Page 22 of A Dance With Devils
At least he’s not one of them. Whit would have told me if he was. He would have warned me, given me a heads up and made sure I knew I had to get the fuck out of here. He didn’t.
I yank at the seatbelt, making sure it’s as tight as tight can be, and try controlling my breathing like I have been doing the entire fucking way. It helps that I’m on the close side of trashed, and, much as I hate to admit it, it also helps that he’s been attractive to look at and reasonably interesting to talk to. Weird, but interesting. I’ve got a feeling he lives on a different planet than the rest of us. And I should probably be scared of that fact and the continuing outrageousness of this whole situation. Oddly, I’m not. Given Whit’s involvement here, he’s somehow made me feel, apart from the fucking plane, that this is all relatively alright.
What a stupid damn thought.
A near yelp rips out of me when the plane eventually bounces on the runway, my body jolting up and down through the rumble of the wheels landing. Oh, thank god. I’m alive. It’s a good start to whatever the hell is going to happen now, and what I thought might occur previous to this, but – I peel my hands off the seat - I don’t even know where this is.
And castles?
More oddity.
“Would you prefer to arrive like that or dressed?” he asks.
My eyes crease open slowly to look at him, both of the lids straining because of the clamped position they were in from when the pilot started talking about landing. He smirks and stands, as if all the fun and games are about to begin.
“Because you happen to have women’s clothes lying around?”
“I do. Closet. Bedroom.”
Of course. Because that’s where women leave their clothes when he abducts them and flies them off to his castle in the country. Freak.
Asshole and freak.
“I need to call in for my job. I can’t lose it.”
Both his eyebrows shoot up. “Interesting concern given your current situation.”
“You said one week. I need to let them know that.”
“Don’t worry about your job. I’ll deal with it if it’s a problem.”
Of course he will. Because money deals with everything, doesn’t it?
And what does it matter anyway? It’s not a real job, not something I need. It’s just there to prove normalcy, to show the world that the Lasallle family are ordinary and nothing unusual in the broken down part of town we live in. Not that that’s my real name, nor Brett’s or Brandon’s.
“And a shower might be useful,” he says.
I get up and walk to the bedroom, damn sure clothes and a shower might make me feel somewhere near prepared for something. The second I open the closet door, I’m greeted with an array of dresses that belong in the fifties rather than the actual year we’re living in. Expensive. Some of them with labels still in place. Matching shoes. Matching jewellery. Matching fucking everything, including underwear. The wife’s maybe. Or maybe they’re just a selection of clothes that are left here for this situation we’re in now. I don’t know. Who would? It’s not like I’ve ever been kidnapped and taken to god knows where before now.
And they’re not even my size. Too small.
At least the shoes are, not that I’ll be doing much running in any of them.
Fuck.
My hands cover my eyes, as a wave of anxiety washes through me and my backside drops to the bed. It’s the same sense of panic that underlies everything. I’m not okay, no matter how much I’m trying to show whatever bravado I’m managing. None of this is okay. He isn’t, wherever this is isn’t, and whatever is happening certainly isn’t.
I stand again and head for the small bathroom off to the side, hoping that cleanliness might get me somewhere near prepared for whatever’s coming. Steam builds within seconds of me firing the shower up, making me strip quickly and dive under it. I need to run the moment I can because he’s done nothing but intrigue me on this journey, made me feel like he’s something that he isn’t. Maybe charming gentlemen works on the others he brings like this. Maybe they fall for his looks and his shadowy personality that clearly lingers on the verge of insanity. I won’t, though.
Whit and whatever his orders are can go jump off a fucking cliff.
Safe?
I don’t feel very safe.
And I’ve had enough years of that.
Huffing, I get out and storm back into the bedroom to pull something out of the wardrobe that happens to have some stretch in it. It’s barely underwear, and it’s barely a dress either - more a situation of loose frills that cascade downwards to the knee and short sleeves. Midnight blue at the top and then fading to white at the bottom. A pair of blue shoes sit neatly beneath where the dress was, bag leaning against them. I’m not going to need that, and the shoes aren’t made for running in the slightest, but at least I’m dressed in something.
