Page 11 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“You’ll see,” he says. “You don’t believe me now, but you will. I’ll show you.”

Uh, hold up. What’s he mean by that?

“Show me?” I squeak, trying to push him off of me. I hope this whackjob doesn’t plan to actually off someone. I hope he doesn’t plan to offme.

“Relax,” he says, not moving. “If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it two months ago.”

Is that his idea of a relaxing thought?

“Two months ago?” I wheeze. Has he been watching me for two months? Exactly how far does his delusion go?

He moves his head back a couple of inches, the better to view my impending breakdown, I guess.

“Yes, two months ago when you tripped Robert Nickelson on his way to get a pack of cigarettes, causing my shot to miss him and hit a gas pump instead. The whole thing caught fire and exploded, and you helped that mo–” Ack! My innocent ears! “–er into an ambulance because you thought he got hit by a bit of shrapnel while you were pushin’ him away from the fire. It wasn’t shrapnel that hit him, Millie. You cost me a mark and a client. That was the first canceled contract I’ve ever had. I could’ve wrung your neck.”

“You shot Bobby?” I screech. He glowers at me.

“’Bobby’ earned himself a contract by assaulting a mob wife.”

“There are mob wives in Kentucky?” I ask, baffled, and significantly less concerned about Bobby’s fate. He was nice to me while I was dragging him across the pavementto the ambulance, but I’m not stupid enough to think that one instance of politeness made the guy a saint. If he assaulted a woman then he gets what he gets. I’ve got no qualms about it.

“She had three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and her face was unrecognizable by the time he was through with her. They identified her by her wedding ring,” he tells me. I frown. I shouldn’t have moved Bobby away from the fire. I should have thrown him into it.

“And you missed?! What kind of assassin are you? You let that scumbag get away!” I can’t believe this. Sure, the guy’s a fake killer, but he couldn’t have made up a better ending? He could’ve said he got him later after I left. Who pretends to be a killer and then tells a story about being bad at it? This man needs professional help ASAP. He can’t even delusion correctly!

“I didn’t let him get away! You did!” he snaps at me. Well, excuuuse me. He’s the “professional”! I didn’t know what we were dealing with!

“You’re the ’professional’! I didn’t know what we were dealing with!” I snap back. Take that! I glare at him, consequences be blowed. He glares back.

“This is fu–” Sir! My ears! “–ing stupid. I can’t believe we’re arguing about this. I tried to kill the guy, and you got in the way. Then, youhelped him get away.I lost money on that job. I lost clients. My reputation took a hit. Then, you got in the way at the next job – and every job since. Always there with that green scarf flowin’ in your face while you fall all over those princess maxi skirts you won’t stop wearin’. You’re a walking catastrophe! I can hardly get a job these days because of you!” Stryker’s panting for breath by the time he stops yelling at me, and I’m still glaring. It’s notmyfault he’s bad at his make-believe job that he imagined up for himself. How he thinks it’s okay toblame me for his incompetence is beyond me.

“You’re right,” I tell him. “Thisisstupid. It’s stupid that you couldn’t kill one measly bad guy when you had the chance. It’s stupid that you’re blamingmefor your problems when you’re the one in control of your own abilities. And it’s double stupid that you think you get to comment on my clothes! I like my skirts, thank you very much, and I loved that scarf! Now it’s probably carrying the bubonic plague from touching the floor of your nasty, yucky van. Have you ever thought to wash that thing? You owe me a scarf!” Now I’m the one panting for breath while Stryker glares.

We stay like this for several minutes, and I slowly become aware again of his hand in my hair – his body close to mine. At some point, he moved his free arm above my head to support himself as he leans into my space, fully boxing me in.

It’s all a bit much, suddenly: the proximity, the eye contact, the emotions. I find myself waiting to see what will happen next. Hoping I’ll survive it. In my anger, I forgot that I’m arguing with a dangerous man. Perhaps not the type of dangerous he claims to be, but dangerous all the same. A man in peak mental health is a risk. A man exhibiting the mental health levels Stryker has is code level red.

My concern must come through on my face, because he softens somehow – around the mouth maybe – and only says “I’ll get you a new scarf” before pulling back from me and turning toward the bed. He keeps going until the chain is taut between us and, to my surprise, lies down on the cot. I stare, dumbfounded.

Is… is he sleeping on the cot?

What’s happening here? I thought we were fighting. Not that I want to be fighting with a madman, but thatiswhat we were doing, right?

I must take too long to move, because Stryker sits up on the cot and addresses me at my spot against the wall.

“Go to bed, Millie. We can fight tomorrow.” He says it softly, almost sweetly. His mood changes are giving me some serious whiplash. I stay where I am, but all he does is lie back down. Hesitantly, I walk to the bed. Get in on the side furthest from Stryker. Tuck my feet so the monsters under the bed can’t get me. As if that matters now.

I startle when Stryker moves to turn out the lamp on the nightstand. The green glow blinks out, and we’re left to see by only the moonlight coming through the windows. My eyes adjust slowly to the gloom. It’s eerie, and I don’t see how I’ll sleep tonight. Being chained to a lunatic in a dark, unfamiliar room does not a good night’s rest make, one would assume.

One would be wrong. I sleep like a baby.

Chapter Four

I wake up to the sun in my face and an annoying buzz in my ears. The noise sounds just like Stryker. Gross.

“Millie, come on. I gotta go to the bathroom,” he complains. “It’s 9:00 AM. I’ve been up for hours.” I grunt a response. I don’t see how it’s my problem that he didn’t sleep until a normal wake-up time. Is the sun even up at this hour?

“If you don’t get up, I’m going to make you get up, and I have a feeling you’re not going to like how I do it. You’ve got four seconds,” he warns me. Sure, Grouchy. Totally I’ll be doing that. It takes longer than four seconds just to get the eyes working this early in the day, but I’ll speed up the process special for you since you asked so nicely. Yeah, right.

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