Anyone but Him

by Cassie Graham

  “I’d love to meet your family.”

  “Holy shit, Ma. What smells so good?” Whitley jokes, pulling me down the stairs.

  The scent of turkey wafts in the air, and I don’t care if it’s only nine in the morning, I’d eat a feast if I could. I haven’t been home for a holiday in three years.

  After meeting Whitley’s mom and step-dad last night, I felt so incredibly welcomed, that I almost wished my parents could be here with us. Whitley’s mom, Monica, is a spunky lady, much like her daughter, and I can see that Whitley gets a lot of her silliness from her. Monica says things like, “posh” and “shit” in the same sentence. Really, how can you not love a woman who talks like that?

  “Is your mom European?” I wonder out loud when Whit and I sit down in the living room.

  “Yep,” Whitley quips, throwing her legs over my thighs. “She was born just outside of London. Moved to the states when she was twelve. She still speaks French, though. Mostly when she’s pissed.”

  “She’s a kick in the ass. I kind of love her.”

  The mention of the L word turns Whitley’s cheeks pink and I can’t help but touch it with my thumb.

  “You know,” Whitley stuns me with a smile. “When you say things like that, it makes me think I could love you too.”

  And when she finishes, she stands up and kisses my cheek.

  “Where are you going, Pretty Girl?” I ask, taking her hand when she stands straight.

  “Mom asked me to go to the store and pick up more potatoes.” She rolls her eyes. Playing with her fingers, I pull each one, popping the knuckle. “Ow, ass.” She takes her hand away.

  “Want me to go with you?” I ask, because her dad is about to arrive any minute and putting off meeting that man would be a damn pleasure. Meeting her mom was one thing. I can charm the shit out of women. A smile and a wink and I’ve got them in the bag, but men, I want to break out into hives just thinking about meeting Scott Sanders.

  “It’s okay, I’ll be quick. It’s just down the street.”

  I mentally grit my teeth. I’m not getting out of this, am I?

  “Alright.”

  She bends down again and grazes her mouth on my neck just enough to make it break out in goosebumps. “See you soon.”

  I shiver at her tone and watch with greedy, hungry eyes as she winks at me, walking out of the door.

  “Hey, Jennings!” Monica calls from the kitchen. “You know how to roll dough?”

  I chuckle to myself and heave my body from the couch. “I think I might know how to make a mean pie crust, if that’s what you mean,” I slyly reply, leaning my hip on the kitchen counter.

  Monica gives me a high-five. “Damn, my daughter caught a good one.” She slaps a mound of dough in front of me. “Knead.”

  I snort.

  “So, are you and Whitley actually together? Because the last I heard, you broke it off because you were being a pansy.”

  Ouch. Way to mentally sucker punch me.

  “Uh,” I stutter. “Actually.” More stuttering. “I don’t know?”

  “Well,” Monica remarks. “Whitley doesn’t make it easy to love her. She puts up a lot of walls.”

  I pound into the soft mixture. “I found it pretty easily, actually.”

  It slips.

  Just, plop. On the ground for her to step on and dissect.

  This is exactly why I act. It’s easier for me to memorize lines and banter. Attempting to make sense of my scrambled thoughts is a losing battle.

  “Holy shit,” she curses, a grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. “You do love her.”

  I don’t look up. “Yeah, I do.”

  “I thought so last night. You look at her—and it just pours from your expression.”

  “How so?”

  She sets the peeler down and towels her hands on her apron. “In movies, when the main characters are just—meant to be, you can see it on screen. You know?” She looks at me. “Oh, of course you know,” she laughs. “You can feel something tangible with a look alone. It’s magical. You two look at each other like that.” She slaps me. “I could have whacked you with a wooden spoon for pulling that shit a couple months ago.”

  I look down. Being scolded by a mother is tough.

  “Listen, this is your deal. Just don’t break her, okay? She’s had enough heartache to last a couple lifetimes.”

  “Cade.” I speak his name, and Monica nods.

  “Did she tell you the story?”

  “About the night he hurt her?” I clarify.

  She begins to peel potatoes, again, giving me a side-glance. “Uh-huh.”

  I shake my head and pull the rolling pin out of the utensil holder.

  “It really is her story to tell. But, I think it’s prudent that you know she didn’t speak for an entire year after. She gave her statement the moment she woke up, but after that, she refused to say another word.”

  “She—she what?” God, I had no idea.

  “Yeah.” She scrunches her mouth to the side. “It was rough for her. The silence was her way of dealing. Instead of letting the world know what a horrible, despicable person Cade was, she simply shut off her emotions and became quiet. It was heartbreaking watching her go through it. Then, on top of it she had to serve time in jail for the role she played in the whole ordeal,” she huffs. “She comes with baggage, Jennings. Can you handle it?”

  “I’ve got big arms,” I joke, giving Monica a look so she knows I’m kidding. “I’ll take everything Whitley has to give me, Mrs. Shiner.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” She looks at her wrist, checking the time. “Speaking of, where is our sweet Whitley?”

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket. “She’s been gone a while now. Should I go check on her?”

  Monica gives me a level look. “Call her first. She’s probably just walking around the store.” She picks up a piece of paper. “She forgot the shopping list.”

  Walking into the living room, Whitley’s step-dad, Ben, sits in a recliner honed in on the football game, so I decide to go upstairs to her room. Punching in her number, the phone rings.

  And rings.

  And rings.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Whitley. Congratulations. You know what to do,” her voice greets in the sarcastic tone that makes me laugh.

  I hang up. She’s been gone almost an hour and Monica said the store is just down the street.

  “Hey, Monica,” I say, walking back into the kitchen. “Would you mind if I took the car to the store? She didn’t answer.”

  “Of course,” she approves, taking the keys off of a hook by the door. “And, take this, will ya?” She hands me the list of items.

  “Sure.” I snatch it and the keys out of her hands. “Thank you.”

  “Take a left out of the house, turn right on Maple, then a left on Butler Street. It’ll be on your left. You can’t miss it.”

  “Got it.” I wink and head out the door, taking my jacket as I go.

  I follow Monica’s directions and pull into the parking lot of the grocery store. Oddly enough, they seem to be closing shop. Workers stand outside, methodically rubbing their arms as they wait for a man in a suit to lock the doors. Puffs of cold air blow out of their mouths as they talk, the wind chill getting dangerously low. A few cars still are still parked, and I don’t see the little sedan I rented. But, as I drive further into the lot, my rental car comes into view and I park next to it.

  I take my phone out and rush to the workers standing outside talking. “Hey, guys,” I offer. “Have you seen this girl?” I pull out my phone and show them a picture of Whit that I took one day while we were laying on the beach.

  The younger brown haired woman is the first to speak. “Oh my God! You’re Jennings Cohen!”

  Fuck.

  “Uhh, yeah.” I smile, uncomfortable. I need information, being the celebrity isn’t a possibility right now. “Do you recognize her?”

  A tall, blonde haired man shakes his head. “No, sorry.”
Thankfully, he seems unaffected by me.

  The young woman starts at me, again. “I can’t believe you’re here. In Scarsdale. This is insane.”

  I huff and shove my phone in my pocket.

  The second woman and the man in the suit walk up as the blonde guy snaps our picture.

  “What’s going on, here?” the suit man asks.

  “This is Jennings Cohen,” brown haired girl answers, pointing at me like I’m a damn zoo animal.

  “Oh, wow,” the suit man, awe’s. “Pleasure, sir. This is my store. Would you like me to open it back up for you?”

  As nice as that is, I’m far too worried. I’d rather pass. Unless Whitley is somehow still in there.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. The wind is now breaking through my coat, cutting me with tiny slashes of cold. “Have you seen this woman? Her car is here, but she’s nowhere to be seen.”

  My mind is running with bad thoughts and I pray to God I’m wrong.

  I offer him the picture and he nods his head. “Yeah, she was just in here ten…maybe twenty minutes ago. She came through my line and I checked her out. Had potatoes, milk, and butter.”

  At least she has the stuff on Monica’s list.

  “She walked out the front door, into the parking lot. That was all I saw of her,” he finishes.

  “Do you have security cameras?” I demand. I need some fucking answers.

  “Of course. I can access it from my phone. Hold on one second.” He digs into his coat pocket and punches the screen with shaky hands. Standing next to me, he shows me a camera shot of us in actual time.

  “Can you rewind?” I grit out. Time is wasting.

  “Oh, right. Yes.” He pushes another button. In fast motion, the screen displays me walking up to the front of the store. He presses the button again, making it speed up faster.

  “Stop,” I tell him. “That’s her.”

  Whitley walks out of the store with two bags hanging on one arm while she uses the other to talk on the phone. The picture is hard to see and grainy and I squint as I try to decipher what’s happening on the tiny phone screen. She moves out of the shot.

  “Is there another camera you can access?” I ask in a stern tone.

  Oh God.

  The suit man looks sullen. “No, I’m afraid this is the only camera we have in the front of the store.”

  Damn this small town. What the hell happened to her?

  Seconds pass as I watch the empty screen, but nothing happens.

  “Alright.” I shake his hand. “Thank you for the help.”

  “Name’s Jackson Savage. If I can help anymore, please let me know.”

  “Jackson, thank you.”

  I leave the three workers and Jackson in a rush and head back to the car. Standing at the rental car, I put my hand on the top and focus on keeping my breathing even. The anxiety and stress is about to overtake me, and I can’t let that happen when Whitley is out there, possibly kidnapped. I have to find a way to get to her.

  I yank at the handles on the doors, but they’re locked. My temper growing more and more morose as the seconds tick by.

  Whitley is missing and I have no idea what happened. How is this even possible?

  Walking back to Monica’s car, I sit in the driver seat, but just before I slam the door, something under the rental car catches my eye.

  Lowering myself on to the ground, I get on my belly to see what’s underneath. Pulling out Whitley’s purse, keys, cell phone and two bags of groceries, I panic.

  The call she was supposedly on is still going, and I bring the phone to my ear. Gargled sounds of movement and cars blast through the speaker, but I can’t make anything out.

  “Whitley?” I try.

  But, nothing. Checking the screen, the call seems to be private and I have no way of knowing who is on the other end. A low, disgruntled moan escapes from the speaker and I pull it away, alarmed. Low talking and a horn blasts and I know what I have to do.

  Sliding the phone into my pocket, I hysterically dig mine out and hit a number I haven’t had to use in a long time.

  “Detective Adams,” my brother, Finley, answers after the first ring.

  “Finn,” I breathe. “I need your help.”

  Black.

  Darkness.

  Fear.

  Immeasurable fear.

  Air.

  OH, GOD. I NEED AIR. My hand pounds on the confines above me, but to no reward. I pound again. Bang, bang, bang.

  “Someone, help,” I try to say, but my voice is so hoarse, my throat won’t make a sound.

  A tear falls from my eye and I bring my hand to my face.

  I’m shackled.

  My feet and my hands are connected by a rope. It’s not the soft kind I’ve seen in home improvement stores. It’s rough and jagged, cutting into my skin. I kick the back of the box.

  A box?

  A slit of light to my right is the only light and I think I might be in a car. In the trunk, maybe?

  Oh, God. What happened?

  Think, Whitley. Think!

  I answered a phone call from a private number thinking it might have been Holli on location, but that wasn’t the case. A very cryptic voice told me to slowly walk to my car. I did what I was told, simply because I couldn’t scream to get help. No one was around. But, the moment someone’s hand covered my mouth, pulled me into the trunk, I screamed as loud as my lungs would allow. And, in turn, whoever was behind me, clocked me on the head with an object that felt oddly like the handle of a gun. I passed out and now; here I am traveling down the road in the trunk of a car driven by a psychopath.

  This has to be connected to Cade somehow. He was denied early parole. His minions had to have taken me.

  I’m going to die.

  They won’t let me live.

  Cade told me that much the last night I saw his face before I shoved it behind bars.

  This is why I ran.

  I will not panic.

  I will not let him win.

  I also might not have a choice.

  Oh, no. Jennings.

  He’ll come looking for me.

  Okay, I need a plan.

  But, the car stops before I can come up with anything.

  Someone pounds on the trunk door. “Close your eyes,” a man with a gruff voice says.

  I close them.

  Okay, I do have a plan.

  Stay alive.

  Alive for me.

  Alive for Jennings.

  Alive for Sydney.

  The trunk opens and the sun pierces through my eyelids. Opening my eyes a tiny bit, I get a peek at the man. Long beard, a checkered shirt and bloody hands.

  Shit.

  “Get her in the house,” a woman’s voice commands.

  A woman?

  The man lifts me behind my back and slips a dark sack over my head, making my world black once again.

  This would be the time I’d stop talking. I’d shut down and shut off. My personal method of survival. But, I’m thinking they don’t want that. They want me to talk. If they are Cade’s followers, they’ll want to torture me.

  But all of this makes no sense. Cade didn’t appear vengeful at the trial. If anything, he seemed apologetic. Why would he send someone to get me if he was going to play that angle? I don’t understand.

  My feet hit hard asphalt. The man tugs me along, passing a threshold, and down stairs.

  A basement? How original. If I wasn’t scared shitless right now, I’d roll my eyes.

  The man throws me into a chair and unties my bonds. I immediately rub my wrists.

  “Nope. Sorry, girly,” he says, though, he doesn’t sound sorry. “Hands on the arm of the chair.”

  I grit my teeth. So much for no restraints.

  He coils the rope around and around, strapping my hands to the chair. Next, he wraps my feet to the legs, and walks away. His thumpy, clog-like feet walking up the stairs. My heart beats with the cadence until it fades to nothing.

  With
the sack over my head, the dim light in the room keeps me company. I strain to hear something—anything, but all sounds in the house are quiet. The only sound is the footsteps above me, paddling back and forth, over and over. I might punch whoever is up there. Probably fat foot bearded man. He’s probably chomping on a burger, sucking on a soda, trying to work off the calories he’s taking in.

  God, I’d love a burger right now. Especially if I don’t survive this. It’s complete bullshit that my last meal might have been Cheerios.

  Bland cereal.

  Not even the good kind!

  I should have eaten only the marshmallows from that Leprechaun cereal.

  Someone clomps down the steps, shuffling their feet right in front of me.

  Delicate hands trail my neck, making me cringe.

  The ties from around the black sack over my head become loose and vanishes from my head.

  A woman with light blonde hair, similar to mine, sneers in my face, practically growling.

  The harsh spotlight assaults my eyes, and I’m forced to close them. The light is too much for me to handle. The situation alone might be too much to handle. Now that the sack is off my head, it all seems too real. I was able to live in that little, dark world in denial, thinking these people don’t have faces. So, I maintain my denial a little longer. I don’t want to wake up.

  “Open your eyes, dammit,” the woman derides with menace. Her words, the way she says it, hurts. It cuts me somehow; I feel the need to shield my skin.

  I crack my eyes open and squint. The light is still rough and my sight isn’t back completely. But, by the little window to the left of me, I’d guess it’s well past midnight. Which means I’ve been gone at least ten hours.

  Jennings and my parents have to be looking for me.

  I’m going to get found.

  I can’t delude myself. I don’t know that for sure.

  “Recognize me?” the woman questions, tilting her head. She doesn’t blink and her eyes look bloodshot. Not the drug induced kind-of-bloodshot, more like she hasn’t slept in days.

  Her hair is a wild, white color, curly in all directions. She pushes it back. And, I shake my head.

  “No,” she says in disbelief, offended. The sweat seeping from her neck catches my gaze. Her heartbeat, beats erratic just under her skin. “I don’t even look a little—familiar?” She flinches.