CHAPTER 53 GIGI
GIGI
A s Gigi came to, the world swam in front of her eyes. She liked to think of herself as a person who had a solid appreciation for duct tape. Gigi did not, however, appreciate being duct-taped. She blinked. Repeatedly.
The first thing that came into focus was Slate.
His head was lolled forward. Honey-blond hair hung in his face, completely obscuring his features, but Gigi would have recognized those pecs—and the tattoos—anywhere. It took longer for her memory to return, for her to realize—
It happened again. Seriously! Who managed to get themselves kidnapped twice in twenty-four hours? Gigi answered her own question out loud: “This girl.”
She would have pointed to herself with both thumbs, but her arms had been duct-taped behind her back.
On the bright side, her lips worked, and feeling was slowly returning to the rest of her body.
Her torso had been bound to a metal chair, but her legs were free.
Their kidnapper had bound Slate’s, though.
Serves him right , Gigi thought pertly, and then, belatedly, another memory came to her—his name. Mattias.
“I’m going to kill him.” The voice that said those words was female—and it wasn’t Gigi’s.
From the moment she’d woken, Gigi’s world had been very small: Slate, herself, the duct tape, nothing else.
But in the span of a heartbeat, her vision broadened, allowing Gigi to take in the rest of the room.
It looked like some kind of meditation space: soothing colors, a few plants, cushions on the floor, and infinity-edge fountains on every wall. It was, in a word, serene.
And Slate and Gigi were not the only two people there—and, for that matter, not the only two who had been duct-taped to chairs.
“Slate. Wake up.” The third person in the room was a strawberry blond who looked at most a few years older than Gigi. Like Slate, the not-quite-red-haired woman’s ankles had also been bound.
Gigi was really starting to feel insulted about her own free feet. “Hello,” she called to her fellow captive. She would have waved, but—duct-taped, hands. “I’m Gigi, and I hate to break it to you, but Slate and his muscles are out cold.”
“I’m awake,” the boy in question groaned. His body was still slumped. His hair still hung in his face. He sounded like death.
“Contrarian,” Gigi accused.
“What is she doing here, Slate?” the strawberry blond asked.
“Hurtful,” Gigi opined. “Seriously, you’ve been kidnapped, and your first complaint is about the company? I’ll have you know I excel at being kidnapped!”
“You are horrible at being kidnapped.” Slate’s voice was a little more human this time. “Did either of you see anything?”
“Before someone knocked me out?” The strawberry blond was clearly miffed about that. “No. The real question is why you weren’t with me to stop this from happening.”
Because , Gigi realized, he was with me .
“Red boots,” Gigi said out loud. Her companions looked at her like she’d just announced that her favorite pastime was feeding candy corn to monkeys. Clearly, a little more explanation was in order. “On Jackson’s boat, right before everything went black, I saw boots. Red ones.”
“I’m going to regret asking this,” Slate said, “but who the hell is Jackson?”
“Old guy. New friend. Boat owner. He’s got a really impressive beard, and he didn’t tie me up, so he’s my favorite right now.” Gigi’s brain caught up to her mouth, and she realized something.
Something incredibly obvious.
She turned her head to look at the third person in the room. “Eve?” As a general rule, Gigi believed in rehabilitation, not revenge, but she was willing to make an exception.
“What are you doing?” Slate asked.
Gigi used her free feet to scoot her chair closer to Eve. “Flying tackle,” she replied.
“You can’t flying tackle anyone,” Slate said. “You’re duct-taped to a chair.”
Gigi gave him a look. Another scootch. “Watch me.”
Eve, either not realizing or not caring that her doom was nigh, ignored Gigi and aimed an order at Slate. “Just get us out of here.”
“You see a door in this room, Eve?”
At that question, Gigi stopped scootching. She scanned the room, her eyes darting from wall to wall. Slate was right. There were no visible doors.
“I told you there was something going on with the Grandest Game,” Slate said, directing those words at Eve. “I told you we didn’t want any part of it.”
We. Gigi had always been highly attuned to uses of that word—a side effect of being a twin, of having been born a part of a pair.
“You didn’t tell me,” Eve said, her voice going a little quieter, “about her.”
“He kidnapped me,” Gigi volunteered helpfully. “It was a decent kidnapping, all things considered. Three-and-a-half stars.”
Eve looked from Slate to Gigi then back again. “Is she joking?”
“Impossible to tell,” Slate replied, his deadpan impressive.
Even bound, Eve managed to toss her hair. “You’re fired,” she told Slate.
“I’m not fired,” he replied. “I’m the only one you’ve got.”
Gigi wondered if she was imagining the slight softening in Slate’s voice. She didn’t think she was. The only one she’s got. “Oh.” Gigi hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I see.”
“No you don’t, sunshine.”
“ Sunshine ?” Eve repeated incredulously.
Gigi resumed scooting her chair. “Look,” she told Eve, “some people choose to be happy, and some people choose to be morally challenged smugweasels. To each their own. Now, if you could just move your chair a little to your right—”
“Gigi.” Slate’s use of her actual name gave Gigi just the tiniest bit of pause. “Tackle later. Plot now. We need to get free before whoever put us in this room gets back.”