Chapter Seven
Roxanna
I freeze the second I hear his feet in the hallway.
He stops outside the room for a second and I know it’s now or never.
I’m not free yet — I’ve got everything except the zip tie around my wrists cut through — but I’m ready to fight. I have to be.
This pair of baby-sized nail clippers isn’t a weapon, unless I’m up against a particularly vicious hangnail, but it’ll have to do.
I grit my teeth, flip out the nail file, and adjust my grip.
Time to give him hell.
Then the door freezes, half-open, and the thick silence hanging in the air is cut to pieces by the shrill sound of a stock ringtone.
The door slams shut.
I’m safe.
Nash’s bellowing bass of a voice echoes through the hallway. Feet pace back and forth, a nervous beat against the floor.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Things are different now — I’ve got the judge’s daughter. Let me talk to Abigail. Now. I don’t care that you have to wake her up — she’s three, it’s not like she has school tomorrow.”
What the hell is going on? Who’s three?
It’s quiet again. I stay, statue still, listening, hardly breathing.
And then there’s movement and Nash’s voice changes — going from simmering rage to comforting warmth. It’s loving, enveloping, expansive. Familiar like an old blanket.
“Hi Abigail,” he says, and his voice catches. “It is so good to hear your voice.”
There’s only one thing in the world that could make a man like him sound like that.
He’s a dad.
The clippers fall from my hands, clattering against the floor.
“I know, I’m sorry to wake you up, love. I just needed to hear your voice. Oh, you were having a dream? What were you dreaming about?”
Something solid thumps against the door and there’s a swish as something slides down to the floor. I can see him, in my head, and he’s sitting on the floor, back against the door, cradling the phone like it’s his daughter.
How can this be the same man as the man who drew a gun on me? Who threatened to kill me?
“And that’s your favorite cartoon? Wow, sweetheart. Sounds like you had a nice dream,” he says, and he pulls in a heavy, shaky breathe. “Some day soon, you and I are going to meet. And every morning that we’re together, I’ll make you breakfast — we’ll have pancakes, waffles, I’ll make you anything you want — and you can tell me about all your dreams. How does that sound?”
Things go quiet.
There’s a heavy sigh.
The air feels colder.
“Yeah. We’ll be in touch,” Nash says, his voice hard. “No funny shit. We’re even, now. We’ve each got something on the other. We’re going to fucking work this out, you got it?”
There’s a quiet, electronic beep as he ends the call and that beep jolts me back to the situation at hand: I’m still kind of tied up, I have no actual weapon, and a man with a gun is on the other side of the door, ready to hurt me.
And the reason why is obvious: he has a daughter.
A daughter.
Three years old.
It rips at my heart.
Whatever fight’s in me evaporates.
I sigh and steel myself for what comes next. For what feels right.
I step forward and rap my knuckles on the door.
“I’m coming out,” I say aloud.
There’s no response.
I open the door and he’s there — sitting upright on the floor. There’s a haphazard pile of stuff next to him. A box of tampons, a box of chocolate, and a bottle of wine.
I look at him.
Deep blue eyes — fierce, glistening with pain — look back at me. Stubbled jaw set in anger. I’m on thin ice, taking a chance like this, and one wrong move will sink me; he’s a father, and I don’t doubt for a second that he would do whatever it takes for his daughter. I’d do the same. Family is everything — it’s how I was raised. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by the love and support of my parents, discovering how far I can go with two people solidly behind me and finding out it’s a whole hell of a lot further than I could go on my own. My biggest ambition is to do the same — to build a career I’m proud of, to build a family with a partner I love and respect, and to pass on that same love and support to my own sons and daughters.
I take a step forward.
“Can I sit?”
No answer.
“I’m not trying to escape,” I add.
He cocks his head and there’s a hint of a smile that gives me hope. “You’re not? Then how’d you get here?”
I shrug. “Well, I was trying to escape. But I’m not, now.”
He pats a spot on the floor next to him. “Even if you were, I would’ve caught you. You’re good, but not that good. Go ahead, have a seat, Houdini.”
I sit down, and we’re side by side. After a moment, I shift a little, trying to get comfortable — which isn’t real easy when your hands are tied — and I brush against him. He is rock-solid and, even when he’s sitting on the floor next to a box of tampons and some chocolates, there’s something about him that oozes masculine confidence.
“Thirsty?”
He pops the top of the bottle of wine and takes a drink before handing it to me.
I haven’t asked for it, but right now feels like one of those situations that requires a drink. I take a long one.
The wine tastes like spoiled grape juice.
I look at the label. Leon’s Old Tyme Wine. Figures.
“What’s going on here?” I say, hesitantly.
He shrugs his shoulders and rolls his head from side to side and then takes a drink of wine that drains nearly a third of the bottle. “Do you really want to know?”
“I’d rather know why I’ve been kidnapped than not know. I mean, I’ve already seen your face and heard your voice. I wouldn’t have any problem picking you out of a lineup. So I’m in this pretty deep,” I say. “Plus, you bought me tampons. That’s taking our relationship to the next level.”
“Fair point,” he says. “I couldn’t find your brand, by the way. Sorry bout that.”
“I made them up. And I don’t need them. All I wanted was a little time so that I could try and, um, not escape.”
He laughs. A deep, rumbling, belly laugh that makes me feel warm. “What a fucking night, huh? At least I got some free chocolate for the damn trouble.”
“You got these for free?”
“Consolation prize. For not having your brand. They’re horrible, by the way. Taste like soap. It’s fucking stressful as hell shopping for tampons,” he says, offhandedly. Then, standing up, he offers his hand to me. “Listen, I need a break from this shit. You want to go watch some cartoons?”
I look over at him sideways. “Excuse me?”
Tonight just keeps getting more and more bizarre.
“Do you want to watch some cartoons?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important. So, you can either sit down on the couch with me, eat some chocolate, and watch cartoons, or I can put you back in that chair and tie you up well enough that not even your beautiful escape-artist ass will get out.”
Did he just call me beautiful?
I shake my head clear. It’s not a hard decision. But it’s one I never in my life thought I’d have to make.
“Let’s go watch cartoons.”
We head into his living room. It’s sparsely decorated. And, though his couch doesn’t look like much, it’s comfortable all the same. I stretch out on it and find this perfect groove to lay in.
He sits down next to me. I end up with my feet on his lap, and my head on one of the armrests. It’s pretty comfortable, even with my hands tied. The wine’s not too far out of reach and I can still get to the chocolates.
All things considered, I feel pretty good right now.
“When I moved in, the landlord installed some kind of smart TV or whatever the fuck they call it. I haven’t figured it all out — shit’s changed fast in just the few years that I was gone — but I can get online with it and it plays a whole bunch of movies and shows,” Nash says, pressing a few buttons on the remote.
In about a minute, he’s got the cartoon playing.
“Bob the Builder?” I say, looking over at him. This is weird.
But he’s not paying me any attention. He’s got his eyes square on the screen.
“Yeah,” he answers. “This is what we’re watching. You have an issue with that, I can put you back in your chair. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“It’s just an unusual choice, is what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s an old British cartoon about some construction worker. I would’ve expected something different.”
He takes a drink of wine, pops a few chocolates into his mouth, and shrugs. “At least it represents an ethos. This Bob guy has a code he lives by, and I can respect that.”
“A code? An ethos? What kind?”
“Building shit.”
“Building shit? That’s it?”
“Sometimes things are that simple. The community needs shit built, Bob builds shit, and it works out for him.”
“If you say so.”
He eats another chocolate. I eat one, too. They’re not half bad for something he got for free from a convenience store. On the screen, Bob and his anthropomorphised tractor are fixing some farmer’s barn and building him a fence.
“Where would Bobsville be without Bob? He might not be mayor — and I don’t blame him for not wanting the job, he can do better for himself being his own fucking boss — but that town wouldn’t be shit without him.”
“Might be why they named it after him,” I add.
“Damn right,” he says. “It sets a good example. Work hard. Don’t take shit from anybody. Be your own man. Or woman.”
He leans forward, his muscular arms resting on his knees, his face staring straight ahead, his eyes glued to the TV. He’s so into this show, and all because of his daughter, that it’s endearing. I can’t help but smile.
Tonight is quickly moving off the list of ‘Worst Dates in my Life’ onto the ‘Not so bad’ dates list.
In the show, Bob’s girlfriend is helping him sort out the day’s jobs and is generally being the glue that keeps Bob’s business in order.
“Wendy isn’t half bad, either,” I say.
“No, she isn’t,” Nash says, nodding. He pats my leg idly and, even with all that’s happened between us tonight, it feels kind of good. “That’s how it’s got to be if you’re going to make it. You can get pretty far on your own, but if you can find an old lady that knows her shit and you two can work together, there’s nothing that can stop you. Fuck, I love this show.”
We’ve drained the bottle of wine and he gets up for a minute to get us something more from the kitchen. He comes back with a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of coke, and some water. “In case you want to slow down,” he says, motioning to the water and coke and then lifting my leg to sit back down with my feet in his lap.
I rotate between all three beverages. I’ve got a good buzz going, and it’s perfect for losing myself in the adventures going on in Bobsville. I want to keep it going, to enjoy this strange bit of comfort as long as I can.
Eventually, I doze off into an easy sleep, my eyes half-closed, and animated voices dancing in the back of my head. It’s a peaceful sleep. It takes me to my childhood, to innocent Saturday mornings, to feeling comfortable, safe, innocent. It’s a feeling I never thought I’d have so soon after my breakup with Erick and my kidnapping.
“Oh, what the fuck,” Nash blurts out, sitting forward, blue eyes blazing at the TV.
I jolt. Awake. Alert. My heart pounding in my chest.
“What’s going on? Is something wrong?”
“You see that son of a bitch right there?” he says, pointing at the TV.
“What is that? He looks like Snidley Whiplash crossed with a potato.”
“That fucker’s name is Spud. He’s a scarecrow. And that son of a bitch needs to die.”
“What? Why do you want to kill an anthropomorphic potato?”
“Ok, I’ll catch you up: Bob is out there fixing the roof of Farmer Pickle’s shed, and this son of a bitch Spud steals Bob’s ladder — while he’s up there — so he can go pick apples and lay around in the fucking grass,” he says, his fists clenching. It’s cute how worked up he’s getting. “Bob is stranded. Don’t you see? When he finally gets down, he needs to murder Spud and then use that talking backhoe to bury that asshole Spud in the farmer’s field.”
“You think Bob needs to murder the scarecrow? That doesn’t sound very appropriate for a children’s show.”
“Bob’s been stranded up there for hours. And now Spud gets let off because he got sick from eating too many apples, so they feel he’s learned his lesson.”
“Maybe that’s a better lesson for Abigail. Being selfish and short-sighted doesn’t work out. Bob still got down from the shed, he’s still the big man in town running his business with Wendy. I’d say he’s doing just fine.”
He looks over at me. “Maybe you’re right.” Then, after a pause, “how would you take care of Spud?”
I look at him, unsure if he’s serious. “Take care of him?”
“Yes. Say you needed to get Spud out of the way, what would you do?”
“Talk to him.”
“Stop fucking around with me. You’ve seen Spud, you know he won’t listen.”
I think for a second. I put myself in Bob’s shoes — stuck up a ladder while some miscreant is off picking apples. Then, it hits me. “I’d still talk to Spud. I’d pull him politely aside, and I’d explain to him that it wouldn’t be hard for me to build Farmer Pickle a better scarecrow. That I’d do it for free, unless Spud cuts his shit out.”
“So, you’d threaten to make Spud homeless?”
“I guess,” I say. “I mean, I’d tell him there are consequences for his actions — he was stealing, after all — but I’d give him the chance to change his behavior.”
“That’s cold. I like it.”
I sit up and frown. When I move my tongue around in my mouth, it feels like scratchy velvet’s started growing on my teeth. “I need to call it a night. And I need to brush my teeth.”
Eyes still on the TV, he nods. “Your toothbrush is in the medicine cabinet. I’m going to be up a bit, still. And don’t try anything — this show’s good stuff, my little Abigail has good taste — and if you make me miss an episode having to chase you down, I won’t be happy.”
“I’ll be back,” I say.
He turns and looks at me, and I hold up my hands. “I promise.”
I walk down the hallway to the bathroom. Sure enough, there’s a toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, still in it’s package, just for me. I open it, take it in my tied hands, and learn just how weird it feels to double-fist pump a toothbrush in my mouth. It feels like I’m doing something else entirely — something that, if things were different, I’d gladly do with Nash.
Mouth clean, I step back into the hallway and look around.
Where the hell am I going to sleep?
My kidnapping-room is out of the question. I can’t go to Nash’s bed, because he’s still my kidnapper and, as far as I know, I don’t have Stockholm Syndrome. Which leaves me with the couch.
Slowly, I walk back out to the living room and lie down next to him. The TV’s still going, he’s still engrossed in the show — paying attention to every story, every theme, every character — and I make myself comfortable on the couch.
My eyes shut and I drift to sleep as Bob and Wendy ride a talking dump truck into the sunset.
Tonight definitely isn’t the worst date I’ve ever been on.