Unlovable

by Cynthia St. Aubin

  It took me a full ten seconds to process what he had said, and a further twenty to work up a response. A number of possible diagnoses fired across my brain like gunshots, and they all lodged in a common fact: they would only be fed by the fear rising in sickening waves through my belly. I pulled a breath in through my nose and gave him a phrase familiar enough not to sound forced even when recited. “If you want some of my time, you’ll need to make an appointment.” I settled myself back into my chair, picked up my pen and notepad, and began scribbling.

  A shadow fell across my lap. “Lady, you’re not hearing me.”

  “Perhaps that’s because you’re not conversant in the golden rules of communication,” I said, not looking up. “Rule number one for the speaker: convey your message in a clear and effective manner.”

  “What part of ‘you’re coming with me’ do you not understand? Or maybe you’re just not familiar with rule number one for the listener. Be warm and attentive.”

  Had I been smiling, his words would have wiped the expression from my face. I glanced up over the dark rims of my glasses. “I spend my whole day listening, and I am extremely attentive.”

  He leaned over my chair, planting his hands on the leather arms on either side of my hips. “Attend this: You. Are coming. With me.”

  I met his shadowy gaze and hoped he wouldn’t see my throat work through a painful, dry swallow. “You know, I actually have some time now. Why don’t you have a seat?” If I got him down on the couch, I might be able to make a break for the door.

  He snatched the pen from my hand, broke it in half and let it fall to the carpet. “Rule number two,” he said. “Use nonverbal methods of communication.”

  I shot out of my chair on a jet of sudden anger. “You did not just break my Waterman Edsen Diamond fountain pen!” Instant panic followed my words. Thirty years of unflappable calm, and now was the time my brain chose to give itself over to limbic rage?

  “So you are listening. Let’s try rule number three, repetition. You are coming with me.”

  His words floated around me as I watched the beautiful pen bleed ink in a small puddle on the floor. “I loved that pen!”

  “And your life? Do you love that?”

  Something had shifted. A difference in the air and light. I looked up into the barrel of a gun—the only spot in the room darker than his eyes.

  I felt more than heard the percussion as the bullet whooshed past my ear—a result of the silencer, I guessed. The sound of breaking glass and rushing water delivered panic straight to my chest. “You shot Sigmund Freud!” I tripped over my chair and scooped up the tiny golden body flopping among the broken glass on the carpet. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Sigmund.” Rushing to my desk, I plopped the little fish into my empty coffee cup and poured the remainder of a water bottle over him. “Breathe!”

  Relief rushed over me when Sigmund’s tail jerked and he circled the small confines of his new ceramic container. I pressed the mug against my chest. “You could have killed him.”

  “That was a warning, Doctor. Next, I’ll shoot a hole in one of your shoes. While it’s still on your pretty foot.” A large, warm hand seized my arm, and he spun me around to face my office door. The gun’s cold muzzle jammed into my spine. “Walk. And if you scream, I pull the trigger.”

  *****

  I took a few tentative steps forward but paused by the door, glad to find an excuse to stall so I could think while he decided. “I need my coat and purse.” Where was he taking me? What did he want? Was Rolly still at his desk? What could I do to get his attention?

  “You call this a purse?” he eyed the large black leather bag hanging from a sturdy metal hook on the door.

  “Look, I have to schlep around a laptop and case files in addition to a wallet and lipstick. A larger bag is simpler. Cleaner.”

  The gun stayed steady as he patted down my coat pockets with one hand and dug through my bag. He slid my cell phone and wallet out and slipped them into his pocket before taking a step back. “Go ahead and put on your coat. The bag stays with me.”

  “I’ll need you to take Sigmund,” I said, holding the mug out to him.

  “Jesus Christ,” he sighed. His thick fingers dwarfed the handle as he gripped it.

  I pulled my coat on, allowing myself to relish the feel of its smooth, familiar interior. “I’ve never heard of a purse-toting gunman,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. The statue had vanished. Where was Cupid?

  “I’m not a gunman,” he announced. “I’m your lunch date. At least, that’s what you’ll be telling that security guard downstairs who’s in love with you.”

  “Rolly is not in love with me,” I protested. “It’s just a crush. He has low self-esteem, and I am a woman in a position of power.” I took my time tugging the coat into place and belting it.

  “Or, he’s a man, and you have nice tits.”

  His thoughts? Or his interpretation of Rolly’s? “Noticing my…chest is not the same thing as being in love.” I held out my hand and he pressed the mug back into it.

  “Says who?” The gun resumed its place against my spine. At least, I hoped it was the gun. “Open your office door and walk to the elevator.”

  “My assistant is going to know you’re not my lunch date,” I pointed out. “She keeps track of my schedule.”

  “I think she’s busy.” His smile proved to me more frightening than his scowl.

  “Busy? What do you mean she’s—” and that’s when I heard it. A thump against the storage closet door next to Julie’s desk. A feminine giggle. Julie’s giggle. Then, thump thump thump thump.

  My cheeks felt like they’d been pressed against a barbecue grill.

  “Oh, Crix!” came the muffled cry.

  That bastard! He had interrupted my session, dragged a pissed off love god into my office, and now he was screwing my assistant? What happened to hearing my thoughts? How did he not know I was being kidnapped? “You’re fired!” I yelled at the door, hoping both the bodies behind it heard me.

  “Jealous?” my captor asked.

  “No,” I answered too quickly. “Disappointed.”

  “That it wasn’t you?” The warmth from his big body radiated against my back even through my coat.

  “I would appreciate it if you leave the psychological assessments to me,” I said, shooting a dirty look over my shoulder. “Stick to what you’re good at.”

  “What? Right here in the hallway? Shouldn’t we find a closet?”

  My knees softened at the insinuation. “Kidnapping. I’m assuming someone has hired you to do this.”

  “And why are you assuming that?”

  “Anything you could want from me, you would have already, and you wouldn’t need to take me anywhere else to get it. If you wanted to rape me, you could have done it in my office. If you wanted my money, or car keys, you would have them by now. You’re not bright enough to outsmart me, but you are big enough to overpower me.”

  “You know what they say about big men…”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure I do.”

  “They have big brains,” he finished, stressing the last word. “Walk.”

  “Yes! Oh, God! Yes!” Julie’s squeal leaked under the closet door.

  “Wait,” I said. “I need to leave Sigmund on Julie’s desk.”

  “No sudden moves,” my captor instructed.

  I paused, slowly leaning over and setting the mug in front of Julie’s keyboard. “Bye Sigmund,” I whispered, kissing my thumb and pressing it against the mug.

  “Okay,” the gunman announced returning the muzzle to my spine. “Let’s go.”

  We stopped in front of the elevator and he punched the down button.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “One of your favorite places.” Only a tourniquet could stop the false brightness bleeding from his voice.

  “Whole Foods?” Hope floated my voice to a pitch too eager to respect.

  “Las Vegas.”

  Confusion felt l
ike a welcome confirmation of my innocence. “Las Vegas? I’ve never even been there. How could it be one of my favorite places?”

  “Nice try, angel. No one runs up a million dollar debt to Stefano the Fathead and gets away with it.”

  “Stefano the Fathead? Are you kidding me? Is this some kind of reality show?” I scanned the hallway for some unfamiliar detail, a place where cameras could be hidden.

  “If I were you,” he said, “I’d keep any comments about his name to yourself when you meet him.” The elevator doors opened and the man in black nudged me forward.

  Another dart of fear arced through my chest. Meeting Stefano the Fathead didn’t sound like a prudent use of my time. In the elevator doors’ brushed nickel finish, our faces became fleshy puddles with dark holes where the eyes should be. The gunman’s blurry reflection loomed behind mine like a black shadow of my every nightmare. “I don’t suppose you’d entertain the possibility that you’re abducting the wrong person?”

  “You said yourself that you are Dr. Matilda Schmidt.”

  “There could be more than one Dr. Matilda Schmidt in Plattsburgh, NY. The population is certainly large enough to support it.”

  “And are they all five-foot-five, with dark hair, hazel eyes, and a nice ass?”

  My cheeks heated with a tidal wave of blood. This elevator ride stretched not between floors, but eternities. “And where did you obtain this artful physical description?”

  “From the pictures. And there are lots of them. You parked at the high rollers roulette table. You tearing it up at the dance club. You draped all over Double Amputee Louie… ”

  Irritation and frustration crashed around in my head. “Double Amputee Louie? Creative.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not the most original name. But what are you gonna call a guy with no arms? Poor fucker has to roll the craps dice with the gravy ladle he clenches between his teeth. But then, you know that.”

  “No!” I insisted. “I do not know that. I’ve never gambled in my life. And if I did go to Las Vegas, you can be damned sure I wouldn’t be draped over a double amputee.”

  “What? You saying that the disabled don’t deserve to honk a nice pair of tits now and then?”

  “Of course I’m not saying that! It’s just that I’m not—I wouldn’t…Oh, forget it. Why am I explaining myself to you?”

  “It’s okay, cupcake. You were belly up. Needed to feed the habit. Cozy up to a sucker and walk off with a hundred K in chips tucked away in your bra. I get it. But I don’t know that your clients will. When these pictures hit the local paper, I can’t imagine it will do much for your practice.”

  “How dare you—” The familiar ding marked our arrival at the lobby.

  “Remember,” the gunman, advised, “you so much as breathe the wrong way, and your boyfriend trades his uniform for a suit split up the back.”

  “He is not my boyfriend.” In a part of my brain growing ever more distant, a voice commented that Rolly being shot down in cold blood should bother me more than the suggestion that we were involved. I filed this fact away for analysis when my brain wasn’t wholly occupied by panic.

  A heavy arm fell across my shoulders, and then the only thing separating us was eight inches of cold metal pressed against the small of my back. At this proximity, my hips blocked all from Rolly’s view. Whether the gunman matched his stride to mine, or we naturally had the same gait, I couldn’t say. We strolled by the security desk as a single unit. Bodies in sync like we’d shared not only a bed, but also love, and a life.

  “Dr. Schmidt!” Rolly said, his sad, blue eyes lit from within by a curiosity, longing, and jealousy. The same eyes darkened with hostility when they flicked to the body pressed against my back.

  The gun dug into my hip as we approached the desk. “We’re off to lunch. See you later, Rolly,” I said, conjuring as much kindness into my voice as the universe would allow. Was this a lie?

  “I wasn’t going to let him come up,” Rolly said, looking behind me. “But he said you knew each other. I didn’t believe him at first, but then he described the inside of your apartment.”

  Goosebumps started on my arms and raced up my neck to my scalp. “Rolly, you’ve never been to my apartment.”

  Rolly’s eyes sank to the expanse of faux-granite desk surrounding his round body like the rings of Saturn. “There was that week, when you were really sick, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Your front door was open. I guess you had gone to the emergency room. But I knocked first.”

  “You were in my apartment?” I looked from Rolly to the gunman and back again, failing to sift the lumps of disbelief and indignation from my voice. I remembered those days all too well. Stumbling to the kitchen, my heart hot and my skin cold, trying to make tea or toast. When I’d woken up on the floor in a pool of my own sick sweat, unable to pull myself to the counter, I’d crawled to the nightstand and dialed 911 for the first time in my life. Walking Pneumonia or so the doctor had said.

  “You know I’ve been there.” The gunman smiled, implying events I had no knowledge of and no impetus to deny.

  But when? Crixus had effectively penetrated my barriers with just a phone call. Rolly had wandered through undetected. How many others had walked the halls of my private sanctuary without my knowing?

  Rolly’s face fell to the shelf of his second chin. “Have a good lunch, Dr. Schmidt.

  “Thanks Rolly.” I gave him my best smile—warm, empathetic, understanding.

  “Oh, we will, Roland,” the gunman said, answering a question not asked of him. “We will.”

  I pulled my coat around me as we stepped out of the building under the insulation of great grey clouds. The parking lot sprawling away from the building where my office was housed remained quiet during the day, subject to a slow, steady trickle of orthodontist appointments, divorce consultations, and meetings with tax accountants.

  My black Toyota Prius silently patrolled the borders of the lot, eyeing, it seemed, the unfamiliar and irresponsibly powerful ’69 Camaro. The car, like its owner, wore only black.

  I reached for the passenger’s side door but was abruptly halted by a cold metal handcuff clicking around my wrist. A large hand grabbed the opposite arm and brought it behind my back to be outfitted with a matching bangle.

  “Is this strictly necessary?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, opening the car door. “But it makes my job easier. In you go.” He helped ease me into the car before tossing my laptop bag into the back seat.

  A muffled squeak came from the bag as it made contact with a tire iron.

  I looked over my shoulder just in time to see something moving beneath the leather. The bag hopped away from the metal tool.

  “Cupid,” I whispered. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” came the muted reply. “Get me out—”

  “Shh. He’s coming,” I hissed.

  The driver’s door opened and my kidnapper slid in with expert grace. A predatory growl rumbled through the car as he turned the engine over. He paused, looking at me for a protracted moment before leaning across the space separating us. My breath caught in my throat when his face came close enough for me to feel the warmth of his skin. He didn’t smell like a kidnapper. He smelled like leather, soap and clean laundry. Was he going to kiss me? Why would he do that? A new wave of panic rushed into my brain, evicting the tangle of fear and confusion.

  “Almost forgot,” he said, pulling the seatbelt across my shoulder and buckling it. “Don’t want to endanger the cargo.”

  “You’re kidnapping me at gunpoint, and you’re worried about a seatbelt?” I struggled to keep my breathing at an unperturbed pace.

  “You’re being kidnapped at gunpoint, and you’re worried about me kissing you?” His wink should have looked slimy instead of boyish and charming.

  “I was not worried about you kissing me. I’m being abducted by a stranger with a gun. The psychological pathology of a man who would do such a thing has far more troubling implicat
ions. Why would I not worry when you come close to me?”

  “You held your breath and closed your eyes. Even Double Amputee Louie could read those implications.” He grabbed the stick shift and cranked the car into reverse.

  The familiar sight of the building where I kept a tidy office and successful practice evaporated through the cloud of exhaust the Camaro coughed into the last days of winter.

  “Your assessment only confirms how woefully bereft of psychological training you are,” I said crossing my legs away from him and looking out my window. “Likely a result of thinking with your…gun.”

  “Sounds like someone may have a fixation on my gun, Matilda.”

  “You may call me Dr. Schmidt,” I advised him, hoping to ice my blush with cool words. I had to be setting some kind of record. “Speaking of names, I would like to know yours.”

  “That’s not information you need.” The gunman kept his eyes trained on the road as the small brick buildings of downtown Plattsburgh gave way to fields and sleepy farmhouses.

  “It’s going to be a long drive to Vegas,” I said. “About thirty-seven hours from here.”

  “How do you know we’re driving the whole way?”

  “Bringing me on a flight would be too risky. Too easy for me to alert someone. Ditto for a train, or a bus. This is your car, and it has Nevada plates. You drove here, and you’ll drive me back.”

  A cynical snort escaped him. “No wonder the guys assigned you to me.” We approached the entrance for the Adirondack Northway, which would turn into Interstate 90, whose wide lanes would skirt us past the Great Lakes.

  “Why is that?” Pastures slid by my window, the snow covering them becoming lacey in its pre-spring melt.

  “The smart ones are harder to bring in.”

  A burst of pleasure warmed my heart. He thought I was smart. I brushed the thought aside as quickly as it had come. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s Luigi. Luigi…Whatshisface,” he coughed.

  “You’re not serious,” I said, assessing his profile for the signs of deception. “That can’t be your real name.”