John, the smallest of the group, sighed. “Come on, Danny. Just, fucking cooperate. We’re tired. We haven’t eaten all fucking day.”
“Your blood sugar levels aren’t my problem.”
Conner, who’d been silent up ’til now, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and grumbled, “I told you we should have used the taser.”
“But then he would have shit his pants,” John motioned to my pants. “Look at those pants. Those are nice pants.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “I don’t want to shit these pants. I like these pants. The pockets are deceptively roomy.”
Ricky squatted in front of me, and it was a little like watching a tree bend down. “Danny, you got to come with us. Either we do this the nice way, or we do it the taser-shitting-pants way.”
“Why don’t you just knock me out?” I glared at the four of them, knowing there was no way I’d be able to successfully fight my way out of this flock of dickbirds. Stalling them, hoping someone would see and call the cops, was my best option.
“Seamus said you had a concussion and not to knock you out,” John replied evenly, his attention moving to my torso. “But he said broken ribs were okay.”
“That brother of mine, always so thoughtful. What a fucking prince.”
Ricky smirked.
John smirked.
Conner took a drag from his cigarette, smirking.
But Mark pulled out a taser and sighed. “That’s enough, we got to go. One way or the other, Danny, you’re coming with us.” He flipped it on. It buzzed. Mark lifted his eyebrows as though ready for my answer. “So what’s it going to be?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Self-Dealing: “The conduct of a trustee, an attorney, a corporate officer, or other fiduciary that consists of taking advantage of his or her position in a transaction and acting for his or her own interests rather than for the interests of the beneficiaries of the trust, the company, or the interests of his or her clients.”
—Wex Legal Dictionary
**Kat**
The ransom demand arrived early Saturday morning.
They said I had twenty-four hours to wire three million dollars into an offshore bank account or else—they said—I would never see Dan again.
Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me back up.
After our fight Friday night, I left Dan in my office. Stan was just beyond the outer door to the suite and he followed me, thankfully saying nothing as I made my way to the executive lounge.
I felt blank, like an empty piece of paper. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way, and whenever it happened I did one of three things:
1. Take a long hot bath or shower, or
2. Bury myself in blankets and watch Doctor Who until I could smell myself and myself smelled like cheese—but not in a good way, or
3. Watch cry-porn on the internet, where cry-porn is videos that are so sad—or happy/sad—they make you cry buckets. Think videos of military parents returning home and surprising their kids at school; or inspirational videos of a child with cancer who overcomes, beating all the odds; or the first ten minutes of the movie Up.
I wasn’t ready to watch cry-porn.
I didn’t have time for a smelly Doctor Who marathon.
Shower it is.
Stan stood guard, loitering in the main lounge area while I had my shower. When I finished, dried and dressed, I didn’t feel any better.
I felt sad and . . . vacant.
I decided I would ask Stan to drive me back to the hotel, hoping I wouldn’t see Dan, but also hoping I would. Usually, in the past, when I’d been furious with someone, I didn’t want to see them at all. I avoided them, their company, mentions of them. I avoided it all until I could gain distance and perspective.
Take my cousin, for example. If I never saw his weasel face again it would be too soon.
However, Eugene—with whom my irritation hadn’t fully abated—I was almost ready to interact with him again. Almost.
Dan was different. Not even an hour had passed since our fight and I pined for him. I ached to see him, to touch him, to speak with him even though I didn’t know what I would say.
He didn’t love me.
Okay.
Fine.
It hurt. Shards-of-glass-shredding-my-skin hurt, but there was nothing I could do about it. Like Dan’s mom had said, I couldn’t make him feel something he didn’t feel. I couldn’t force a connection.
The real question was: where do we go from here?
I couldn’t see a way forward. I didn’t want to waste years of my life hoping he’d change his mind. I deserved better, and so did he.
When I finished dressing, I still didn’t feel better, but I did feel grimly resolved to my fate.