Held Against You

by Season Vining

  “You need to smoke?”

  I laugh and grab the pack from his fingers.

  “Ha! I forgot all about those. No, they’re not mine. I don’t smoke.”

  “You just buy cigarettes?”

  “They were for the old lady I stayed with. Come on, they’re Virginia Slim Menthols. Give me a little credit.” He shrugs. “Poor woman never got her smokes. She probably thinks I stole her money and took off.”

  “I’m sure it’s not the worst thing you’ve done.”

  I frown at him and place the cigarette pack on the nightstand. I hate that he’s right.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Now, we sleep.”

  “I’m not sleeping in the same bed as a stranger,” I say.

  “Well, we’ve known each other for about five hours, so I say we’re no longer strangers.”

  “Just because you say it, doesn’t make it true. I don’t even know your name.”

  “My name is insignificant,” he replies.

  “That’s a cruel name. Were you an unwanted child? I’ll just have to make one up for you.” I pause and look him over. “Let’s see, you look like a Robert, maybe a Steven. No, I knew a Steven in high school, he was so weird. Used to wear this black trench coat every day, even in the summer.”

  “Really, tell me more,” he deadpans.

  “Fine, I’ll just keep trying names until one sticks.”

  “Can we go to sleep now?” he asks, exasperated.

  “I told you. I’m not sleeping in this bed with you, oh nameless one.”

  He turns to face me and holds up the handcuffs, dangling them over the bed. “Not only are you sleeping in this bed, you’ll be handcuffed to me.”

  “What? The cuffs again? My wrists are chafed.”

  “You’d prefer I tie you up?”

  I close my eyes, letting those scenes play out behind my lids. I realize he means the bad tied up and hold out my arm willingly. He places one cuff around my right wrist and the other around his left. We pull back the covers and I crawl beneath.

  We both stare at the television, although I’m not sure either one of us pay attention. My brain is reeling with the day’s events and what they mean for my future. I roll onto my side to face him and notice the gun, his phone, and keys on the nightstand. I swallow down a joyful cheer as I formulate a plan. Once he’s asleep, I can grab the keys, unlock myself, and be long gone before he even wakes up. Before I go, I’ll make sure to change the language on his phone to Mongolian, delete all his contacts, and put a lock code on it, just for good measure.

  Unfortunately, he turns to see what I’m staring at.

  “Shit,” he whispers.

  He empties the bullets from the gun and slides it beneath the mattress. Then he takes the cuff key and tucks it into his underwear. We make eye contact, which is not awkward at all with his hand down his pants. He gives me a knowing grin, as if he can hear every thought in my head. I scowl at him and try to cross my arms, but the weight of his attached arm stops me mid-motion. My frustration grows and I slam our joined hands down onto the mattress.

  “Something wrong, princess?”

  “No. Everything is peachy, Frank.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  He turns the television off and rolls away from me, leaving our joined wrists in the neutral ground. I try to sleep, I do. I just can’t seem to get comfortable. My jeans cut into my waist and the stiff denim scratches against my skin. The fact that the rest of my clothes are sitting at that old lady’s house back in Tacoma pisses me off. After an hour of tossing and turning, he loses patience.

  “What’s the fucking problem now?”

  His voice is deep and unnerving in the dark room.

  “I can’t sleep,” I say.

  “Well, take your jeans off, they can’t be comfortable. I won’t look.”

  “Ugh!” I grunt.

  “I promise.”

  He leans over and turns the bedside lamp on. It creates a glowing amber halo of light behind him. My lips purse and slide to the left, not wanting to admit anything. The way he stares at me seems to unravel my confession.

  “I can’t take them off,” I say.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m not wearing panties.”

  His entire body stiffens as he looks at me. I don’t miss his glance down to my jeans and back to my eyes.

  “It’s a funny story, actually…”

  He leans over, pulls a pair of boxers from his bag and throws them at me.

  “I don’t care. Put those on.”

  “Fine. Can you turn around?” I ask while making a circling gesture with my index finger.

  He turns away. I struggle to get my jeans off and his boxers on while handcuffed. I can’t get much accomplished with one hand, so I use both. When I finally get my feet into his boxers and pull them up, the tips of his fingers drag all the way up my leg. A chill runs through me before he tucks them in, forming a fist.

  “Would you hurry up? I’m exhausted,” he growls.

  “Aww. Poor widdle kidnapper is tiwerd.”

  “I’m not a kidnapper. I’m a fugitive recovery agent.”

  “You say po-tay-toe.” A long slow sigh comes from him and I’m aware he may be at full-capacity annoyance. “Alright, I’m done.”

  He turns to find me kneeling with his boxers folded over enough times to rest on my hips. He stares at the exposed skin between my tank top and his underwear. Something stirs in my gut from the way he’s looking at me.

  “Like what you see, sexy kidnapper?”

  He frowns and turns the lamp off. Within minutes I can hear his light snoring and let sleep take me under too.

  3. HIM

  “Theo!”

  I groan and try to drag a pillow over my head.

  “Theo, get up. I have to pee.”

  I sit, rub my eyes, and curse the tiny bladders of all women. Kat sits cross-legged on the bed, watching me closely. She swishes her lips back and forth across her face while she waits for me to respond. There’s a sharp crescent-shaped line on her cheek from where the handcuff rested while she slept. Her left knee bounces slightly, an adult version of the potty dance.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask.

  “Oh nothing. Just ready to watch you retrieve that key.”

  I glance down to find my obvious morning wood pushing against the material of my sleep pants. Never one to be on the underside of an embarrassing situation, I grin at her.

  “You want to fetch it?” I ask.

  Her face contorts in horror and she quickly looks away. A pink tinge creeps into her cheeks and I like how it looks on her. I make a mental note to have it appear more often. I retrieve the key, ignoring my erection, and unlock the cuffs. Kat sprints to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  I try to will away my erection. I think of dead puppies, greasy truckers, and the fat guy at the front desk. That works like a charm. She emerges, washes her hands, and leans against the sink.

  “About that toothbrush, Woody,” Kat says before her eyes snap down to my crotch.

  I grab the phone and dial zero for the front desk. The woman calls me honey and promises a quick delivery of the toothbrush in her sugary customer service voice.

  Kat spins, eyeing herself in the mirror, and smooths down her hair. When she leans over the sink, the boxers ride up so high I can see the hint of her perfectly round ass peeking out.

  “Can you stop staring at my ass? It’s doing nothing for your little situation there,” she says, turning and fluttering her hand toward my crotch.

  I keep my eyes on her as I stand and drop my pants. Her gaze flickers down and back up again.

  “Little?” I ask. We both know better.

  Kat shakes her head and leans against the counter. “I swear, men and their size complexes. You’ve probably measured it, haven’t you?”

  “I’m done discussing my dick with you.”

  I reach for my jeans and slide them up.

  Kno
ck, knock.

  “I’ll get it!” she sings and heads for the door.

  “Stay,” I say, grabbing her elbow and turning her back toward the bathroom.

  “Yes, master.”

  “Now, that name, I like.”

  When I open the door, I’m greeted by a guy holding a toothbrush out as if he couldn’t be bothered. His shitty hotel uniform shirt is starched to death, every button fastened up to his skinny neck. His fingernails and eyebrows are too overworked for a straight man. I watch as he reaches over and straightens the brass number four on the front of the door so that it lines up perfectly with the others. He yawns and looks at his watch.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the item from him. He finally looks at me and his eyes widen. His stiff posture relaxes as he leans against the doorframe and wets his thin lips.

  “No problem at all. If you need anything else, be sure to ask for Matt.”

  He gives me a wink and taps his name tag twice.

  “Will do,” I say, nodding my head. It is too early to get eye fucked by the help.

  Before I can close the door, Matt’s hand shoots out and grabs my crotch. I’m surprised by his boldness, but I’m fast to react. My hand closes around his throat. I yank him inside and press him to the wall, my forearm leveraged against his chest. My other hand twists his wrist until he screams.

  “Do not fucking touch me, fairy.”

  My anger multiplies until I’ve almost lost control. I recognize my desire to punish him and pull the rage back in. His gesture was a violation of my personal space and not one that I’ll tolerate, but he doesn’t deserve what I want to give him.

  Matt’s eyes are watery and scared. He claws at my hand trying to get air. Veins bulge in his forehead as his skin becomes a stippled purple color. When I think he’s learned his lesson, I release him with one last shove. Matt coughs and sputters, bent at the waist gasping for air. His stiff shirt is now wrinkled and disheveled.

  “Get out!” I yell.

  He squeaks a reply before darting from the room. I take a deep breath to calm myself before snatching the toothbrush from the floor. Kat is standing in the corner, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle.

  “What?” I snap.

  My tone is too rough. She doesn’t deserve my anger, but I don’t care. She just shakes her head at me. I stomp across the room and notice the closer I get, the more she seems to shrink into the walls. She’s scared. While I can use that to my advantage, I can’t stand the look of terror on her face. It’s too reminiscent of a past I’d rather forget.

  “Thanks,” she whispers as she takes the toothbrush from my hand, being sure not to touch me.

  It’s a silent standoff, both of us emotionally amped up, but for different reasons. Needing a distraction, I return to the bed and flip on the television. Kat scurries to the sink and brushes her teeth. Twice.

  “Can I take a shower?” she asks. She stares down at her feet, her fingers fumbling with the hem of her shirt. One foot turns on its outer edge and her lips slide sideways on her face.

  “We’re leaving in twenty minutes, hurry.”

  She nods and quickly retreats to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  While Kat’s in the shower I reload my gun, throw on a clean shirt, and pack my bag. I’d love a shower, but there’s no way to keep Kat from escaping. Unless I join her now. I stare into the dingy wall dividing us, almost able to construct the picture in my mind. I stop that train of thought before it gets away from me.

  The bathroom door clicks open and I find Kat, in a small towel, backlit by fluorescent lights and steam. Her skin is covered in little droplets of water and I try to ignore the ones that slide down her tan legs, pooling onto the floor. I’m being tested.

  “I don’t have any clean clothes. Do you have something I can wear?” she asks.

  I unzip my bag and pull out a pair of jersey shorts and a T-shirt.

  “Here.”

  “Thanks, Johnny.”

  She gets dressed in the bathroom while I load my stuff into the car. I drop my bag in the trunk and slam it closed. The parking lot is empty except for three cars with out-of-state plates and a stray dog who trots up and down the sidewalk as if he’s a registered guest. He sniffs every door and finally disappears around the corner of the building. Kat is still not out when I return so I bang on the bathroom door.

  “Okay, okay,” she mumbles.

  She emerges, my shorts rolled at the waist and my T-shirt knotted behind her back, revealing her smooth stomach. She throws on her shoes and ties her hair up into a ponytail.

  I open the door and grab her by the forearm, dragging her down the sidewalk to the lobby. When inside, I nod toward the tiny breakfast room.

  “Grab something to eat.”

  I walk to the travel display in the lobby and randomly grab six different brochures, tucking them into my back pocket. The woman behind the desk offers a cheerful greeting and a forced smile. Her upside down name tag says her name is Melinda. She’s wearing day-old makeup and her short curly hair is flat on one side. There’s sweat at her hairline despite the cool temperature and she reeks of spiced rum. She knocks over a cup full of ink pens and hits her head on the counter while retrieving the ones from the floor. I’d say Melinda’s had a fun night and a fairly rough morning. While I wait for her to print my receipt, I look for Kat.

  She scampers through the small breakfast room, grabbing fruit, a muffin, a mini box of cereal, and a cup of coffee. She looks like a damn looter stuffing things under her arms and into her pockets. There aren’t many people up at this hour—an elderly couple who have matching Styrofoam bowls of oatmeal before them and whose body language clearly demonstrates that they’re not speaking, and a frazzled mother with mismatched socks and a toddler whose chubby fingers pluck out one piece of cereal from a pile and shove it into his mouth.

  In the far corner sits a man who looks like his best days are behind him. By the cropped haircut and rigid posture I’d say he’s former military. He’s wearing a leather jacket and starched jeans. The black boots parked beneath the table almost shine except for the scuff on the top of the left foot from repeatedly shifting a motorcycle. His bagel sits untouched, the ice in his glass half melted. He’s been here a while, but not eating. He watches Kat flit around, eyes glued to her ass. Yeah buddy, I know.

  Still, the way he watches her gives me an uneasy feeling. His gaze is calculating, not casual. Something about the way he tracks her movements makes me question his motives. In this line of work, I’ve learned that when you have a bad feeling, it’s usually for a good reason. I join Kat and fix my own cup of coffee for the road.

  “Time to go.”

  She nods, stuffing the rest of a banana into her mouth, and heads for the door. The biker’s eyes never leave her and I make sure to get one last look at him before we exit. When we reach the car, Kat approaches the passenger side door.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m riding up front.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “Seriously? This is like Driving Miss Daisy. Except I’m not a crabby old woman and you’re not as charming as Morgan Freeman.”

  I stare at her like she’s speaking a foreign language. “What are you talking about? Get in the back.”

  “And what if I don’t?” She props one hand on her hip.

  “Do you enjoy the handcuffs?”

  “Damn,” she mumbles and crawls into the backseat.

  Within minutes we are back on I-5, heading south. Half an hour passes and I’m grateful for her silence. I need this time to clear my head and focus on my objective. Capture and deliver. Keep it professional. I stare out at the road ahead and repeat these words like a mantra.

  “So, Duckie, do you have a radio in this thing? The silence sucks.”

  “I like silence.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t. So, give me some tunes or I’ll start singing,” she threatens.

  I ignore her and finish off my tepid coffe
e. Moments later, the worst singing I’ve ever heard assaults my ears. It’s the sound of cats in a dryer and howler monkeys.

  “I’m Henry the Eighth, I am!”

  I don’t want to give in to her childish game, but when she starts on the third round, I break and turn on the radio.

  “Fine. Just shut up. That’s not even a real song,” I argue.

  “Yes, it is. Patrick Swayze sang it to Whoopi Goldberg.”

  “Huh?”

  “The movie Ghost?” Kat says. I stare at her blankly. “Oh, come on! He’s dead and she’s a medium. Demi Moore has a gym teacher haircut. ‘Unchained Melody’ plays. You’ve never seen this?”

  “No,” I answer.

  “You are a sheltered individual.”

  I can see her shaking her head in disapproval from the backseat. The radio commercial ends and a song starts playing that reminds me of neon spandex and big hair.

  “Sweet. I love the music from the eighties. I mean, does it get better than Pat Benatar and side ponytails? Oh, and the movies! Sixteen Candles is the best movie, ever. I always wanted to have two kids and name them Jake Ryan and Samantha.”

  I shake my head and wonder how someone born in the nineties has such a fascination with the previous decade. Hell, I was a kid in the eighties and I cringe at the memories of parachute pants and mullet haircuts.

  Kat pulls her feet up on the seat and wraps her arms around them. Her cheek rests on her bent knees while she stares out the window. A reflection of light hits my mirror and I notice a motorcycle following two cars behind us. I can’t get a good look at the biker, but my gut tells me that it’s the same one from Eugene. I change lanes as if I’m going to exit. He follows.

  “Shit.”

  “What did I do now?” Kat asks.

  “Nothing. Lay down on the seat.”

  “I’m not tired, but thanks. I slept rather well last night considering the circumstances.”

  “Just do it,” I growl.

  She complies and I get a better view of the bike. It looks like a Harley, chrome and clean lines. The rider wears a familiar black leather jacket.

  Kat is distracting and making me get careless. No one gets this close without me knowing. I move into the center lane of traffic and wait for the next exit to approach. At the last possible second I swerve to take the exit and watch as the motorcycle follows.