Slow Burn

by Roxie Noir

  And finally, he walks over to me.

  “Gabriel,” he says, nodding like everything is totally cool and we’re just old friends.

  “Hey, Zeke,” I say. “Got a minute?”

  He takes a deep breath, pushes his hand through his hair, and nods.

  We drive to the Wal-Mart parking lot across the street, where I maneuver my car between the two biggest pickup trucks I can find. I’m pretty sure I’m being too paranoid, but then again, am I?

  I don’t know where Ruby is. Despite trying everything, I can’t find out. I think she’s still in that house, with even more security than before, but they could have already shipped her off to be re-educated. She could be in Georgia or Mississippi already.

  The thought makes my blood turn to lead in my veins, like I’m fucking powerless, nothing I can do. Not that I know what to do, but at least finding out where she is seems like a good first step.

  “She’s still at home,” Zeke confirms, staring through the windshield at another parked car. “They brought in three new guards, though, all from the church. They take eight hour shifts around the clock, sitting in a chair outside her room.”

  Jesus fucking Christ. I rub my temples, and Zeke takes another swig of his coffee.

  “I think she’s got a plan, though,” he goes on.

  I look over at him in disbelief, wondering what the fuck her plan can be. I’ve got no idea how to get her out of a place like that, full of twenty-four/seven security guards, none of whom will have any issues physically detaining her.

  “She does?” I echo. “What is it?”

  “She won’t tell me,” he says. “Probably so no one can get it out of me later. But I’m supposed to get her a phone, and I haven’t been able to yet, because it’s this whole thing, you have to figure out which phone to get, and then either get on a plan or get pre-paid and activate it, and —”

  “I’ll get her a phone,” I say quickly. “Just meet me again tomorrow. I’ll have a phone for her.”

  “Cool,” Zeke says. “Sorry I don’t know anything else.”

  Then he looks over at me, and even though he’s got brown eyes, he’s giving me the same cool, appraising look I know from Ruby.

  “She’ll be glad you stuck around,” he says. “I think she’s worried you’re gone.”

  I frown, my hand on the keys in the ignition. That hadn’t even occurred to me, even though it’s technically true. I could just leave right now and forget this whole thing, but I don’t think anything’s ever appealed to me less.

  “She is?” I ask, starting the car.

  “It’s hard to tell, since we can’t really, you know, have actual conversations,” he admits. “But she knows you could leave if you wanted.”

  I swallow hard, because the thought’s almost physically painful. I got her into this. I’m here until the end.

  “Tell her I’m still in town,” I say quietly, both hands on the steering wheel. “And tell her I’m not leaving until I leave with her.”

  Zeke looks down at his coffee, and I think he’s smiling.

  “Got it,” he says.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Ruby

  I walk into the kitchen with a stack of dishes, and the moment I’m in the room, I take a deep breath. It’s only for a few seconds, but it’s the first time all day I’ve been alone in a room besides the bathroom. That, more than anything, is slowly driving me crazy.

  Well, and I’m trapped. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll get out.

  And I have no idea what’s become of Gabriel. I don’t know how to get in touch with him, whether he’s still in South Carolina, or whether he wants anything to do with me anymore.

  I think he does, and I want to trust him, but the reality is that I’ve got no clue. I don’t know shit about shit, locked in my bedroom like the worst kind of princess.

  I put the dishes in the sink and turn to go clear more off the table, but instead Zeke walks in, carrying a serving bowl and a gravy boat, and makes a face at me. I think it’s supposed to be subtle, and it is not.

  “Pantry,” he mutters under his breath, eyes wide as he nods his head toward the pantry, just for good measure.

  I head over, with him right behind me.

  “I was just wondering if we were out of bread flour,” he says, his voice a little too loud, and I roll my eyes.

  “Just chill,” I tell him, more than a little cranky.

  “Sorry,” he says, checking behind him one last time.

  Then he pulls something from his pocket and shoves it into my hand: a phone and a charger, the cord wrapped around it. Instantly I lift my shirt and shove it into my pantyhose, both of us on high alert, adrenaline and relief both prickling through me all at once.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. I feel ridiculous, but tears are coming to my eyes, tears of gratitude and love for this kid, the one who’s risking his own freedom by helping me.

  “It was Gabriel,” he whispers, raising both eyebrows urgently.

  My heart leaps in my chest.

  “The phone was?”

  Zeke nods and suddenly, I’m grinning like an idiot.

  “He found me and I told him you needed a — oh, he said he put his number in it,” he says, just as someone else walks into the kitchen. “And he said he’s not leaving town without you. YEAH, I THINK WE’RE OKAY FOR BREAD FLOUR, WE’VE GOT PLENTY.”

  I ignore my brother’s terrible, obvious acting and stay in the pantry for another moment, staring up at shelves. The lump of the phone inside my pantyhose is slowly getting warm, and I just stand there and feel it against my skin.

  It might work, I think, excitement and nervousness crackling through me. This might really actually work.

  Two hours later, I finally escape to the bathroom. There’s a guard outside my door, but I reach deep into my pantyhose and pull out the incredibly uncomfortable phone, which has slid straight into my crotch since it’s small and compact.

  It’s kind of hilariously appropriate, really.

  I sit on the toilet lid, totally clothed, and turn it on. I’m not particularly good at using smart phones, since I’ve never been allowed to have my own — shocker, I know — but in a couple of seconds I’ve opened my contacts.

  There’s just one number, and just looking at those stupid ten digits makes me smile, my heart lighting up like a bonfire. I didn’t really think he’d just leave, not after everything, but I didn’t know for sure and now I do.

  Me: Thanks for the phone. And for staying around.

  Me: I’m sorry you got dragged into this awful mess.

  Nothing happens. No answer, and I just stare at the phone for a long moment, practically willing it to text me back.

  What if he gave me the wrong number by accident?

  What if he changed his mind?

  What if Zeke is secretly screwing me over and I’m actually texting my father right now?

  The last one doesn’t make any sense, but it rattles my nerves anyway. I’m already a prisoner here, why the hell would my father need more evidence against me?

  I click the screen off, shake my head, and plug the phone into the wall since I won’t have a lot of chances to charge it. I’m sure Gabriel is in the shower, or has his phone off, or any one of a thousand other reasonable explanations that don’t involve him changing his mind between yesterday and today.

  I brush my teeth, wash my face, and use the bathroom as slowly as possible, deliberately dawdling so Gabriel can text me back.

  Then, just as I’m about to give up and shove it back into my crotch:

  Gabriel: I wouldn’t have left for the world.

  I make a fist with one hand and jam it to my mouth, because my eyes are filling with sudden tears. I feel like a dam just broke because of this one quick, sweet text, but I’ve never in my life been so glad to see tiny words on a little screen.

  Gabriel: I’m at the Super 8 off of Towson Road, east of town, and I’ve got a car with a full tank of gas.

  Gabriel: Zeke
said you had a plan, but if it fails, I can probably ram my car through the front gate of your house to rescue you.

  Me: Please don’t!

  Gabriel: I’ve always kind of wanted to.

  I bite my lips together, trying not to laugh. I think it’s the first time I’ve actually wanted to laugh in days, and I’m sitting on a closed toilet with a guard outside, staring at a phone.

  Me: I have a plan, but I’m afraid they’ll find this phone.

  Gabriel: Gotcha.

  Gabriel: Just tell me what I can do. Anything.

  Gabriel: I mean that. Anything, Ruby.

  Me: I will.

  Outside the bathroom door, there’s a shuffling sound as my guard moves around. I can virtually hear him hesitate nervously before he finally knocks, the sound hollow and timid.

  “You okay in there?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I’ll just be one more minute!” I call.

  He shuffles away.

  Me: I gotta go.

  Gabriel: Anything. I swear.

  I don’t know what to say to that, because it makes me feel warm and fuzzy and a little lost and adrift all at once, because if I’ve done something to deserve Gabriel, I don’t know what it was.

  Me: Thanks.

  It doesn’t feel like enough words, or like the right words, but I can hear my new guard shuffling his feet around outside the bathroom so I decide to find the right words later. I grab the charger and the phone, shove them both deep into my pantyhose, and step out of the bathroom.

  “Sorry,” I tell the guard, batting my eyelashes through my best fake-innocent smile. “You know how us girls are in the bathroom, always taking forever.”

  His face is half amused, half terrified, like I’m about to say the word menstruation and then he’d have to raise the alarm.

  “No problem, just making sure you’re safe,” he says.

  Safe. Sure.

  “Perfectly fine,” I say, and walk to my new bedroom, the guard two steps behind me.

  And then, I bide my time for a day. It’s not so my father lets his guard down; the man has plenty of problems, but being dumb isn’t one of them. It’s for my new guards, and for Pearl, who’s basically written I told you so on her forehead.

  But finally, two days later, I’m lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Since for once I’m not wearing pantyhose, for the time being the phone is jammed into the side of my underwear, and I’m lying perfectly still, willing myself to get out of bed and finish this plan.

  Pearl rolls over in her sleep, and Joy sighs, flopping one foot out from under her covers. There’s a thin yellow line underneath the door, and I wonder whether my current guard is sitting there. Maybe he got up to pee, maybe he’s taking a break because it’s past midnight and he thinks we’re all asleep.

  Just try that way one more time, I think, still motionless in my bed. Sneak out and call Gabriel, there’s no reason to practically burn everything down, to alienate almost everyone you’ve ever loved...

  The plan’s not actually arson, but it might be worse.

  I don’t move. I know I can’t sneak out, because I tried. The first night and the second night that I was trapped here, I tried, and it didn’t work either time. The guards all think they’re here for my safety, and they are very diligent.

  I take a deep breath. I sit up in my bed, long flannel nightgown rustling around me.

  Pearl and Joy don’t move, and slowly, I put my feet over the side of the bed, seeking out the hardwood floor, standing as quietly as I can. They don’t wake up.

  I cross the room to our closet, open the door, get in, close the door. It’s small and uncomfortable, but at least in here the light of the phone’s screen won’t wake my sisters up.

  I turn it on, open the email program, take a deep breath, and start typing the email I’ve been planning for days. It’s got a long and varied list of recipients, each of whom took me several bathroom trips each to find.

  The Huffington Post. Politico. Time. Newsweek. The politics desk at the New York Times; a reporter at CNN my father is always complaining about; the Washington Post’s Capitol Hill beat. Then, smaller markets: the Huntsburg local news, the Huntsburg Sentinel-Star, all the Charleston papers and TV reporters.

  This is the nuclear option, because this email has everything. It’s got my current predicament, being held prisoner by my father, a United States Senator who just happens to be currently running for re-election; it’s got the cult-like police-state my family lives in; it’s got my coerced marriage at nineteen; it’s got Lucas’s forced “heterosexualization.”

  In short, it’s got everything that my father doesn’t want the voters to see, all the ugly things he hides behind his facade of “old-fashioned American values” and “return to morality.”

  I include pictures. There’s one of my father that I sneaked yesterday, reading the paper, just to prove I am who I say I am. There’s one of my driver’s license, one of the guard outside my room. If I were a reporter I’d still be skeptical, but with all this, I’d at least ask some questions.

  Before I hit send, I text Gabriel again. I want to warn him but I don’t even know how, because it’s not like I know what the fallout from a nuclear bomb will be.

  Me: You awake?

  Gabriel: I am now.

  I pause, suddenly unsure of how to tell him all this information.

  Me: Are you still in?

  Gabriel: Of course I am, stop asking that.

  Me: I’m about to send a really long, detailed email to the press about my father, and I have no idea what’s going to happen. I’m only pretty sure that he’ll have no choice but to prove I’m not being held prisoner in my own home, and I’m also pretty sure he won’t order anyone to tackle his own daughter in public.

  Me: Voters hate that, you know. But I don’t know what’s going to happen, or when, or where, and I’m pretty sure this phone is going to get taken away.

  Gabriel: Do what you have to.

  Gabriel: I’ve got this.

  Me: I wish I could tell you more.

  Me: But I don’t know what’s going to happen.

  Gabriel: I do.

  Me: ?

  Gabriel: I’m gonna rescue you and we’ll ride off into the sunset together.

  It’s so cheesy, and I know it is, but tears spring to my eyes anyway. For all that I’ve told him time and time again I don’t want to be rescued, right now I don’t care. I’ve got someone on my side, and that’s what matters.

  Gabriel wants to drive me into the sunset? Fine with me.

  Me: I hope your version happens.

  Gabriel: It will.

  Gabriel: There’s always driving my car through the gates. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that option.

  Sitting in the closet, I grin like an idiot.

  Me: I hope you don’t have to.

  Gabriel: I kinda hope I do.

  Gabriel: Send the email. Get some sleep. And don’t worry.

  Me: Thanks. I’m trying.

  I take a deep breath and go back to the email. Out in the bedroom, I can hear one of my sisters mutter in her sleep, and suddenly, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.

  If I do this to my father, what will it do to them?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Gabriel

  My thumb hovers over the SEND button on my phone, and I stare at the tiny, blueish screen, suddenly uncertain about the text I’m about to send.

  It’s dead quiet in the Super 8, the orange glow of the parking lot lights leaking around the edges of the blackout curtains. The only other light is my phone, this text I’m suddenly not sure I should send.

  I want to send it. I haven’t seen Ruby in days, haven’t gotten to talk to her, to be with her through this hell, even though I’d do anything.

  But as much as I really do want to drive my car through the front gates of the mansion, punch my way through a couple guards, rescue Ruby, and drive off with her, I know that’s not what would happen. I’m o
utnumbered ten-to-one, for starters, and I don’t think getting myself arrested for trespassing would do Ruby any favors.

  If it would, I’d be in jail already. Lock me up.

  Don’t tell her now, like this. Tell her in person when you see her again.

  Slowly, the urge passes, and I delete the words I love you.

  Sleep’s a joke. I try it for another hour, staring at the faded stains in the ceiling of this hotel room, but there’s no way I’m going to fall asleep tonight so after a while I get up, turn on some lights, and sit at the desk in my boxers.

  Politics and PR has never been my strong suit, but I lived in DC for a couple of years, and I got a pretty good first-hand view of it. The married congresswoman I slept with was a master of it, at least until she got caught with me.

  I close my eyes, phone in my hands, and try to remember anything she told me, but it’s not like we did a lot of talking. If we had, maybe I’d have gotten out of there earlier, though probably not.

  Get out ahead of the story, I can almost hear her saying, into her phone. Control the narrative.

  I rub my eyes and try to figure out how on earth the Senator is going to try to control the narrative. He’ll probably have a press conference. That’s politics 101.

  And he’ll probably try to find a way to keep Ruby from appearing, or at the very least from speaking. He can control lots of things, but he can’t control what comes out of her mouth when there are cameras around.

  I sigh.

  Great, so he’ll have a press conference and keep her locked away for a while.

  God, I’m bad at this part.

  I wind up spending an hour setting up alerts for every iteration of the Senator’s and Ruby’s names that I can think of. By now I’m just waiting for the news to hit, pacing back and forth in my hotel room, glancing at my phone every thirty seconds. The sun starts to come up outside, and the pale yellow light starts leaking through the curtains.