Chapter 7 Charlie
Charlie
As discreetly as I can, I fumble for my phone, my fingers brushing over the smooth screen before I awkwardly pull it from the tote. Dropping it on the outside of my thigh near the door, I hope he can’t see it from his angle.
Okay. Step one, secure lifeline—done.
Now what? I didn’t think this through; I still have this sack over my head.
How am I supposed to use facial recognition?
I hate that the new upgrade to this phone took away the Touch ID recognition feature.
I should definitely write a strongly worded letter about how that feature could save my life—better yet, if I get out of here alive, I will sue.
My nose itches under this sack. He couldn’t get a better material?
I mean, you would think the Russian mafia could afford a silk sack.
Wait, is he Russian? I guess since he’s not talking to me, I can’t tell what ethnicity he is.
If only he would take this off so I could hover my face over my phone.
By now, I’m sure I’ve sweated through it, and my mascara is smearing.
No way would facial recognition pick up a trash panda—aka raccoon—as the owner of this phone.
Okay, time for plan B. Or as my favorite Friends character would say, “PIVOT!”
Our car lurches forward, then abruptly stops.
We’ve been in this pattern for a good five minutes.
I bet traffic is already a nightmare this morning with all the preparation for the festival.
With out-of-towners coming in and the locals getting their storefront ready, I’m guesstimating we’re still crawling down Main Street.
I’m internally praying someone sees me, jumps out in front of this car, and stops my captor.
Keeping my voice casual, trying to hide any panic, I start my next mission to remove this scratchy sack.
“Alright, let’s get into something important—murder. Be honest. Have you, or have you not, killed a man with your bare hands?” I say, knowing this question would rattle anyone, even a seasoned mafia enforcer. The car jerks just slightly. Bingo. I grin underneath my sack.
“Don’t worry, I’m not judging,” I say sweetly.
“In fact, I’m hoping for a yes. Because, babe, if you haven’t at least snapped a neck or two in a dimly lit alleyway, you’re not really commitment material.
” I sound ridiculous even to my own ears, but I’m committed now; I have to figure out how to get out of this situation.
I can feel the irritation thrumming from the driver’s seat. We’re at peak annoyance.
“Ugh, traffic,” I groan, letting the complaint roll out like I don’t care. “This totally ruins the vibe. Can’t you just swerve onto the shoulder and do something illegal? You’re supposed to be a dangerous man, right? Break some laws for me.”
I can hear the faint melody of Christmas music—probably coming from one of those pop-up speakers the town installs every holiday season. Confirmation of my theory that we haven’t gotten far.
The scent of roasted pecan and cinnamon sugar sneaks in through the vents.
The situation is almost absurd. Outside, people are probably sipping cocoa and taking selfies under twinkling lights, while I’m tied up, covered in a sack, and sitting behind a man who could either be my captor or a plot twist waiting to happen.
I refuse to be the damsel in distress.
“HELP! I’M BEING KIDNAPPED!” I scream.
My body jerks forward as he suddenly slams on the brake. I smirk under the sack. He is definitely flustered now.
“Okay, that was uncalled for. You could give a girl a little warning before you stop so abruptly.” I just have to play it cool—nonchalant, like this isn’t affecting me and I’m not over here overanalyzing that I’m in a non-matching bra and panties for when the coroner does my autopsy.
“I’m kidding! But seriously, I think we both know it looks shady as fuck for me to be sitting in the back of your car with a sack over my head. Just take the sack off. I’m tied up, what will I do?”
I wait with bated breath, wondering if I said and asked too much.
I don’t know how much longer we have in this car.
I don’t even know anything about him. Provoking him might not be the way to go.
I sigh to myself; this is just like me, diving headfirst into a crazy plan before fully thinking about the consequences.
Like when I thought I could open a romance mobile bookstore and travel around the city doing pop-ups.
I was knee-deep in Pinterest boards and business plans, already picturing myself as the quirky romance-only mobile bookstore of everyone’s dreams—until I realized those retro vans cost more than my student loans.
Add on the renovation costs to make sure books didn’t go flying every time I hit a pothole, and that dream flatlined one night over a pint of Blue Bell.
Pushing that negativity from my mind. I will not die; not today, Satan!
I lean forward. “Do you have mommy issues? You can tell me. It’s practically a requirement.”
He groans. A real, audible groan. I squeal in triumph. “There it is! A vocal response! This is progress. We’re bonding.”
Silence.
“You know, this car ride is basically our slow-burn enemies-to-lovers arc.” I tilt my head.
“Unless, of course, you’re more of a hate-fuck first, love later kind of guy. Which, to be clear, I would also accept. In fact, it’s highly encouraged.”