Page 10 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

Stryker is immune to the power of my smile.

“I’m being serious,” he says. I nod at him. Of course he is. Perfectly serious. I can see that.

“I know you are, honey,” I answer. Poor guy.

“Millicent, you need to understand that I’m being honest with you right now. I’m an assassin. I kill people.” He looks quite frustrated. I dial up the smile, and he scowls. Maybe the smile doesn’t work on people under the age of eighty? I dial it back down.

“I’m grateful for your honesty,” I say. “You were very brave in sharing your secret with me, and I hope you don’t view my laughter as a sign that I don’t appreciate how hard that must have been. I have no excuse for my behavior, and can only say that the body responds to different situations in a variety of strange and unpredictable ways. I’m sure you’ve learned that well in your line of work.” It’s not easy, but I manage to keep my expression pleasant and my voice mostly sincere. Stryker doesn’t say anything. Not that he needs to with how loud that scowl is. I continue on.

“Now that we’re being open with each other, I think we could benefit from other forms of trust,” I tell him, then take a moment for a bit of pretend contemplation.

“I know!” I exclaim. “We could take off these cuffs! Surely we can come to a better, more comfortable arrangement with the foundation of trust we’re building.”That arrangement will be me free and him in a psych ward, but he doesn’t need to know that just yet. I put on my best doe-eyed innocent face and aim it at the small bump on the bridge of his nose, hoping he mistakes it for eye contact. These things are supposed to go much better with eye contact.

His scowly face doesn’t change.

“Your act isn’t working, and I’m not taking the cuffs off,” he says. Hmph.

He crosses his arms, his muscles prominent, and I hurriedly look away. Doesn’t he know that’s an indecent pose? He has to know. Even crazy people know about that type of stuff. What’s he trying to do, standing like that? And in the middle of my scene, too!

“Stop pouting,” he bosses. What a weird thing to say to a person who is absolutely not pouting.

“I’m not pouting. That would be ridiculous. It’s just that I’m a little upset about you thinking I’m not being genuine with you, especially after you were so trusting a minute ago.” I sniff. He gives a disbelieving grunt. Okay, rude. I’m no movie star, but my acting isn’tthatbad.

“The cuffs stay,” he tells me. “I can’t have you running off and hurting yourself.” Oh yeah, because he seemed so concerned about my safety when he was flinging me around in the back of his van going eighty miles an hour.

“There you are,” he says, moving toward me fast. His fingers touch the corner of my mouth, the space between my eyebrows. “Knew you couldn’t hide for long.”

I take a big step back, and he follows, keeping us moving until my back is flat against the wall and he has me effectively trapped. He’s stopped touching me, but he’s close enough that he might as well still be. I’m afraid if I breathe too deeply we’ll brush against each other.

“Back up,” I say to his neck, which is roughly fourinches from my face – much too close. At least it’s not his eyes, I suppose.

In a flash of movement, his hand is in my hair, and my face is tilted up. Oh, great. There are his eyes. They’re indecent too, if you want my opinion. Who authorized him to carry those things around? He is unworthy.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I tell him, moving my head side to side in a vain attempt to loosen his grip. Surprising no one, it doesn’t work.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says, tightening his grip to the point where it’s almost, but not quite, painful. “You’re going to quit lyin’ and actin’ stupid. It’s not cute.”

I scoff. I’ve already decided I don’t care what he thinks is cute, which he should know since he’s looking right at my chosen hairstyle.

“Once you start bein’ honest, I’ll be more than willin’ to listen to whatever you have to say. Until then, I think we should practice a little bit of bein’ quiet, yeah?”

“I don’t really like that plan,” I tell him. It’s taking up a lot of my energy to keep my eyes off his. I don’t have any to spare on keeping silent.

“I didn’t ask.”

Okay,rude.

“You’re not very nice,” I tell him.

“I’m a professional killer. We’re not known for being nice.”

“I heard Ted Bundy was very charismatic, actually,” I educate him – maybe a touch snootily. He sighs.

“Ted Bundy wasn’t a professional,” he says. Well, he doesn’t need to sound so put out about it.

“Right, and you are,” I respond, all skepticism.

It’s not that I think he couldn’t be. He’s got the arms, the thighs, and the attitude for it. What he doesn’t have isthe location. We live in Kentucky. Who is there to assassinate in Kentucky? And even if there were a market for trained killers here, what would one want with me? It doesn’t make any sense. Unless, of course, you are delusional.

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