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1027 Words
I also don’t want to think about what it means that my kidnapper has turned into my protector. My head isn’t equipped to handle that particular mindfuck just yet.
There are a million different things I want to say, things that would make so much more sense, but what comes out of my mouth surprises us both.
“Thank you.”
There isn’t a word to describe his expression. Maybe boggled.
“What?”
“I said thank you. If what you just told me is true, you saved my life. I owe you one.”
He stares at me like I’m an alien who just landed on his lawn and informed him I needed his kidneys or an entire race of intelligent beings in some distant galaxy would die.
I make my voice stronger. “I’m not saying that to make you angry.”
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay. So.”
“So.”
We stare at each other. I’m aware of every inch of skin on my body. My stomach takes the opportunity to emit a loud rumble into the awkward silence.
“You need food.” Declan shakes his head as if the realization makes him irritated with himself for not thinking of it sooner.
“Yes. Please.”
“Anything else?”
When I hesitate, he says, “I’ll let your girlfriend know you’re safe.”
I don’t understand this polite, protective kidnapper. What happened to the growling jerk? “Thank you. Again. But that’s not what I was thinking.”
He can see I’m uncomfortable. He lifts his brows, waiting.
“I need toiletries. Girl things.”
“Just text me a list. I’ll get whatever you need.”
My surprise is so great, I can’t hold it in. “You’ll buy me tampons?”
His mouth does something strange. Is he trying not to smile?
“No. I’ll send Kieran.”
“Not Kieran.”
“Why not?”
“I’m trying to get on his good side.”
“Because?”
“There’s nothing that hurts a man’s pride like being seen as weak in front of his friends. I don’t want to embarrass him more than I already have.”
Declan does his head tilt thing that he does whenever he’s really looking at me. His eyes are penetrating. Examining. Knowing.
It makes me flustered. “I might need to make him fall in love with me and break me out of here, okay? Jesus.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Okay.”
Then he sighs heavily, rakes a hand through his hair, and seems to gather himself. Standing taller and smoothing a hand over his tie, he squares his shoulders and sets his jaw.
It strikes me that he doesn’t want to go back outside.
Not because he wants to stay with me, but because whatever or whoever is waiting for him, he’s dreading it.
When he turns to go, I say impulsively, “Hey. Gangster.”
He turns back, his smile faint. “Aye, lass?”
“You got this.”
He frowns a little, not understanding.
“You heard me. Whatever you’re about to go do, you’re gonna do great. Just take a deep breath and remember who the f**k you are.”
Looking stunned, he repeats faintly, “Remember…?”
“That’s what I always tell myself when I’m not feeling one hundred percent. Remember who you are.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to ask, but curiosity gets the better of him. “And who are you?”
“The only one of me who ever has been or ever will be. Same as you. In a word: irreplaceable.”
His lips part. He gazes at me for a long, silent moment. “You were dropped on your head a lot as a baby. That’s it, isn’t it?”
I have to smile at the depth of his astonishment. “No. There was no dropping. I was the middle kid, so I was mostly just ignored. But I did learn to be my own cheerleader, and you know what? The more you try to believe in yourself, the more you actually do. Your mental self-talk is very powerful. You have to keep it positive. So just go out there, say to yourself, ‘I got this,’ and believe it. You’ll be fine.”
Now he looks angry. “You’re giving me a pep talk?”
“You look like you could use one.”
He says flatly, “You’re not from this planet.”
“Thank you.”
Irritated by my smile, his old glare-that-could-melt-steel returns. Muttering something under his breath, he turns around, yanks open the door, and walks out, slamming the door shut behind him.
8
Declan
N
ot even ten minutes later, the texts start.
I’m sorry I annoy you so much.
When I ignore that one, she sends another.
Okay, “sorry” might be a stretch. Here’s the list of stuff I need.
She sends a list so long, I regret giving her the phone. The list includes specific items of clothing, makeup, toiletries, and food. Organic food, to be exact, exotic things I’ve never heard of with names like rambutan, cherimoya, and aguaje. Plus four different varieties of kale.
There’s a pause of no more than five minutes, then the texts start up again with only a few moments lapsing between each one.
Did you let Natalie know I’m okay yet? I’m worried about her.
Is Sean alive? I didn’t see him get out of the limo. I’m worried about him, too.
Why is there no television in your bedroom?
There are suit makers other than Armani, you know.
Remember: you got this.
I finally have to turn off the ringer because everyone keeps looking at me strangely. I’m standing in a room full of thirty Irish mobsters who came to pay their respects, and my phone is blowing up like some teenager’s in the midst of an emotional meltdown.
I text back, YOU’RE NOT TALKING TO ME, REMEMBER?
She sends back a middle finger emoji.
I can’t f*****g believe this is my life.
- Writer
