Ruby

 

 

 

"Fuck!" I exclaim, my heart surging in my chest. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

That bitch stole my coat! What the hell is wrong with her?

I can‘t prove it, but I doubt it’s a coincidence that both are gone.

I'm standing outside the bar, clutching my little purse to my chest, while frantically looking up and down the street, but she's nowhere to be seen. I’m engulfed with rage and desperation. That coat has been a part of me for years. Next to my red hair, it's my signature, it makes me stand out.

The thing that makes me recognizable to him.

I inhale with shock when I realize that I'm standing outside on the street without my mask. I'm not supposed to do that! Under no circumstances am I allowed to let him see my face! It was risky enough to remove the mask every time I entered the bar. Even that could be considered breaking his rules.

Instinctively, I cover my face with my hands before turning to run back inside the bar to fetch my mask.

But just as I'm about to reach for the door handle, a large hand closes around my upper arm. It’s a strong, masculine hand, and it‘s squeezing me so hard that it hurts.

It's him. It must be.

That's the first thought running through my head as I flinch under the crushing pain of his forceful grip. It has to be him. He’s taking me right now!

I turn around to see the owner of the masculine hand that‘s holding me hostage - and freeze.

“It’s you,” I breathe out helplessly, biting my tongue when I remember that I’m not supposed to respond like that.

He frowns at my reaction. I let out a little sigh when he pulls me closer.

I had no idea before now what he looks like. I hadn‘t been shown a picture, only told his age and the first letter of his first name. Clients usually prefer to remain anonymous. 

I knew he was rather young, younger than a lot of my former clients. It was rare for me to be bought by someone only a few years older than me. Most clients are wealthy businessmen in their late forties to mid-fifties, well-dressed, well-groomed, and respected gentlemen seeking a woman with whom they can live out their dirtiest fantasies. They can leave their gentleman facade outside the hotel room door – the version that everyone else but me gets to see – before turning into who they really are. 

It's rare for them to be this young – he’s not even thirty years old.

And it's even more rare for them to look like this. The man who's holding me in a tight grip is probably the most beautiful man I've ever come across in my entire life. He's towers over me as he leans in closer, his face too close to mine. The agency told me that he's twenty-nine years old, but he looks even younger than that. Even in the dim evening light, I can tell that his eyes are black and a lot darker than his brown hair, which is cut short, tight to the scalp, in a military style. His rectangular-cut jaw is spotted with dark five o’clock stubble, and when he narrows his eyes to study me, I notice a jagged scar right next to his left eye.

I'm too dumbfounded to speak, and anything resembling flight instinct is failing me at the moment. But why would I try to fight him off, anyway? I knew this was going to happen. I waited for him to come for me, and here he is.

He stares me down, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers coursing like cold blasts through my entire body. Why is he not saying anything? Why is he not dragging me off?

Why is he not acting like a kidnapper?

"It's me?" he mimics my careless words.

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I-"

"I saw where she ran off to," he interrupts me.

I look up at him, startled. "Huh?"

What is he talking about?

"The girl who has your coat," he elaborates. "I saw where she ran off to."

"Oh," I say. "Right. My coat. I'm sorry, I-"

"Stop saying that," he cuts me off again. "Come. I'll help you."

Help me? Okay, if this is the game he wants to play. Maybe he staged all of this? Did he pay off the girl to steal my coat so he could appear to be some kind of knight in shining armor, who then turns bad? No details of the kidnapping were ever confided to me. All I was told was to act and dress in a certain way for a few days and wait for him to come and take me.

I notice that he gives me a once-over before turning around to pull me along behind him. I feel pretty exposed in my racy get-up, especially without my coat to cover up most of it, but I can tell that he likes what I’m wearing. After all, this is what he ordered, a perfect slut.

I can barely keep up with him as he drags me across the street toward an expensive looking black car, the lights flashing as he unlocks it. He pulls up on the handle of the door for the front seat passenger side and beckons me to get in. This must be the most polite kidnapper in the history of mankind.

I cast him a puzzled look before slipping into the car.

My heart is racing when he takes his seat and starts up the engine. He locks the doors before we pull out from the curb.

"She ran that way," he says, pointing ahead of us. "I think we have a better chance of catching her if we drive."

"Sure," I agree, still bewildered at all of this.

This is not at all how I expected things to go down. I thought he'd grab me off the street, maybe even strike me unconscious somehow. I was told to struggle, at least a little bit.

But what am I supposed to struggle against if this is how he's playing the game? He may have appeared out of the blue and grabbed me roughly, but now he's acting like a hero helping out a girl in need, not like a kidnapper.

At least so far.

Maybe the struggle is yet to come. Maybe he'll become sinister any moment now, turn the car down a dark alley, tie me down and tell me to shut up, as I realize that his alleged help only masks his true violent intentions.

I take a deep sigh, preparing myself for whatever is to come. Acting is an essential part of my job, but I've never done role-play like this. I feel like I should have practiced lines or something.

He seems nervous, too. I notice him casting me quick glances from the side, as if to make sure that I'm not trying to jump out of the car. Is he expecting me to do something like that? Should I?

I eye him from the side, and our gazes meet for a split second before we each turn away. It's almost cute.

The longer and farther we drive, the more I realize that we're not actually following anyone. Whoever this woman was, he has no intention of finding her and getting my coat back. Was that woman even part of the plan? If she was, I'll most likely get my coat back after the thirty-nine days are up. If she was simply a thief, I’ll probably never see that coat again.

He's steering the car toward the freeway, and it becomes apparent that we're about to leave the city. If I’m going to play my part to his satisfaction, this would be a good time to begin acting suspicious and scared.

"Where are we going?" I ask, underlining my voice with fear. "The woman was surely not running toward the freeway?"

I'm breathing heavily now, my eyes wide with concern when I turn to face him. Not all of this is an act.

He doesn't look at me, but keeps his eyes focused straight ahead on the road.

"We're not following her," he says, a dark smile forming on his handsome face. "I have other plans."

I don’t know how to reply. I’m supposed to struggle, fight him and act as if this was a real kidnapping. My acting skills have never been put to a test like this before.

I take a deep, cleansing breath. All right.

It’s show time.