way.
I take another. It helps. My nerves are just getting the better of me, and I’m not surprised — going from a reluctant fiance like Erick to hooking up with a man-mountain like Nash in the span of a day is enough to make anyone nervous.
Another sip. A long one, this time.
I smile.
I’m ready.
I’m going to have fun tonight.
Several times.
I’m certain Nash can handle that.
There’s a click. Metal sliding over metal. It’s a sound familiar in the way that it makes my heart freeze.
Something cold presses to the back of my head. I know what it is without having to look. The weight and sound of it takes me back to firing ranges, time spent with my father and my uncle learning how to defend myself; the feel of it against my head turns me helpless.
“Sorry to do this to you, sweetheart. But I want to make something perfectly clear: if you scream, if you try to run, if you struggle, you won’t live through tonight.”
Chapter Three
Roxanna
I take a breath, but feel breathless, my heart pumping fear through my veins. I keep perfectly still while my mind races to recall every single thing my uncle taught me, every minute spent on the gun range or at home, where he and my dad both lectured me for ages after school about the ways to defend myself before I left for college.
I know one thing’s for sure: I have to get out of here. Whatever it takes.
I have to fight, and fight dirty.
“Are you going to rape me?” I say, forcing my voice to tremble.
I tense, ready, even before the words leave my mouth.
“Rape you?” he says, disgusted. “I’m not into that sick shit. I don’t need to do that to get pussy.”
Anyone looking at Nash would know that’s true. Even now, I’d admit it. There’s something about him that just draws me in, even with everything he’s done. Jagged, flawed and broken in the kind of ways that make you want to take a closer look.
“I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t rape me, please,” I say, straining to make my voice sound pathetic.
Then I feel it — the slight shift in his grip, the wavering movement of the cold steel pressed to the back of my skull while he talks.
It’s exasperation, frustration, repugnance.
My grip tightens around the bottle of whiskey in my hands. I don’t know whether he’s telling the truth or not, but I know one thing’s for sure — whatever he’s got in mind for me, I’m not going to make it easy.
I exhale.
His grip shifts again.
I can feel it — it’s time. Now or never.
I strike.
I spin, whirling the whiskey bottle in an arc. It cracks into his head with a dull thud that reverberates up my arm to my shoulder and he goes reeling sideways. Spittle flies from his lips, along with a stream of curses that’d make a sailor’s ears bleed.
I’m off the couch in a flash, sprinting towards the door.
It’s thirty feet from the couch to the front door.
The wooden floor pounds against my feet.
Frantic. My whole body rushing, straining, hoping. Fingers reaching for the door.
Thuds come up behind me. Heavy with threats.
My hand hits the cool comfort of the doorknob.
I breathe again. I twist it. I pull.
Freedom peeks through a thin slit in the open door.
One heavy hand lands on my shoulder. Another wraps itself around my face, covering my mouth, holding it shut with crushing force.
I’d scream if I could. Scream until my throat gives out.
My jaw pops with the force of his grip.
“Big fucking mistake,” he growls, his stubble scratching my ear.
He rips me backwards.
But I’m not giving up. I stomp, cracking my heel down the bridge of his foot, again and again. Something gives under my heel and I stomp again. Harder.
Cursing, he loosens his grip. I spin and lunge again for the door. I get my hand around the handle and pull it open.
I can see the hallway. A bare fluorescent bulb dangles from the ceiling three doors down, casting a flickering light over the cracked walls and dated carpet.
I blink and he rips me backwards, hurling me face-first into the wall. I gasp at the pain.
The door slams shut.
He wrenches my hands behind my back. Trapped.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. “But if you keep fucking around, this will end with your bloody body in a ditch.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“The less you know, the better this works out for you. The only thing you need to know is, if you do what I fucking tell you, you won’t get hurt. Hurting women isn’t my thing.”
Wonder why I find that hard to believe.
I keep my mouth shut as he hauls me back to the living room. The familiar rippling whir of a zip tie tightening around my wrists hits my ears. I am terrified and it’s a fight to keep myself calm. Panicking never gets anyone out of these types of situations.
“I can’t believe my luck in picking men.”
“If it helps, this was happening tonight whether or not you sat down and shared a drink with me.”
“So you’ve been stalking me?”
“I know who you are, I know where you live, I know where you work. I’ve spent the better part of a week staking you out, darling.”
“Don’t call me darling,” I spit back at him. “And this has to be my third worst date ever.”
“Fair enough,” he says, shrugging. There’s a hefty welt forming above his right eye where I smacked him with the bottle. It makes me feel a little bit better about my situation — and makes me resolve to hit him harder the next time I get the chance. “And this is only third worst?”
“Worst was when I tried to share interests with a certain ex. He dragged me to some convention where everyone dressed as these video game characters, with giant eyes and blue and green blowout hairstyles. It was like Japan animated the Jersey Shore characters. He left me to go hang out with some guy carrying a ten foot sword. And every other guy there would just not stop following me.”
“Holy shit, that sounds terrible.”
“I hid in the bathroom the whole time.”
“I don’t blame you. Some people are really fucking weird” he says, guiding me to the couch and helping me sit down and get comfortable, as my zip tied hands make sitting a little tricky. “You want a drink?”
“What do you think?”
He leaves me on the couch for a minute, while he goes and rummages through the kitchen for a minute. He comes back with another bottle of whiskey and a straw. He plunks the straw in one of the bottles and sets it on the table in front of me. “Drink up.”
I take a long sip. Because what the hell else am I going to do.
“So, what is this really about? If this is about money, you’re going after the wrong woman. Judges don’t make a lot of money.”
He shakes his head, takes a long drink from his bottle and pounds it down on the table. “It’s not about money.”
“You trying to get someone out of jail or something? My dad doesn’t handle many criminal cases nowadays. He’s mostly on family court stuff, and has been for years,” I say, staring at him while I sip from my bottle. A shadow crosses his face for the spare space of a moment and I seize on it. “So that’s what this is about — you’re tired of paying alimony? And, somehow, you got the bright idea that a kidna
pping a judges daughter would be a good thing?”
“Shut up,” he growls. “You’re toeing a line you don’t want to cross.”
“Fuck you. You have me zip tied and sipping whiskey through a straw. We are well beyond the point where line are even relevant.”
In a flash, the gun is back in his hands and pointed right at me. “I know the kind of shit that could come raining down on me for this; I know what this could cost me, but it’s worth the fucking price.”
I start to open my mouth to say something that’ll probably just make my situation worse, but he places a big hand over it and squeezes my jaw shut. Not too hard — in fact, he’s surprisingly gentle considering how big he is — but he squeezes hard enough to let me know I shouldn’t be talking right now. Which is probably a better result anyway, since I have a bunch of whiskey in me and I’m not exactly in the mood to be polite to this asshole.
In fact, I’d much rather be bashing him in the head with this whiskey bottle.
“Look, we’re done for tonight. I’ve had a long day. Get one thing in your head — I’m not going to let anything come between me and what I want. If that means you have to die, I won’t hesitate to blast a fucking hole in your head. So be smart: keep your fucking mouth shut and do what I tell you. Got it?”
I nod my head. But I’m lying.
He hefts me to my feet with startling ease — god damn he is strong — and carries me through his apartment to what was probably this apartment’s second bedroom. The room is empty, except for a chair in the middle of the room and some kind of insulation foam that covers the walls, floor, and ceiling.
“Soundproofing,” he says, noticing me staring at the walls. “AC/DC could go through their whole catalog in here and it wouldn’t even bring the neighbors knocking.”
I’m starting to doubt that he really meant it when he said he wasn’t planning on killing me. This feels like something out of Dexter. All it needs is the plastic sheeting.