Sweet Abduction

by Sasha Gold

  I want another wedding dress pic.

  Ha! No way.

  Then have dinner w me on Sat.

  He doesn’t ask me this very often. In the time we’ve been secretly texting, he’s mentioned dinner just a few times. I admit that I’m madly in love, but I can’t imagine that he returns the sentiment. If anything he wants to take me out just to show he can. To flip the middle finger at my family.

  I text him back. I’ll have dinner if you quit fighting.

  Give me 3 good reasons. Over dinner.

  Three good reasons? I only need one. Getting your bell rung isn’t good for your brain. I think about Dad’s vacant gaze and I shudder. I’d do anything to keep Riley out of the ring. Suddenly the playful texts feel like so much more.

  My phone vibrates. I’m taking my next step.

  We never text this much. I should tell him I can’t do this now, but I want to know about his next step. He always has one. The only thing I can say for sure is that his next step will make him money. He’s Midas. His next step probably involves a Fortune Five Hundred company asking him to be a spokesperson.

  He already represents a sports drink, a line of running shoes and a brand of tequila… tequila, of all things. I like the tequila ad the best because he’s in a tuxedo. Riley’s gorgeous in my opinion, but he devastates in a tux. Usually, when a jock poses in an ad, he’s got women hanging all over him. Not Riley. Always, he stands alone in the pictures. He gazes into the camera, his eyes smoldering, his smile sexy as sin, making me imagine it’s all for me.

  I haven’t seen him in three years. What would it cost me to slip away one evening and have dinner with him? My house has been in complete chaos since my father died. Our family went from planning a funeral to planning a wedding. The whole thing is obscene. After watching my father decline and fade away I’m nothing more than a shell.

  I just want to stare out the window and do nothing, but I’m having to hold it together to run endless wedding errands. If I miss a detail or forget something Charlotte and my stepmother end up in screaming matches and my brother accuses me of sitting on my ass all day. I feel weak. Fragile. Like I can’t stand up to anyone. The idea of being near him makes my heart flip.

  I text him, hesitating a moment and then sending the message. When?

  Ugh. My text sounds so pitiful but he’s the only person that would entice me to break the rules. I’m risking a lot by offering to meet him.

  A week after the funeral I returned to the graveside just to be alone and grieve. Seeing Dad’s headstone beside Mom’s felt like getting hit by a brick. I sort of broke down and ended up hunched over my father’s headstone. Someone recognized Anderson Mathew’s daughter having a public meltdown, took a picture and posted it online. It went viral and Miranda didn’t speak to me for a week.

  It’s pathetic. Friends in school told me I need to stand up for myself, and stop letting people walk all over me. My stepmother won’t discuss any inheritance I might have. I’m stuck and I don’t want to be stuck anymore.

  I text him back. My thumbs feel clumsy and I have to correct each word at least twice. I hear Charlotte calling. A drop of sweat slides down my spine. He still hasn’t responded and for some stupid reason that emboldens me.

  How about Saturday?

  Yes

  That’s all he writes and sensing the finality of his message I slip my phone into my bag and try to imagine all the terrible outcomes. Before I can roll through every awful scenario, I’m summoned.

  Charlotte's voice rings out in the shop. “Leah!”

  I close my eyes and shake my head. Instead of running to find her I wander to the front door and look out the window. Lewis, my family’s driver, is waiting at the curb with the Escalade. He’s worked for my family since before I was born and sometimes tells me stories about my mother. He holds out his hands in a “what gives?” gesture.

  I grimace and sway on my feet, trying to play-act extreme suffering.

  He grins and points to the car as if offering me escape.

  If I told Lewis about having dinner with Riley he’d probably high five me, not because he likes Riley. He doesn’t know him, but I think he doesn’t like Miranda. None of the household staff like her. I won’t tell him. I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be my delicious secret.

  “Leah!” Charlotte calls.

  Her voice is getting nearer and I hear her stomping footsteps. Lewis watches me, waiting for more of my antics. With a grimace, I claw the glass and then play-act trying to wrench the door open. Lewis laughs and shakes his head. He’s a little tired of all the wedding stuff too.

  Charlotte barrels around the corner wearing yet another dress. “There you are! I was sure you’d left. Not that I would blame you. I need something to eat. I’m feeling faint. Take the car and get me something. Please. I’m begging. Anything at this point. Sushi would be perfect.”

  “Sushi?” The bridal salon is on the edge of a commercial district but I can’t imagine where I’ll find sushi.

  She rolls her eyes and starts scrolling through her phone. “Shit. Why do I have to do everything? Okay, there’s sushi two miles from here. I’m sending you the number along with my order. Make sure they give you brown rice too. Make sure it’s long grain and Sumatran.”

  Waving her hand like she’s swatting a fly she lets out a huff of indignation. “Go, go, before I pass out.”

  I salute and push out the door, making my escape. Lewis has the car running and the door open for me. A moment later we’re off in pursuit of sushi for the princess.

  Chapter Two

  Leah

  Several days pass with no word from Riley. Was I dreaming when I agreed to our dinner on Saturday night? Friday rolls around and I’m so nervous I mess up the fundraising newsletter Miranda needs for the Veterans Benefit. Fortunately, I catch the error before she does.

  Charlotte and Dane are coming over for dinner. As I get ready for dinner, Riley sends me a text saying he can’t wait to see me and that he has a surprise. I fix my hair and my make-up and float downstairs on a cloud of sweet anticipation. I sit at the table just as the cook serves the first course.

  Charlotte pours me a glass of wine and winks at me. She’s probably already had a couple.

  “Look at you, gorgeous girl,” she says, eyeing my outfit. “Love those heels. Rawr!”

  This is the Charlotte I love. Sweet. Effusive. No filter. She likes her wine but when she has dinner at our house she always has a little more than usual. So does Miranda and each one probably blames it on the other.

  When Miranda married my father one of the first things she did was insist that we eat in the dining room. I was only ten at the time, and the dining room always intimidated me even though I’d lived in the house since I was born. My father never used the dining room, even the few times he had company. We always ate in the kitchen at the old farm table.

  Everything about the enormous room, from the table that seats twenty to the massive crystal chandeliers, seems unwelcoming. Suddenly there were rules for eating. Food was eaten in a certain order with assigned utensils. Not like the kitchen where sometimes we didn’t even use silverware.

  Miranda scoffed at the idea of sitting in the kitchen. Cooks prepared the food in the kitchen and eating at the rustic table was beneath her. She expected to see crisply ironed linen tablecloths, glittering silverware and delicate china when she sat down to dine. It was also paramount that people dress properly for dinner. When I was ten that meant getting out of my school uniform and donning a dress. I still dress for dinner. It’s expected. No yoga pants. A pencil skirt, cashmere sweater set and heels.

  We eat with Dane and Charlotte every Friday. As we sit at the table, I can see the effort it costs Miranda. She wears a mask of restraint, and I might be the only one who knows underneath she’s seething. Miranda thinks Charlotte’s an idiot and if she’d had her druthers she’d have arranged a marriage between Dane and someone with a smidgeon of social relevancy. She would never say that publicly, of cour
se. When friends ask about the wedding, Miranda says she’s “thrilled” and thinks Charlotte is “darling”.

  As dinner progresses, I feel my bravado wavering. Miranda has ways of getting even before you even realize she’s angry. I try to distract myself by listening to Charlotte’s monologue. She always carries on blithely unconcerned whether anyone’s listening.

  Charlotte’s father is a doctor. Many would award her points for that, but, from Miranda’s perspective, he is, sadly, only a pediatrician. Worse, he’s a doctor that flies off to third world countries. He works in clinics, threadbare tents, caring for grubby children. For Miranda, his work is worthy of a mention, but hardly suitable for sustained conversation.

  I remember when Charlotte first shared the details of her father’s work. Miranda looked at Charlotte like she was confessing her father cheated on his taxes or wore white after Labor Day. Charlotte might be bananas and a hypochondriac, but she’s got a big heart when it comes to her father’s work. She can hardly talk about it without choking up.

  Charlotte’s an only child. Both her parents adore her and she’s crazy about them. She’s the type of person who grows on you, a bewildering mixture of clueless and shrewd. Picky, totally high-maintenance, but not pretentious. She’s kind but no pushover.

  The first time I witnessed an argument between Miranda and Charlotte it was over the wedding gown. Miranda wanted something custom made. An original. Charlotte waved that idea off. She told Miranda she was only going to wear the damn thing once. She was more interested in the music and food and that there would be fun stuff for kids. Like a clown and a juggler. Funny, because when it came down to it, Charlotte spent half a day trying on gowns and really wasn’t happy with any of them. I’m sure she’s feeling Miranda’s pressure.

  Before that argument over the dress, I’m sure Miranda had imagined some sedate, elegant evening affair. String quartets. Waiters in tuxedos and white gloves. An evening without children. She gave in, though. They compromised. Children welcome, jugglers not.

  Miranda’s plan for her son is for him to be mayor by the time he’s forty, governor before fifty and President sometime after that. When she married my father she wasted no time making sure Dad adopted him… Dane Mathews has more power than Dane Filbert.

  Mirada sent him off to the east coast to private school and Yale Law School. She’s never forgiven him for not getting engaged to some New England blue blood. I think the minute Dane’s married to Charlotte, he’s going to do his best to keep her happy. Even though he’s mildly irritating at best, he’s coming around. He was very close to Dad. Adored him. For that alone he’s earned a soft spot in my heart.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I imagine it’s Riley. He’s going to make sure I’m not backing out. Getting a text rattles me. I’m sitting just a few feet from my stepmother. I really should cancel on him. Sitting here with my family has my bravado melting. This is silly. I ask myself what’s the point of having dinner with him. I should have a glass of wine, maybe two, and then I’ll text him that I can’t make it. I need a good excuse and I’m trying to think of something that doesn’t sound stupid.

  The best one I can think of is that I don’t want to rock the boat before Dane and Charlotte’s wedding. I’ll tell him I can see him in a few months. Maybe. I want to see him so badly it hurts, but I’m terrified too. For so many reasons. The idea fills me with a strange mixture of fear, and excitement, and arousal.

  Dane chuckles and the sound draws me from my thoughts. He’s reading something on his phone.

  “That shit, Riley Tarrant, almost got himself arrested last week.” Dane sets his phone aside and gives me a triumphant look.

  His words send a chill through my heart. I wonder if I look guilty since I’ve hardly been able to think of anything other than Riley.

  “Not him again.” Charlotte rolls her eyes. “Dane’s fascinated with that guy. Let it go, honey. He’s got nothing on you.”

  Miranda waves her hand. “Really, Dane. Your preoccupation with Riley is juvenile. You work for the District Attorney. Riley gets paid to be an animal, knocking men unconscious. Why would you be jealous?”

  Dane scowls. “I’m not jealous, Mother. I think it’s amusing he can’t hold it together.”

  Once Dane confronted me, asking me about my feelings for Riley. He said Riley had mentioned something about the girl of his dreams being a redhead. Some journalist quoted him and Dane acted like I was being disloyal and had said as much. Like it was my fault Riley likes redheads. I was pretty certain Riley had said it just to get a rise out of Dane.

  “What did he do?” I school my tone to try to sound neutral, and I think I sound pretty convincing.

  “He threatened some fight promoter,” Dane said with thinly veiled scorn. “The guy dropped the charges. He’s going into early retirement to spend more time with his family.”

  “Riley probably paid him off.” Charlotte shrugs. “I’m sure he’s loaded, what with the fighting and commercials and billboards. He’s probably even making a fortune from his YouTube channel. If I had that kind of money and some jerk pestering me I’d just pay him off.”

  My skin prickles with discomfort. I keep my attention on my dinner, unthinkingly cutting pieces of chicken and moving them around the plate.

  “That fucker gets paid to show up at parties,” Dane says.

  It’s true. Riley does get paid to show up at parties. He has a house north of town somewhere, no one really knows where, but he jets off to events in Los Angeles and New York. I’ve seen pictures of him in Tokyo and Sydney too. He’s elusive, but he turns up everywhere.

  “He’s one of those empty-headed celebrities who’s famous for being famous,” Dane adds.

  Charlotte scoffs. “Don’t forget he’s gorgeous. And a cage fighter. Or whatever you call them.”

  I turn to her and give her a pointed look. Dane’s going to go into orbit if she keeps praising Riley. Riley Tarrant is one subject that makes him furious. How can she be engaged to him and not know this?

  “His face is disgusting with all those scars.” Dane grimaces.

  “Riiiight,” Charlotte says. “That’s why he models. I saw him in an ad for Italian suits the other day. He sure filled it out nicely. How tall is he anyway? Like six four or something like that. I don’t remember. Do you know Leah? You knew him once didn’t you?”

  “Leah knew him,” Dane says softly. “How tall was lover boy?”

  “That was a long time ago,” I say. “I haven’t seen him in three years.”

  “Ohmigod, Leah!” Charlotte squeals. “Did you sleep with him?” She bows her head in mock reverence. “I’m so unworthy!”

  Inside, something, my dignity maybe, is curling up into the fetal position. “No, no, no. Nothing like that happened. Ever. He never touched me.”

  Charlotte rolls her eyes. “Tell me later,” she yell-whispers. She pours more wine into her glass, sloshing some onto the linen and lifts her glass to me.

  I dart a glance at Dane to see if he’s fuming. Other than his love for my father I don’t get along great with him, but I still worry about him. He’s had some rough patches. There was a time where I was sure he was not only abusing alcohol but maybe something harder. He works really hard. I think he knows Miranda’s timeline for him and I envision him either achieving her dreams or crashing and burning badly.

  He’s devoted to Charlotte, though, and that’s changing him. He’s happier and I think it’s because she keeps him in line. The first time we met for drinks, he had a few shots and said something mildly insulting to her. She told him that it was always the man’s job to be the designated driver so he was done drinking for the night. She smacked him, called him a douche bag and ordered herself another pinot, all in one breath.

  Miranda fingers the strand of pearls around her neck and frowns. “Riley Tarrant’s a thug.”

  “Obviously,” Charlotte scoffs. “That’s pretty clear, Miranda. Kinda think that’s a requirement to being a cage fighter. ”
<
br />   A quiet chill settles over the table and I try to keep from showing any amusement. Charlotte has a way of talking to Miranda that radiates zero shit-taking. It’s like two titans of entitlement going at it. Bridezilla vs. Megawitch. The interchange is hard to watch, but impossible to ignore.

  “But you know,” Charlotte goes on. “Women like thugs.”

  I’m never sure if she’s aware of her effect. She just prattles on about whatever damn thing passes through her mind and assumes everyone finds it enlightening and riveting.

  “I have a theory about that,” she says.

  I jab my fork into a chunk of chicken. “I want to hear all about it.” Okay, I’m a bitch too.

  “Actually, it’s Daddy’s theory.” Charlotte takes a gulp of wine. “Hmm… I might have this theory mixed up.”

  “No…really?” Miranda says lifting her wine to her lips.

  Charlotte ignores the dig. “Daddy has a lot of theories. I’ll ask him about his thug theory.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Miranda rises from her chair.

  Charlotte notices that Miranda is about to leave the table. “Wait, don’t leave. We need to have a family meeting.”

  Miranda gives Dane an arctic glare. “What is this about?”

  But Dane looks as surprised as I probably do. I mentally check off all the possibilities. She’s not pregnant. I know that because last week she had her cycle and over-shared her woes with every person we ran into. Nothing has gone wrong with any of the vendors because they would have called me. I haven’t squared away any of the details because the wedding is still months away, but I have them booked. Dane is in charge of the honeymoon, so there’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.

  “My dad asked me to go with him to Mexico. He’s taking a team of six doctors, and he needs a translator. Aaaaand I told him, yes!”

  Dane’s jaw drops and when he recovers he tries to ask, ‘when’ but all that comes out is a ‘whe’ sound.

  “It’s just for five days, Dane. Don’t be mad. My father doesn’t speak a word of Spanish.”