Page 27 of Love Set Free

Luck was on our side in getting out of the apartment. The not-so-dearly-departed Could’ve Been a Model had left the bedroom door unlocked, so Jackson and I had easily made our way from there to the rest of the apartment. Our luck held, and we breathed a giddy sigh of relief when we discovered that Blond Guy and Tattooed American Guy—oops. Rather, TattooedCanadianGuy, since Jackson corrected me on his nationality—were both still gone, presumably off doing their best in keeping the wheels of my kidnapping on track.

The locks securing the front door should’ve been a deterrent to our escape, but the material of the door was so cheap and flimsy that it only took the clever application of a screwdriver, handily left lying around, to pop the plates securing them loose from the door.

Having managed to avoid our other kidnappers and successfully flung open the door to our prison, our concern now was navigating our way through a crowded city, continuing to evade our captors, and avoiding attracting attention. Neither Jackson nor I have any sort of proper identification, so running into the Brazilian police would prove sticky, and we definitely didn’t want to stumble our way into the company of a different set of criminals. We needed to work out where the best place for us to head to was, all while not actually knowing what part of the city we were in.

I’m not sure if our stench from not having bathed recently or whether Jackson and I just looked that raggedy and down-on-our-luck that we blended in with the native Cariocas and other foreigners as we made our way through the streets of Rio. Either way, we luckily managed to avoid drawing the eye of anyone who might hinder our progress as we made our trek.

What I hadn’t anticipated was Jackson’s difficulty in simply being outside.

The bright sunshine of summer was hard enough for my own eyes to adjust to after a week spent solely inside rooms with either no windows or windows that were blocked off. But Jackson had gone even longer without exposure to the sun. Three times as long. And his eyes had been hidden behind a blindfold—days upon days upon days of complete darkness.

The radical shift from black nothing to bright, pervasive sunlight had to be excruciating for him. Indeed, he spent our stumbling and rambling journey through the city with his head tilted down and with his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the sun’s rays as much as possible.

Even now, situated safe and sound in the consulate lobby, Jackson has his eyes closed against the glare of light shining in through the plethora of windows.

“I’m sorry.”

Jackson startles, either because neither one of us has said anything in a while or because he isn’t expecting my apology.

“For what? You’ve nothing—"

“Because we’re stuck sitting here in the lobby,” I say. “It didn’t occur to me that they wouldn’t just let us in to see the Consul without an appointment first. And on top of that…” I’m very aware of the passage of how long the receptionist has grudgingly allowed us to loiter in the lobby—it’s sort of hard to avoid noticing the approach of dusk with the number of windows all around us. “We were just barely granted use of these chairs and a spot in the lobby after a quick Google search confirmed I am who I say I am. But I’m pretty sure the Consulate’s going to be closing up for the day and we don’t have anywhere to go once they kick us out. And I don’t have any money or forms of payment on me to spring for a hotel room.”

I’m just a touch disillusioned that reality isn’t living up to what movies and television portray. I’d assumed that as soon as Jackson and I burst through the consulate doors, we’d be whisked back to see somebody in charge, somebody who could help us. Instead, despite what we’d told her, the receptionist seemed pretty convinced that the worst ordeal we’d gone through was a raging party that had gotten out of hand. The confirmation of my identity had almost been a two-edged sword–it had granted us a few hours of shelter in the Consulate lobby, but it had also seemingly cemented the receptionist’s opinion of us as partying wastrels not in need of immediate help.

Jackson seems oddly unconcerned with my pronouncement. “So, we’ll just find a handy park to hunker down in for the night. Or else...Rio’s a beach city, right? Like, there’s a lot of beaches here? We could make our way to one of those and crash there. Not like the weather’ll be an issue. Heck, we probably wouldn’t even be the only idiots pulling up a patch of sand to snooze on for the night.”

“Er, yeah. I...I guess. I mean... You wouldn’t...”

I can’t recall ever having slept outside without any sort of shelter, not even at my drunkest. Although, I suppose it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that I’ve been drunk enough to do so and just couldn’t remember.

Again, Jackson seems unbothered by the possibility. He shrugs and waggles his foot, causing the loose sole of his shoe to flap around.

He’s sitting sprawled in his chair, one long leg stretched out with his left foot propped up on his right knee. And every so often, he’s been absent-mindedly jiggling that foot. Thefwap,fwap,fwapof the rubber sole slapping against the bottom of the heel of his shoe has me resolved to purchase a new pair–or five–for him as soon as I can. But it seems to be particularly irritating for the Consul receptionist, who’s been shooting annoyed, laser-like glares in our direction whenever Jackson takes up the action.

Since we do need to get in to see the Consul sooner rather than later, I figure it might be a good idea to make a strategic retreat now–before we get thrown out and permanently banned. I start to suggest as such to Jackson, but before I can say much more than, “I can’t come up with a better plan, so we might as well,” the door to the Consulate is flung open and a commanding voice I would recognize anywhere booms out, “I need to see the Consul. Now.”

Chapter Eighteen

Jackson

I always thought that, in the movie, Cinderella always looked surprisingly calm for having a fairy godmother poof into her life, rain all sorts of magic down on her, and completely flipped her world upside down. Now, I realize, she wasn’t calm. She must’ve been in fucking shock.

Because, while my own magician happens to be an older, slightly grayer version of Phoenix and not some short, round woman with wings, I find myself swept up and transported to some lavishly decorated, expensive-as-all-hell world. And I can tell you, I’m fucking shocked.

When Mr. and Mrs. Wilding burst into the U.S. Consulate demanding to see the Consul, they clearly hadn’t expected to find their missing son plonked down in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the corner of the lobby. Me, I don’t think they even noticed. Which, honestly, was just hunky-dory by me.

We might’ve formed an odd sort of friendship while we were stuck locked up near each other. And we might’ve had that, uh,moment, where we’d played handsies and looked at each other through the hole in my box. I haven’t really figured out what theheck all that was. Why I did it or just how I feel about that oddly intimate connection through touch.

It doesn’t surprise me that Phoenix felt compelled to get me out and help me escape with him. But now that we’re both free… I’m less certain why I’m still with him and why he didn’t just leave me there at the Consulate, to fend for myself and figure out a way to get my own ass back to the States. I have even less of an idea as to why Phoenix’s parents let me tag along and didn’t just swoop in and remove him as far away from this situation, and me, as possible.

“I’d already arranged for a penthouse suite for your mother and I before we flew down, but unfortunately, all the others are already booked. So, all I was able to get for you and...” There’s a short pause as Phoenix’s father realizes he hasn’t bothered to learn what my name is. However, he doesn’t let it trouble him for long before he finishes with telling Phoenix, “...is a pair of regular suites. One of them is an ocean-view suite, which…I assume you’ll want to take, Phoenix?”

Phoenix’s thick, dark hair is stringy and clumpy from being unwashed. His expensive vacation-type clothes are wrinkled, dirty, sporting a number of rips, and I even think I can see bits of blood smeared on them in a few places. His face and the exposed skin on his arms and legs are caked with almost as much dirt as mine are. And he looks more exhausted than someone pulling a couple of all-nighters. All in all, he’s far from the pampered, privileged, stylish, untouchable guy in the magazine pictures I’ve seen.

And yet, now that he’s back in the loving embrace of his family, it’s like I can see him morphing back into Phoenix Wilding–no longer just Phoenix, the guy locked up in a cage next to me, who has really strong opinions on pop culture and who can make me laugh. A comforting light in the shitty darkness of reality. Now it’s as though…if he’s still a light, now he’s that star in the sky,shining bright enough to wish upon, but never close enough to touch.

The limo we’re in–seriously, an actual fucking limo–pulls up in front of a gleaming white palace situated only steps away from the world-famous Copacabana Beach. I’m not even fucking kidding; the place has the word ‘Palace’ right there on the front of it in giant fucking letters.

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