Page 17 of Be Mine

Would I? Would I have accompanied him if he asked? He watches me as I work it all over in my head, but he knows the answer, and so do I.

“Maybe. But you never gave me the chance to decide for myself.”

“Because I anticipated the outcome. I don’t leave anything to chance.”

“And what is all of this?”

“All of what? Breakfast?” His eyebrows raise, feigning ignorance. God, he can’t be this obtuse. No, he’s baiting me. He wants to hear the words from my mouth. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at him.

“Well as lovely as that is. No. I mean the gifts. The flowers. The heart—”

“Ah, yes speaking of, you must have accidentally misplaced this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the box that was delivered to the front desk of the motel, the one I chucked into the garbage can, and slides it across the table to me. Oh, he’s playing me alright.

I eye the object like it’s about to detonate. Who knows what this small package could contain.

Noah notices my apprehension. “I promise, you’ll like it.”

“Like the heart, Noah? Or drugging and kidnapping me? You couldn’t ask me out like a normal person?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but the frustration has erupted. And you know what? Fuck it. He’s probably going to torture me or kill me, anyway.

I expect him to lash out in retaliation. I even wince a bit when he readjusts in his chair, but it almost looks like I’ve wounded him. He recovers quickly, sliding his glasses back up his nose, but that micro-reaction makes a ball of guilt form in me, and I wish I could take back the words.

He clears his throat, focusing back on his plate. “Open the gift when you’re ready. But please, eat, you need your strength. It will help metabolize the drugs as well as the alcohol you consumed yesterday.”

I can’t eat. My mouth dries and my stomach protests at the thought, but I stab a pancake with my fork from the top of the stack in aggravation anyway. I slap it on my plate and douse it with syrup, if only to appease him.

A stretch of time passes between us where all that can be heard is the scraping of a fork across the plate and the hum ofLollipopby The Chordettesfrom the record player. I watch as Noah eats, slowly, exasperated by his indifference.

“Whatisyour deal with retro music?” I can’t help but ask. Every time I encounter this man, he has the oldies playing.

“I like it.” He shrugs, rising from his chair to clean the table and load the dishes in the dishwasher. “You need to call the police officer back. He called your phone this morning.”

“And what shall I tell him?” He can’t be serious. If I call Officer Barde, I’m rolling on him..

“I’ve already spoken with him. He knows you left Threshold with me. He just needs confirmation that you’re ok. And to speak with you regarding yesterday.” The cops know I’m here. Noah is either incredibly stupid, or incredibly arrogant.

“About the heart you mean?”

“Yes.”

“He told me it’s a human heart. Is that true?” I look up at him through my lashes, hoping this impenetrable man will give me just a glimpse. A glimpse inside the clockwork that is his mind.

He leans against the counter, in all his glory. A physique carved from granite. Every dip and valley of muscles pronounced. His jaw works as he looks at me behind those black-rimmed glasses. The blues of his irises flare, defrosting a fraction of the icy barren that lies there. “You already know the answer to that,” he says as he shoves off the counter and strides towards the bedroom.

I’m left alone at the table with an uneaten pancake, a dozen roses staring me down, and a gift beside me that looks like a death threat. I’m caught between screaming bloody murder and laughing hysterically. Yesterday morning, I was in the comfort and safety of my own home, leading a menial existence. Now, I’m being held captive by the butcher from the grocery store.

I hear the opening and closing of drawers from down the hall. The rustling of clothing. Noah emerges dressed in a whitetee, jeans, and a leather jacket. His hair back into its usual, perfected coif.

“I need to take care of something, but I'll be back shortly. I took the liberty of bringing some of your things over. Clothing. Toiletries. They’re all in the bedroom for you.” What kind of kidnapper is this guy? He clearly didn’t read the instruction manual before executing this.

He leans against the entryway to the kitchen, hovering there for a beat, like he wants to say more. The unspoken words hang between us like stagnant air before he turns and walks to the front door.

“Oh, and Frankie?” he calls out, and I’m still not quite used to hearing him speak. The deep timber carries through the house like a booming echo. “Don’t think about running. I’ll find you and drag you back.”

With that, I hear the click of the door and the slide of the lock.

I sit, waiting to hear the rumble of his truck engine. Then I wait two minutes more, until I’m sure he’s pulled out of the driveway before I haul myself up, my legs reminding me that I’m not operating at one hundred percent, and walk to the front door. I turn the lock over and yank on the handle, but it doesn’t give. Running to the back, I do the same and get the same response.He’s locked me in.

I spin in circles, my hands threading through my hair, latching onto the roots and pulling frantically. There’s another way. Therehasto be another way. I try all the windows in the kitchen, the living room, and bathroom. Everything is sealed shut. I press my cheek to the glass, hoping to see someone outside. Maybe if I scream or bang, they’ll hear me. But the street is quiet. No residents outside. No cars on the road.

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