Page 8 of Fighting Spirit

I have to stifle a laugh at that. It’s probably the most sensible thing he’s said so far. “Could you call me an Uber or something? I really have to get back.”

He doesn’t answer right away, that blush making another appearance. “I, uh… I actually can’t.”

“Why not?” I shrink back a little, worried I’ve read him wrong.

“I’m banned. From, like, every ride-share app. And three local taxi services… They won’t even come to the house anymore.”

Oh god, is he an asshole passenger? Being kidnapped is one thing, but being left with a guy who’s rude to cab drivers? Kill me now.

“Well, not me specifically. I mean, me, kind of. But I didn’t do anything,” he rushes out. “I just call the cabs, it’s the guys who have a vomiting problem.”

“Right.”

“Apparently, they can’t hold it together.”

“So, no cab?” I ask a little desperately.

“No cab.” He nods. “I’ll ask Trev to bring the car back, but until he does, I can’t get you home. I’m sorry.”

He does look genuinely remorseful, and for a moment, I feel a little bad that he’s stuck with me.

“Here,” he says, holding the glass forward. When I reach out to take it, I get hampered by the foam hands and shrug, holding them up in mock surrender. Last year, I added straps to the wrists so that I could tumble in them, but I regret it now with the reminder that I can’t get them on and off without help.

Tonight, I’d had to get Frank, the studio night guard, to strap me into them before he left for his rounds. Come to think of it, where the hell was Frank when I was getting dragged out the back door?

The guy frowns at them, realizing my predicament. But instead of helping me take them off, he reaches forward and presses the glass to my lips. The cold liquid is a shock and I’m so startled by his actions that I jerk away, sloshing cold water over my face and down the front of my suit. I gasp as the chill hits me. “What the hell was that?”

“Oh shit,” he startles, setting down the glass and looking around in his seat, as if a towel’s going to materialize from nowhere. He blinks a few times, almost looking like a kid waking up from a heavy sleep.

I manage to absorb most of the spillage with my sleeve. “Why would you do that?”

“I was trying to help,” he mutters, frowning at the glass like it’s personally affronted him.

“Well, you’re really killing it…” I mumble back, losing the energy to be snarky with him. “Look, can you just help me get these off?”

“Um... Yeah, sure. Of course.” He hesitates as his hands reach toward me, flexing like he can’t decide how to proceed. I offer out my arms and he takes one, holding my elbow to gently tug it forward.

The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin, even through the thick fabric of the costume, and I have to force myself not to lean into his hand, the first comforting touch of the night. His otherhand slides up my sleeve, brushing the bare skin of my wrist as he feels for the strap. The contact sends a shiver through me, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he makes quick work of the Velcro and removes the offending appendage.

I stretch out my hand, flexing each finger as he unstraps the other glove and takes it off. I could probably do it myself now that I’ve got one hand back, but I make no move to stop him as he releases me. There’s a pause, the moment pulling taught as he holds my wrist for a beat too long before dropping it. I must have let my arm relax in his hold because it falls suddenly once he’s not holding it up anymore, smacking against my knee as we both jerk in surprise.

I shuffle back in my seat, sinking further into the couch before leaning forward to pick up the glass off the floor. God, I never knew how much I loved my thumbs until now. I can feel his eyes on me but I avoid his stare, wanting a moment to try and stop my head from spinning so much.

“Rowan,” he says, his voice sounding a little hoarse.

I lower the glass to stare at him over the rim. “What?” I frown.

“Me. That’s, uh… That’s my name.”

Oh, right. I guess we’re at the portion of the evening where we do introductions. “Rowan… Hi, Rowan.” I don’t quite smile at him, but I try to drop the sour expression I can feel on my face. “I’m Ruth.” This feels weird. I don’t pretend to be any kind of expert, but I didn’t expect getting abducted to involve this many pleasantries.

He picks up the plate from behind him and thrusts it forward. “I won’t try to feed you this one.”

Oh shit. I can see the edge of a cheese slice peeking out, all that wheat and dairy ready to turn my insides into the fourth circle of hell.

“This was really nice of you, but…”

“Just eat the God damn sandwich, Ruth,” he interrupts.

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