Page 22 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

There’s a man sitting in an expensive-looking desk chair in the chaos corner. He’s wearing big blocky headphones and playing a game on one of the monitors, while the others show an assortment of windows and apps that may or may not be in use.

“Archie,” Stryker barks, and the man spins around in his fancy chair. His eyes catch on me first, taking me in with a slow, methodical gaze. I squirm, uncomfortable, and he grins. I take a step back. He, thankfully, moves his eyes to Stryker. I face him too.

He’s in the middle of ripping his shirt off one-handed. And I meanrippingit off. He has his collar held betweenstraight, white teeth while he uses one hand to tear the sleeve from his handcuffed arm. I gape, then moan as his wound is exposed.

“Your new friend is delightful, Stryker.” The man – Archie, I presume – has a British accent, coating his words with a sophistication that almost hides how absolutely insane they are. Is everyone here British? I thought they got free healthcare. Surely that would have taken care of their mental health as well? Why are they all in Crazyville?

“Don’t even think about it,” Stryker tells him. He’s managed to get his shirt fully off now, and I have to avert my eyes from the naked expanse of muscle. The last thing we need right now is for me to pass out. One medical emergency at a time, please.

“Think about what, buddy?” Archie asks, head tilted. He is the picture of innocence.

I take another step back.

He chuckles, then stands from his chair and moves between Stryker and me. He’s about my height, I notice. He looks small next to Stryker, but doesn’t seem to notice the disparity as he examines the gun wound.

“How did a strapping young lad like yourself end up with one of these?” He tsks.

“Can you stitch it up for me?” Stryker asks, ignoring him. Archie hums.

“I could,” he says, ”for a price.”

My eyes go wide.

“What do you want?” Stryker asks, unsurprised and seemingly unperturbed. My head ping-pongs between them as Archie answers.

“Internet fee waived for a year and solo pool slots every Friday for six months.”

“Solo pool slots for six months and gym fee waived indefinitely,” Stryker counteroffers.

“Internet is non-negotiable, I’m afraid,” Archie tells him, “but I will gladly accept the free gym membership in addition to my original offer.”

Stryker makes an annoyed sound deep in his throat.

“I’m not givin’ you the internet,” he says, rather stubbornly. I’d give the man his internet if I were him. Archie shrugs and walks to his chair, sitting on the plush leather and playing with the lumbar support adjuster. Stryker watches him, jaw clenched.

Uh… he’s not giving up, is he? Over some measly internet? He needs medical attention!

“Do something!” I hiss. He gives me a look so sharp I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m the one bleeding when he looks away. I wince, and Stryker turns the brunt of his anger back on Archie.

“Internet for six months, pool for three.”

Archie spins his chair in a smooth circle, shaking his head. Stryker growls.

“You’re such a pain in my a–”

“He’ll give it to you!” I interrupt. I can’t let this idiot bleed out here and leave me alone with Archie, who clearly has no qualms about his own moral failures, if his bartering for medical services is anything to go by.

Archie laughs and rolls his chair over to us while Stryker grumbles but doesn’t contradict me. My body relaxes as adrenaline eases out of my system at his acquiescence.

“Come sit on Dr. Archie’s table.” The “doctor” pats a table in the middle of the room. It’s similar to ones I’ve seen in hospital exam rooms. The top of it is thinly padded with a blue plastic-like material and long enough that even Stryker could lie down on it comfortably. Stryker sits.

“Ah, I almost forgot!” Archie leaps out of his seat and walks over to a tall, white storage cabinet pushed againstthe wall. He pulls out a white doctor’s coat, a stethoscope, and black, thick-framed glasses. Accessories acquired, he puts them on and returns to the table, dragging a rolling cart of drawers along with him. “Okay,nowI’m ready to see you!”

Up close, I notice that his glasses don’t have lenses in them. Stryker scowls at him. Unbothered, Archie busies himself cleaning the damaged area on Stryker’s arm. I quickly glance at the wound, then do a double take. It isn’t nearly as bad as I had originally thought. Honestly, now that the blood is gone, it’s more of a deep scratch than anything. I move closer to get a better look.

“You know, it really isn’t that bad,” I tell him. “I don’t know why you had to bleed so much. So dramatic. You had me thinking you were dying!” I huff. He switches his attention from Archie’s work to me. Oh, goodie. I’ve earned one of his big, bad, meanie looks.

Whatever. I’m not the one having a whole drama over an itty bitty scratch.

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