Except I’m past sitting. I’m past waiting and relaxing. I’ve forged my life out of pain, out of doing whatever it took to protect my family. That same violence will always follow me like a shadow.
I take the back of her head in my hand, threading my fingers through her thick hair and stare into her eyes. I kiss her then, tasting the sweetness of her lips and the heat of her tongue as it shyly flicks against mine.
“I would’ve kept things like this,” I say. “I would’ve. If I had a choice.”
She gives me a strange look, but doesn’t understand. All the better that she doesn’t. I take her into my arms and hold her, hating myself more than I ever have, because my choice has already been made, because I took her in the most intimate way and I knew all along that I could never keep her, not in the way I long to.
5
Neela
We slip out of the manager’s office fully dressed, but probably looking like we just went through a hurricane. I clear my throat, trying to smooth my hair a little. Just like when the two people made a scene over losing their table to us, everybody is trying very hard not to look in our direction. I’m fairly sure I was moaning loud enough against the door that half the restaurant was probably aware of what was happening, but that feels like a distant worry, like something the normal me would think about.
I’ve stepped into another role tonight. It’s another version of myself that doesn’t have to run every decision through a magnifying glass. So far, I like this side of me, and I like Enzo even more for freeing it.
“Come this way,” he says, leading me back through the kitchens.
I follow him, clasping onto his hand as we walk into the back of the restaurant. I let him carry me deeper into what feels like a dream, both temporary and unreal, as if focusing in on any one detail would shatter the illusion and send me back to my normal life.
“Hungry?” he asks.
My stomach feels painfully empty, now that he mentions it. “Starving.” I barely touched my food at the coffee shop earlier. Wow. The coffee shop. It already feels like that was days ago, but it was only this afternoon. I was trying to resist going on this date because… why? Because I was so sure I didn’t need a man to make myself happy? That may be true, but it doesn’t mean I have to push away a man who might add to my happiness.
Besides, my life before was a comfortable, easy sort of happy. I went to work, did my job, followed my routine, and knew there were no surprises. With Enzo’s hand swallowing mine up, I can feel the rush of not knowing what’s behind the next corner. It’s a new kind of future, and I’m feeling more willing to step into it by the minute, so long as he’ll let me.
The cooks in the kitchens show the same wariness the man who seated us showed. All around us, cooks duck their heads and try to look so absorbed in their work that they don’t notice us.
Enzo slams a palm down on the table beside a cook who can't be past his mid-twenties. The sudden harsh sound makes me straighten and look at Enzo, who wears an expression I haven't seen on him yet. He doesn't seem to be one for easy smiles by any means, but the stern look on his face isn't the same one he studied me with. It's not the look that hides a promise of so many dirty, dark things I could tell he wanted to do to me. It's just… Cruel? Frustrated? I can’t put my finger on it, but now that I think about it, he has seemed tense and almost rigid since we left the small office.
Whatever emotion I see in his eyes, it doesn't feel right. I may hardly know him, but Enzo didn't strike me as a cruel man. Crude, yes. Blunt, definitely. But he seems kind and caring in his own, deliberate sort of way. Not now though.
“Food. Quickly.”
The man snags a plate of fettuccine noodles in a cream sauce from the expo line and sets it down on the prep table in front of us, pulling his hand away and squeezing his fingers. The plate must’ve been hot, but he didn’t even take the time to grab a towel to protect himself. Enzo gives the man a long, hard look before motioning for me to eat.
“Right here?” I ask.
Enzo looks back at me, and for a moment, I want to shrink away from the anger and promise of violence I can see in his features. He softens his expression for me almost immediately. “We have somewhere to be. I’m sorry. Just eat enough so you won’t be hungry and I’ll get you something else in half an hour when we’re at my place.”
“Oh,” I say quickly. “I have work in the morning. I wasn’t—”
He silences me with a look, then touches my cheek and gives me a sad sort of half-smile. “Go on, eat something. I don’t want you to be hungry.”
I smile back uncertainly, feeling self-conscious to eat while he just waits beside me and the cooks work around us like we’re not in the middle of their fancy kitchen. My aching stomach forces me over my shyness, and I dig in. Enzo can be gorgeous all he wants, but at the end of the day, there’s not much that’s going to come between me and good food—and there's no mistake about it, this food is good. I started off telling myself I'd exercise some self-control and only eat a couple bites. I could let Enzo think I was some dainty girly girl who ate like a bird, at least for a few dates. Unfortunately, my bottomless pit of a stomach has other plans.
It’s only five minutes later when I realize I’m scraping up some of the sauce with the side of my fork and licking it clean, not a single noodle left on the plate. I look up to Enzo with flushed cheeks.
He only smirks and uses a napkin from a pile of rolled silverware to wipe something off my chin. “It’s refreshing to see a woman who isn’t afraid to eat.”
I study my feet. Is that supposed to be a compliment?
“It’s a compliment,” he says easily, as if reading my mind. “You’d be amazed how many women I’ve met that’ll just take a bite of lettuce and pretend they’re full.” He runs a hand down my side and takes a squeeze of my ass, uncaring of how many people are around us. “A bite of lettuce here and there can’t make a body like this.”
I chew the corner of my lip, feeling the most wonderful thrill spread through me. I’ve never been the kind of woman to draw compliments from men. Maybe the guys I work with are too intimidated by my position as the veterinarian to feel comfortable hitting on me, or maybe it’s just that I make almost no effort to get myself out there on the dating scene. “You must eat well, too,” I say. The words come out of me so rushed and awkward that I actually cringe. “I swear, I am not this bad at talking normally. It’s your fault.” I look at him meaningfully, wondering if he understands the full implication of my words.
He barks a laugh, but the humor in his face quickly fades, as if a thought occurs to him that sours his mood. “We should go,” he says suddenly.
I’m reminded that he still thinks I’m coming home with him. I don’t think I can bring myself to do it. Being with him tonight was like riding a rollercoaster for the first time. It was the most exciting and amazing thing I’ve ever done, but to get back in line and do it again right away? No… I think I need a night by myself to let everything that just happened sink in and make sense.
“I appreciate everything,” I say. “But really, I shouldn’t. I have work and I can’t stay out late.”
Something passes over his face as he watches me, like storm clouds suddenly casting shadows. “I insist,” he says tightly.
I laugh nervously. “Really, I can’t…”
He flexes his jaw and takes me by the arm. “Come on. Let me just show you something, then.”
My heart starts to beat faster, breaths coming quick and ragged as I’m half-dragged through the kitchens toward the back door, which leads outside to a parking lot where the dumpsters sit.
A thousand things nearly come from my mouth, but they all tangle together into a thick knot in my throat that seems to paralyze my tongue, making me mute. I don’t want to make a fool of myself and beg him to let me go like he’s about to murder me, but what if he really is planning something horrible? Then it’s not going to matter how much you beg him to let you go.
It feels
like I have mental whiplash. One minute, I'm going on a blind date. The next, I'm actually enjoying myself. And now I'm in a hopeless tailspin, trying in vain to get my bearings as he drags me farther and farther from the restaurant. I try to control my breathing and get my mind working correctly while he continues leading me to the back of the building. There's an SUV idling in a parking spot with the lights on ahead of us. I see two dark shadows in the front and possibly one in the middle. My survival instinct finally kicks in, sending me into a kind of mental overdrive that slows down time.
Something is seriously wrong. All the subtle clues I saw throughout the night now come together in a single picture. He’s been planning something all night, something he wasn’t looking forward to, maybe.
I force myself to stop worrying about his side of things and focus instead on what I can do to help myself. He’s twice my size, impossibly strong, and he’s almost definitely planning on taking me into that car and not letting me go. I’m a freaking doctor, though. I can think of something, even if he is stronger than me. Right?
A sloppy idea forms, but I don’t have time to run through the possible pitfalls, or even much beyond the first few steps, because we’re so close to the SUV now that I can see our reflection in the glossy chrome grill.
As carefully as I can, I sling my purse away from me and into the bushes a few feet to my right. I try to time its landing, counting to two in my head before I let my ankle buckle and let out a loud “Ow!” I still hear the distant crinkle of bushes giving way as my purse lands on them, but my distraction seems to work on Enzo, who stops to look down my ankle. Even with whatever he’s planning, he still looks concerned. He kneels, hand still gripping my wrist and feels at my ankle with his free hand. “Looks alright,” he grumbles, but still takes one more glance at it. “You okay?”
“Wait,” I say. “My purse. Shit.”
He frowns. “What?”
“I think I left it back in there. In the manager’s office where we…”
He takes a look back toward the restaurant, considering for a moment. Come on. Just assume I haven’t started to suspect anything weird. Walk me back in there to get the purse. Let me have a chance to yell for help. Or maybe just stand here long enough so that somebody comes out to the parking lot.
He looks between me and the car doubtfully, still trying to decide for a few moments before he finally starts dragging me toward the car again. “My purse,” I say quickly. “It has my inhaler.” I realize with a twist of fear that my little plan may backfire in the worst way. I really do have asthma, even if it’s too mild to ever be life-threatening, but my phone really was in my purse, too. If I don’t get it back, I may have just thrown away my only real lifeline. Maybe I would’ve had a chance to sneak off a text, even just a single letter to make someone start wondering what was going on. Then again, I doubt he’d have let me keep my purse if he really wanted to… what? What do I even think he’s going to do? What if he really does just want to take me to his place?
No. Trying to deny the truth isn’t going to help me. I can see the silhouettes in the car. He wouldn’t have people waiting for us in the car if this was innocent. He wouldn’t have flipped some sort of personality switch, turned into an asshole, and dragged me out here, either.
He pulls me again toward the idling car where the shadows of men wait, his mouth tight in an angry line. He yanks the door open and ushers me into the back. The men look at him with exasperated expressions, as if he owes them some kind of explanation, but he only jabs a finger at them. “No one lays a single hand on her. Not a finger. Got it?” His voice cuts through the small space like a knife, and the effect it has on the other men is visible. They shrink back, averting their eyes until he slams the door and walks quickly back toward the restaurant.
Once Enzo is out of sight, the driver turns around to look at me. He’s handsome—they all are, in their own ways. The driver’s face is clean-shaven and he has a youthful, strong intensity to his features. I’d put him at twenty-five, maybe a little older, and he has dirty blond hair that is messy and unkempt with soft brown eyes. “Just stay calm,” he says. Even his voice is soft and soothing.
Calm…
The idea of calm feels distant, like my situation is too sudden and unexpected to latch on to yet, as if I’m just an observer watching my body descend deeper and deeper into this waking nightmare. I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I’m breathing faster now, too fast. My throat is tight and my chest feels tingly, like I’m on the verge of an asthma attack.
I close my eyes and force my breathing to slow.
The guy in the passenger seat turns, the leather groaning against his weight. “She okay?” he asks.
I crack my eyes to look at him. He’s older than the driver, maybe thirty-five, with jet black hair that’s shaved close at the sides and long on top. Tattoos reach up his neck, below a face that is rugged and lined with a distinctive scar that cuts a straight, vertical line across his lips.
I’m gradually bringing my breathing back to something approaching normal, trying to focus on the rhythm of my breaths instead of my situation, because I know distantly that I can’t handle the truth. Not yet. Not completely. I’m still deluding myself a little into believing this will turn out to be something else, something other than what it seems.
The man in the middle seat throws a tattooed arm over the seat and swivels to eye me with an unimpressed look on his face. He's a dark kind of handsome, with a shaved head and a pattern of stars tattooed beside his eye and down his cheek. His eyes are a shocking gray, with thick eyelashes and a cruel curve to his lips that fixes them in a permanent sneer. "She looks okay to me," he says. There's a kind of slow laziness in his voice that might have been arresting, under different circumstances. Given my position, though, the way his eyes scan me from head to toe only makes me prickle with unease.
“What’s happening?” I ask. My own voice sounds too quiet, almost muffled, like I’m hearing it through clogged ears.
“This,” says the man in the middle seat with the star tattoos beside his eye, “is called kidnapping. It’s where we take you and don’t let you go until we get something we want.”
“Luke,” says the driver with a tone of reprimand. “You don’t have to be an ass about it,” he adds a little more softly, as if he’s aware that the guy in the middle looks like he might stab or shoot someone on impulse.
Luke only throws his hand up in a carefree manner and shrugs. “You’re wasting your time, Chase.” He leans his head back against the window, tilting his eyes to the ceiling and grinning in that faint, sneering way of his. “Enzo’s never going to let you fuck her.”
“I don’t want—” starts Chase from the driver’s seat.
“Oh come on,” says Luke. “Look at her. Niko would fuck her. Wouldn’t you, Niko?”
The guy in the passenger seat—Niko, apparently—nods, as if he’s acknowledging a sad truth. “Would, if Enzo wouldn’t have my balls for it,” he says with a faint accent—Russian, maybe.
Chase shakes his head, looking at me with those apologetic brown eyes. "Just trust me," he says. "No one here is going to hurt you. Enzo's a good guy, too. He comes off rough at first, but he's just under a lot of pressure from his father."
“The fuck is this?” asks Luke. “She’s a hostage, man. Just shut the fuck up and get ready to drive. Enzo’s coming, anyway. Might not want to let him catch you chatting up his hostage,” he says, pointing toward the restaurant.
A few moments later, the door opens. Enzo glares at me. “It wasn’t there. Where else would it be?”
Luke covers his mouth, almost laughing at loud. Enzo immediately shifts his glare to Luke. “Something fucking funny?” he snaps.
Luke shakes his head, but is barely keeping it together.
“Spit it out,” barks Enzo.
"It's her purse, isn't it?" Luke asks with choked laughter. "You were in there looking for the hostage's purse?" He clears his throat and smooths the amusement from his f
eatures when he looks at Enzo, who doesn't look close to laughing.
Enzo turns his attention back to me. “Where else would it be?” he asks again.
“Well, it could… It could maybe be in the bushes?” I say in a very quiet, very scared voice. “Just a few feet from where we were when I said it was maybe inside?”
Enzo stares at me for what feels like an eternity before he slams the door and walks to the bushes, digs around for a second, and then plucks my purse out like it’s a snake.
He gets in the car beside me, plucks my phone out of my purse, and then hands the purse to me without a word.
I sit in sullen silence, running through the litany of things I want to say to him—shout to him. I want to ask him how he can live with himself for doing what he did with me when he must’ve known he was planning this all along. I want to say so much, but I only sit with the weight of all the strange men in the strange car pressing in around me, with the growing panic that’s settling in my chest and curling up to rest, and with the increasing belief that it’s all real.
I’m his hostage.
We ride in silence for what feels like an hour before Enzo finally turns to me, eyes hard and lips pressed tight. “Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath. “Change of plans, Chase,” he says to the driver. “We’re going to The Spot.”
Chase looks in the rear-view mirror, eyebrows raised. “But your father’s expecting…”
“You think I don’t know what he’s expecting?” Enzo snaps. “We’re going to The Spot. If any of you aren’t man enough to stick with me once we get there, you’re welcome to go crawling back to my father for scraps.”
Hate at First Sight Page 40
