I make it ten minutes before I can’t hold my tongue anymore. “Where are we going?”
“Home.” He gruffly repeats the single word answer he gave earlier.
My teeth press into my lower lip. I probably shouldn’t pester him. A happy captor is a kind captor. Or so I might assume.
“But where is home?” I never was good at being quiet.
When he only sighs, I tear my gaze away from the scenery and look at him.
The interior of the car is too dim to show me his features well, but I don’t need light to remember the spark in his eye. And the passing street lamps are enough to outline his strong jaw. His strong brow. His strong everything.
Honestly, it’s not even fair for someone to look so good. And it’s certainly not fair that my brain just can’t seem to get over the fact. Every time I look at him fear should be the first thing I feel. But it’s not.
Instead, I have this girlish squirmy feeling inside of me. The feeling that lets you know someone is attractive; and that that someone is too attractive for you, and that they probably know it. So when I should be focusing on the important things––like how do I escape––my mind grabs on to the fact that this shirt I’m wearing is kind of tight. And that the band of my jean shorts is also tight. And that sitting like this makes my stomach pooch out over the seatbelt. And my thighs––sweaty from exertion and stress––are sticking to the warm leather seat beneath me. And I know none of that is important. I know that it’s all stupid trivial societal shit that I shouldn’t worry about ever, let alone when I’m being literally kidnapped by a madman. But still, here I am, wondering what he thinks of me. And that might be the thing I hate the most about myself right now.
He sighs again, probably sick of me staring at his profile. “We’ll be there soon enough.”
I glance out the windshield. We’re heading down the freeway, with Minneapolis growing smaller behind us. Which only tells me that he doesn’t live in the city.
“You live in a suburb?” I don’t know why that’s so unbelievable, but it is.
“Listen, you can sit there and observe, or I can blindfold you. But I’m not going to just give you my address.”
“But…” I don’t know why I can’t just shut up. “You’re taking me there. So won’t I see where you live?”
King turns his head to look at me. “Would you rather I take you to one of the warehouses? Because I promise you that my house is more comfortable. For both of us.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than I’d consider safe before he turns back to looking at the road ahead of us.
Clamping my lips shut, I go back to looking out the window.
I don’t have much experience with threats of violence, but going to one of the warehouses sounds like one.
Who even has warehouses? Plural?
“Is King your real name?” I watch my own eyes widen in the reflection of my window.
Why did I ask that!?
I don’t think I can call his reaction this time a sigh, it’s more of a long, loud exhale. “Savannah, you can’t possibly think that’s a good thing to ask me?”
His tone is more incredulous than mad, so I allow my gaze to swing back in his direction. “Because it’s not?”
“Because acting dumb is basically the number one rule of being kidnapped. And you just told me that you know my name. Why would I ever let you go now?”
“Oh.” I push my hands down further between my thighs, hunching my shoulders. “But you know my name.”
“Yeah.” The way he says the word sounds like duh. “But I’m the one doing the kidnapping. I’m supposed to know things about you.”
“But you already know that I know who you are. Because we met this afternoon,” I point out dumbly.
I watch him shake his head. “Do you want me to kill your friend, too?”
“What!?” My hands fly up, palms out in a stop motion. “No!”
“Then maybe talking about that connection is a bad idea.”
“Well, I’m freaking sorry,” I wave my hands around. “I’ve never been kidnapped before!”
“No shit.”
“Gee, my apologies for being a bad captive,” I snap. “If I’d have known––”
The rest of my words go unheard as King presses a button on his steering wheel, and the car is suddenly filled with loud rock music.
“Great. Fine,” I mutter to myself, crossing my arms and turning my head away from him. “Perfect victim coming right up.”
Traffic thins, as we head west, going further and further away from downtown.
I grew up in what was considered a richer suburb, east of the cities, by the Wisconsin border. My parents were very insular, particular about who they spent time with, so I didn’t often get to leave their little bubble of lawyers and house parties. Certainly not to the opposite side of the Twin Cities.
And then, to my parents’ horror, I went to an art school in the heart of Minneapolis, rather than following their prestigious law school dreams. Meaning, I suddenly became broke––living off student loans and shitty, part-time, on-campus jobs, without a car to my name. To be fair, they warned me they’d cut me off if I choose art over law. And they stuck true to their word.
So, even though I’ve spent my whole life not far from where we are right now, I’m not familiar with any of it.
Sure, I have a car now, and a little house––thank you grandma for that inheritance–– but I guess I’ve unwittingly repeated my parent’s behavior, only interacting with other people in my art world. Only moving between my home and my studio and the galleries I show at.
Do better, Savannah.
A full fifteen minutes have gone by since the last time I spoke, and I find my mouth opening when we round a corner and are confronted with the sight of a lake. A big lake.
The moonlight shimmers across the still surface and it feels like he’s driven to a whole new world.
I’m used to seeing the Mississippi River, since it slices through the heart of Minneapolis, but that’s fast-moving, loud, almost violent at times. This is…something else entirely. And if I had red slippers on, I’d click my heels together. Because we’re not in Kansas anymore.
