CHAPTER 49 Charlie
CHAPTER 49
Charlie
D on’t you dare fucking panic, Charlie.
Adrenaline courses through me like white water, and I’m scanning for anything I can use to get out of here.
I’m sitting in a hard chair in a room with no windows, bare walls, and a closed door, likely locked. A camera is mounted high in one corner. My hands and feet are bound with duct tape, otherwise I’d be flipping the camera off. They’ve taped my legs to the chair, too.
I’m in a suit, but unlike James Bond, I don’t have some fancy gadget in my cuff links.
This is less than ideal.
Problem is, I’ve seen too many movies. What are these people going to do? Torture me? Leave me without food or water for days, and then no one will find my body? Kill me now?
So, okay. My brain goes dark fast.
Think.
I have no idea how long it’s been since I was knocked out, and there are no clues inside this room.
Rowan must be panicking .
Shit.
Rowan must be panicking.
I don’t want him to come and save me. I want to get out of this myself. I don’t want to put him in any danger.
I’m assuming that this is real danger and not some St. Thomas hazing trick.
When the black limo pulled up in front of my house, I had butterflies in my stomach, because I was about to get married. Rowan and I had decided to have a driver pick me up, because we didn’t want two cars at the wedding chapel. Rowan said he wanted to surprise me with something—I’m guessing rings; he’s not that sneaky—so he and Xavier would take his car, and I’d meet up with them after I did some urgent work from home.
“Might as well take advantage of some of the perks of being a St. Thomas,” Rowan had said as he texted about the transportation arrangements. The wedding chapel was very responsive as well, letting us know we could get married the same morning and they’d take care of the documentation.
At the scheduled time, a driver arrived, got out of the limo—leaving it in the middle of the street—and walked up to the front door as I was locking it.
“So, you’re getting married to Rowan today?” he asked.
I followed him back to the car, straightening my tie. “Yes.” My muscles were twitchy with nerves, and I had an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I still hurried, wanting to get moving before we backed up traffic on my narrow block. I love Rowan , I repeated to myself as the driver opened the back door for me. This will keep him safe. His security is the most important thing .
“You’re meeting him at the wedding chapel on Laurel Canyon, correct?” the guy asked.
“Yeah. Well. I’ll have to google it again. I think the cross street is Magnolia.”
“You got it.”
I settled in the back seat of the limo, and he closed the door .
I was getting married. I hadn’t told my mom. She wouldn’t like how I was going about this, since now both of her sons would have deprived her of proper weddings by eloping. Old-fashioned term, I know, but it applied.
In truth, marrying him didn’t sit entirely right with me. It had nothing to do with loving him. I love Rowan, and I want to spend my life with him. Being forced to get a piece of paper to prove that to someone else just feels … unnecessary.
I also don’t like that, to keep Rowan safe, we’re literally getting married for money.
Early this morning, I drafted a prenuptial agreement that basically said I agreed to not ask him for any money whatsoever. Rowan ripped it up without reading it. “None of that bullshit,” he said.
“I’m just trying to protect you,” I protested, shaking my head.
“From whom?” Rowan asked, a hand on his hip.
“Me.” I printed the prenup out again, and he took it from the printer and ripped it up again.
“You’re never going to hurt me,” he’d said, his chin lifting and his fierce eyes flashing. “Not unless I want you to.”
“That’s true.”
So I gave up. The lawyer in me doesn’t like not having things documented, though. Rowan will be receiving too much money to fathom. I want to protect him from everyone on the planet. Including me.
Though, I suppose, if I don’t get out of here, that concern will be moot.
As we drove from my house to the wedding chapel, I wondered what Rowan was wearing. How he was feeling.
Mostly, though, I thought I’m getting married, holy fuck.
The limo glided up the 405, past the Getty, and then pulled into the right lane.
Wait a minute.
We exited at Mulholland, and I rolled down the screen between the driver and me. “Is there an accident on the freeway? I think we took the wrong exit.”
Suddenly, there was a gun pointed at my face.
What the fuck? Was this how Rowan felt when his dad had him kidnapped?
“No, Charlie. We’re going exactly where we need to,” a different man said. He must’ve been hiding in the passenger seat when they picked me up. “Now, hand your phone to me and do exactly what we say.”
They pulled over and made me call Rowan and tell him I wasn’t coming. They looked at me weirdly when I started talking about jazz and bicycles built for two, but that was the only way I could think of to say Rowan, I’m sorry, I’m not doing this on purpose .
Then they duct-taped my hands and injected something into my neck.
Now I’m here in this dank room—wherever here is. I don’t know who told the driver to take me, although the list of suspects isn’t that long. The limo driver must’ve tipped off whoever he’s working for when we arranged for the ride. The question is, which one of Rowan’s jackass greedy family members got desperate enough to stop our wedding?
The door opens, and two men walk in, the limo driver and his sidekick. Does that mean I was wrong about a wannabe St. Thomas heir orchestrating my kidnapping? If it’s not one of those assholes, though—Bree, Anastasia, even Gideon—who is it? My mind starts racing.
Well, shit. I thought I had this figured out and was reviewing my tae kwon do skills, picturing dispatching Gideon with a strong kick.
Apparently not .
One of the men is built solid, like a defensive tackle. The limo driver is tall and lean. I’m more worried about him, and I’m not sure why. Maybe Rowan has taught me not to underestimate people based on their appearance.
The slim one stares at me like he’s expecting me to say something. I don’t know what. Bargain or try to talk my way out of this, maybe. Yell at him. Cry.
I do none of those things. I just keep quiet.
Think, Charlie. You’re the king of the assholes. Leverage that.
After what could have been one minute or ten, he sighs and clucks his tongue. “You’re a disappointment.”
Of all the things I guessed he’d say, that wasn’t on the list.
I have no response, so I glare.
“Aren’t you going to argue with me? Fight me?” he asks. “Threaten me?”
I sigh. “Fight you? While I’m tied up like this?” I know I’m sounding like I’m giving up. I hope he thinks I am. That could give me an advantage. Maybe he’ll underestimate me.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
The stocky one shrugs. “We take various jobs.”
That makes my heart pound. Maybe they’re just petty criminals, and this has nothing to do with the St. Thomas fortune.
If these guys are some kind of contract criminals, then … well, shit. What am I going to do?
The door opens, and Gideon walks in with tracksuit dude.
Gideon looks stressed out, and the other guy looks smug. He looks down his nose at me. Literally, since I’m sitting and he’s standing just inside the doorway.
“You bastards,” I hiss.
“I wanted to chat with you on your own,” Gideon says. “Lonnie mentioned that you might be headed to a wedding chapel.”
“How did you find that out?” I blurt.
Lonnie—of course his name is Lonnie—rolls his eyes. “Remi fired me, but I still have friends who work for him. When you called for a driver for your wedding, they tipped me off.”
“Who did that?” I ask.
“Not saying.” But with how he exchanges a nod with the limo driver, it’s clear who it was.
Gideon crosses his arms over his chest. “It doesn’t matter who told us. Your little fiancé—that goddamned interloper’s not getting twenty billion dollars. He’s … nothing .”
“Rowan is very much something,” I argue. “It has nothing to do with who his father was, either. It has to do with his inner strength. I’d like to see you get through the things he did and come out as chipper and enthusiastic as he is.”
Gideon waves a hand. “I don’t care about shit like that. I care about the money.”
“If you wanted to talk to me, you know you could have just … asked. What the fuck is up with you St. Thomases and kidnapping?”
“Sometimes it’s the only way to get people’s attention. So they know you’re serious,” he says.
“I know you’re serious. Just let me go, and I’ll talk with Rowan about sending you some money.” I have no intention of giving these assholes any money, of course, and every intention of calling the cops the first chance I get.
“No. We’re going to keep you here a little longer. Until we get rid of your fiancé.”
That makes my spine go rigid. They can do whatever they want to me. Put needles under my fingernails or whatever.
But they will not hurt Rowan.
Then the football-player type punches me in the face.
Ow .
Fuck. That hurt.
“Big man, hitting someone who can’t hit back,” I jeer.
What are you doing, Charlie? Don’t antagonize the giant.
“I can do worse,” he says .
If I could get my legs free, I could do some of the kicks I learned in tae kwon do. But being restrained is a problem. I’m not Black Widow or another one of those Marvel heroes.
“Don’t you dare fucking touch Rowan,” I snarl, spitting blood.
“You talk him into signing over the trust,” Gideon says, “and we’ll let you go.”
“No.”
The big guy hits me again, and this time, I pass out.