17. Tatum
Chapter 17
Tatum
I sit perched on our expensive white couch, reading the latest smutty book I've downloaded to my e-reader. It's one of the few excitements I get, living vicariously through these characters who have these big buff golden retriever men rescuing her from peril.
I can't help but laugh. If you think about it, I'm kind of living the plot of one of these books right now.
Makeshift wife with corrupt husband gets kidnapped by three hot as sin mobsters. Oh the irony.
I sip my coffee, savoring the quiet morning to myself without Thomas's constant criticism. He left at dawn muttering something about a "crucial breakfast meeting." Right. Because those happen at 6 AM.
"A breakfast meeting," I say to my reflection in the glass fireplace. "With your pants around your ankles, no doubt."
The thought doesn't sting like it should. Instead, I find myself laughing at the pathetic predictability of it all. He probably has his secretary bent over his mahogany desk right now, between his precious morning meetings.
My burner phone buzzes. Another unknown number - one of my new "friends" no doubt. The message reads: "Ready for your grand disappearing act?"
A foreign feeling runs through me, nothing like the dull obligation I feel toward Thomas. Hell, is this excitement?
I type back: "Born ready. Just waiting for my cue."
The response comes quickly: "Good girl. Stay sharp."
The grandfather clock chimes seven. In a few minutes, I'll be "missing." Here I am, waiting to be kidnapped by mobsters—and I helped plan it. The absurdity isn't lost on me.
I glance around our showroom of a living room, taking in the staged family photos and carefully curated decor that screams "perfect political family." What a joke.
"This might be the most exciting thing that's happened to me since..." I trail off, realizing I can't remember the last time I felt this alive. My perfectly manicured life has been nothing but a carefully orchestrated performance, complete with costume changes and scheduled appearances.
The thought of breaking free from this gilded cage, even under such bizarre circumstances, sends a thrill through me. My skin tingles with electricity, and my breath quickens. I shouldn't be enjoying this as much as I am, but there's something intoxicating about finally taking control of my narrative.
"What does it say about me that getting fake-kidnapped by the mob is the highlight of my year?" I whisper to myself, shaking my head with a wry smile.
Another text: "T-minus 3 minutes."
"Time to give the performance of my life," I murmur, heading towards the kitchen.
I open the side door and heft the two black garbage bags over my each of my shoulders, its contents clinking softly. My heart pounds against my ribs as I step into the cool morning air. The manicured lawn stretches before me, perfect and pristine like everything else in this manufactured life.
One bag contains a carefully curated selection of necessities—a few pieces of jewelry that were mine before the marriage, some cash I've squirreled away, and basic essentials. And the other well, just garbage of course.
I pause, taking in the neighborhood that's been my personal layer of hell for the past decade. The immaculate row of McMansions stretches before me, each one a carbon copy of entitlement and excess.
Mrs. Yarboro's prized roses bloom in precise formation - God forbid a single petal fall out of line. The Whitakers' fountain burbles away, probably filled with imported spring water. And don't get me started on the Houston's topiary garden, shaped into various woodland creatures that look more disturbing than whimsical.
"Welcome to Stepford," I mutter, adjusting the garbage bags on my shoulders. "Where the grass is always greener because it's artificial, and the smiles are just as fucking fake.
The sunrise casts long shadows across the driveway as I walk towards the curb in my fuzzy slippers. A black SUV idles two houses down, its engine a low purr in the quiet suburban morning.
My fingers tighten around the bag. Three, two, one...
The SUV's tires crunch against the asphalt as it accelerates toward me. Doors fly open before it fully stops.
"Don't make a sound," a deep voice commands as strong arms grab me from behind. Definitely Dominic. I struggle—just enough to make it look good for any nosy neighbors peeking through their curtains.
"Let me go!" I shriek, playing my part perfectly. The decoy garbage bag drops, spilling aluminum foil and wine bottles across the perfectly trimmed grass.
"A little more enthusiasm, Tatum." Connor growls. "This isn't some Halloween skit."
I rear my leg back and kick him right in the balls. He doubles over with a pained grunt.
"Enthusiastic enough for you Connor?" I grate out, trying to be as quiet as possible. Not that it matters because I can still hear the muffled sound of Isaac's laughter that he's trying his damndest to contain."
"Yep. That'll work." Connor squeaks as they continue their onslaught.
Someone shoves a cloth bag over my head. The fabric smells like leather and expensive cologne. Large hands lift me off my feet, and I'm deposited none too gently into the vehicle.
"Drive," Isaac barks, and we peel away from the curb.
I count to thirty before pushing the bag off my head. "Sheesh, you guys couldn't have been a little gentler? These bruises better fade before any press photos."
"Tell that to my balls, Tatum." Connor sneers, his hands cupping his jewels from outside his pants.
"Quit your whining, princess," Dominic says from the driver's seat. "Had to make it look convincing."
"Yeah, well, my Ferragamo slippers better not be ruined, or you're buying me new ones."
I catch Connors' muffled laugh. Just then my stomach growls loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Um, I know this is supposed to be a kidnapping and all, but any chance we could swing by a drive-thru?" I pull my robe tighter, now loosened from the struggle. "I haven't had real food in months."
Isaac snorts from the passenger seat. "You want a Happy Meal with your abduction, ma'am?"
"Actually, I'd kill for a Big Mac. Extra pickles." My mouth waters at the thought. "Come on, what's the point of getting kidnapped if I can't even enjoy some contraband calories?"
"This isn't a joyride," Connor says, his voice firm but tinged with amusement. "We need to make this look legit."
"Pretty sure real kidnappers would've gagged me by now." I lean forward between the seats. "I promise to scream and cry extra convincingly if you get me some fries."
Isaac chuckles from beside me. "She's got a point about the gag."
"Fine." Dominic's fingers drum against the steering wheel. "Connor, grab her something when you pick up supplies."
"You're a saint." I settle back into my seat. "And if you get me a milkshake too, I'll throw in some theatrical hyperventilating."
"Don't push it princess," Dominic orders, but I catch his slight smile in the rearview mirror.
I slip the hood back over my head, going right along with the theatrics, grinning in the darkness. "This is already the best kidnapping ever."